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diff --git a/37665-0.txt b/37665-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d867a3 --- /dev/null +++ b/37665-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,26367 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Wild Wales, by George Borrow, Edited by +Theodore Watts-Dunton + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Wild Wales + The People, Laguage & Scenery + + +Author: George Borrow + +Editor: Theodore Watts-Dunton + +Release Date: October 8, 2011 [eBook #37665] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILD WALES*** + + +Transcribed from the June 1906 J. M. Dent edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + WILD WALES: + _The_ PEOPLE + LANGUAGE + & SCENERY + + + by GEORGE BORROW + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + + TALK ABOUT “WILD WALES” + BY + THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON + + + +I +WHY “WILD WALES” IS A SIMPLE ITINERARY + + +I have been invited by the editor of this series to say a few words upon +Borrow’s “Wild Wales.” The invitation has come to me, he says, partly +because during the latter days of Borrow’s life I had the privilege as a +very young man of enjoying his friendship, and partly because in my +story, “Aylwin,” and in my poem, “The Coming of Love,” I have shown +myself to be a true lover of Wales—a true lover, indeed, of most things +Cymric. + +Let me begin by saying that although the book is an entirely worthy +compeer of “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” and although like them it is +written in the autobiographic form, it belongs, as I propose to show +further on, to an entirely different form of narrative from those two +famous books. And it differs in this respect even from “The Bible in +Spain.” Unlike that splendid book, it is just a simple, uncoloured +record of a walking tour through the Principality. As in any other +itinerary, events in “Wild Wales” are depicted as they actually occurred, +enriched by none of that glamour in which Borrow loved to disport +himself. I remember once asking him why in this book he wrote an +autobiographic narrative so fundamentally different from “Lavengro” and +“The Romany Rye”—why he had made in this book none of those excursions +into the realms of fancy which form so charming a part of his famous +quasi-autobiographic narratives. It was entirely characteristic of him +that he remained silent as he walked rather sulkily by my side. To find +an answer to the queries, however, is not very difficult. Making a tour +as he did on this occasion in the company of eye-witnesses—eye-witnesses +of an extremely different temper from his own, eye-witnesses, moreover, +whom he specially wished to satisfy and please—his wife and +stepdaughter—he found it impossible to indulge in his bohemian +proclivities and equally impossible to give his readers any of those +romantic coincidences, those quaint arrangements of incidents to +illustrate theories of life, which illuminate his other works. The tour +was made in the summer and autumn of 1854; during the two or three years +following, he seems to have been working upon this record of it. The +book was announced for publication in 1857, but it was not until 1862 +that his publisher, who had been so greatly disappointed by the reception +given to “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” took courage to offer it to the +public. + + + +II +BORROW’S EQUIPMENT FOR WRITING UPON THE WELSH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE + + +In 1860 Borrow’s interest in Wales and Welsh literature had specially +been shown by the publication of his English version of “Gweledigaethau y +Bardd Cwsg,” a curious kind of allegory in the form of a vision, written +in the early years of the eighteenth century by a Welsh clergyman named +Ellis Wynne. The English reader of Borrow’s works will remember the +allusion made to this book. As might have been expected, Borrow’s +translation of this Welsh prose classic is not very trustworthy, and it +has been superseded by the translation of Mr. R. Gwyneddon Davies, +published in 1897. A characteristic matter connected with Borrow’s +translation is that in the _Quarterly Review_ for January 1861 he himself +reviewed it anonymously, and not without appreciation of its merits—a +method which may be recommended to those authors who are not in sympathy +with their reviewers. The article showed a great deal of what may be +called Borrovian knowledge of the Welsh language and Welsh literature, +and perhaps it is not ungenerous to say a good deal of Borrovian +ignorance too. For never was Nature’s love of whim in the fashioning of +individuals more delightfully exemplified than in the case of Borrow’s +irresistible desire for scholarship. Nothing whatever had he of the +temperament of the true scholar—nothing whatever of the philologist’s +endowment, and yet to be recognized as a scholar was the great ambitious +dream of his life. I wish I had time to compare his disquisitions upon +the Welsh language and literature in this article with a very rare little +book on the same subject, the “Sketch of the History of the Welsh +Language and Literature,” by a remarkable man as entirely forgotten now +as Borrow is well remembered—Thomas Watts of the British Museum. In the +one case we get nebulous speculation and fanciful induction based upon +Borrovian knowledge; in the other, a solid mass of real learning +accompanied by the smallest possible amount of speculation or fanciful +induction. + +Borrow had a certain something of Mezzofanti’s prodigious memory for +words, accompanied by the great Italian’s lack of philological science. +It may be remembered in this connection that Mr. Thomas St. E. Hake in +his reminiscences in _Notes and Queries_ of a relation of mine, the late +Mr. James Orlando Watts, says that the learned recluse used to express a +good deal of humorous contempt of Borrow’s “method of learning languages +from dictionaries only,” without any grammatical knowledge. And these +strictures, if we consider them, will explain much in regard to the +philological disquisitions in “Lavengro,” “The Romany Rye,” and “Wild +Wales,” where the knowledge is all “dictionary knowledge.” But it was +not the shaky philology that caused “Wild Wales” to fall almost dead from +the press. What, then, was the cause? It arose from the fact, as I +hinted above, that “Wild Wales” belongs to a different kind of +autobiographic narrative from “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” and also, +if the truth must be said, from “The Bible in Spain.” + +At the period when Borrow wrote this book the great and vigorous +renascence of the Cymric idea, the new and deep interest that Welshmen +are now taking in the preservation of the Welsh tongue, had not begun. +That Borrow did not live to this day, when Welsh is much more spoken +among the cultivated class than in his time, is to be lamented. With +regard to this revival, whatever may become of it (whether the Welsh +language can really be made to survive in the great linguistic struggle +for life, which will be one of the principal features of the twentieth +century), no one will deny that it is a language which from the poetic +side as well as from the historic ought to survive. If I tread here upon +dangerous ground, I may yet venture to say that one great obstacle +against the spread of the Welsh language beyond Wales is the strange +orthography. It is difficult for a person unacquainted with Welsh to +believe that the sounds represented by such awkward arrangements of +consonants as Welsh displays are otherwise than unmusical. And yet as a +matter of fact those sounds are very musical. It may be remarked here +that there is another language spoken in Europe which suffers from the +same misfortune in regard to phonetics—the Magyar language. I have +elsewhere in a novel, whose scene is partly laid in Hungary, made a +character speak of the disappointment expressed by the traveller in +Central Europe, when crossing the Austrian frontier into Hungary by rail, +at the sight of the Hungarian names with which the stations become +suddenly placarded. German is an ugly-looking language enough, but in +this respect it is nothing to the Hungarian. And yet it would be hard to +find in the whole of Europe a more musical tongue than that which is +represented by the uncouth consonantal syllables. It is not a little +striking too that between the Cymric race and the Magyar race there are +many points of likeness; one of these is the intense love of music +displayed by the two, another is the blending of poetic imagination with +practical sagacity. The Magyars have been called a race of lawyers, but +their love of law-points and litigation is not greater than that of the +Welsh, and yet how poetical is each race to the core! + +With regard to languages—to survive will in the present century mean to +spread. Languages that do not spread will be crushed out. People who +talk glibly about the vast expansion of the English language all over the +world do not seem to realize that it is not the excellence of a tongue +which makes it survive and causes it to spread over the earth, but the +energy, military or commercial, of the people who speak it. It is not +the excellence of the tongue of Shakespeare and Milton that has carried +it all round the globe, but the busy energy of the commonplace people who +migrated for the most commonplace ends imaginable, and took the language +with them, and then increased and multiplied, building up new +English-speaking communities. It is for this reason that the English +language seems destined to become, if not the “universal language,” at +least the _lingua franca_ of the world. And nothing is more pathetic +than to observe the dread among Continental nations that this will be the +case in the future; and nothing is more humorous than the passionate +attempts to invent artificial languages, Volapük, Esperanto and what not, +to do the work that the English language is already doing all over the +sea, and will, apparently, soon be doing all over the land. + +I dwell here upon this interesting subject in order to say that if Welsh +does not survive it will not be because it is not a fine language, but +simply because Destiny has decreed that it shall share the fate of many +another language spoken at present much more widely than Welsh. + + + +III +IS NOT “WILD WALES” WRITTEN BY A CELT AND NOT BY AN ANGLO-SAXON? + + +In speaking of any one of Borrow’s books it is always necessary to say a +good deal about Borrow as a man. Besides being the very child of +Nature’s fantasy, he was the prince of literary egotists. Everything in +human life and everything in nature upon which he looked was enveloped in +a coloured atmosphere shed by the eccentric ego. That his love of Wales +was genuine there can be no doubt whatever. For this there was perhaps a +very special reason—a reason quite unrecognized by himself. I have +somewhere—but I forget where—remarked upon a curious and common mistake +in regard to Borrow—I mean the mistake of speaking of him as an East +Anglian. Very gratifying was this mistake to Borrow himself. When +walking with me in Richmond Park, or elsewhere, he would frequently stop, +look round and murmur, “Beautiful England!” and then begin to declare +eloquently that there was not in the world a country to be compared with +it, and that the race which lived in this beloved land was equally +incomparable in most things, especially in what he valued so +much—athleticism in all its forms. This was merely because England was +his place of birth. Born in East Anglia he was, to be sure; but Dr. +Johnson long ago held to the opinion that a man born in a stable need not +necessarily be described as a horse. When a man’s father is pure Cornish +(Celtic) and when his mother is mainly French, the fact of his having +been born in Norfolk is not enough to make him an East Anglian. By an +accident the regiment to which his father belonged was located in Norfolk +at the time of his birth, just as by an accident it might have been +located in Ireland or Scotland. In either of these cases he would have +been George Borrow the Celt, or rather, George Borrow the Unique, but not +a Scotsman—not an Irishman. It is the blood in a man’s veins, it is not +the spot in which he is born, that decides the question of his race. +Does one call the daughters of the Irishman, Patrick Bronte, who were +Celtic to the marrow, Yorkshire girls because they were born at Thornton? +Does one call Mr. Swinburne a Londoner because he, a Northumbrian by a +long line of ancestors, chanced to be born within a stone’s-throw of +Belgrave Square? Does one call the Rossettis Londoners, because it was +in London, and not in Italy, that they were born? To imagine any man +more Celtic than Borrow is impossible. Not a single East Anglian +characteristic exhibited by him do I remember—except perhaps his Norfolk +accent, and his very worthy and exemplary passion for “boiled leg of +mutton with turnips and caper sauce,” which he pronounced to be “food for +the gods.” It was his own way of writing and talking about himself, +however, that fostered if it did not originate the conception that Borrow +was an East Anglian. There is no more unreasonable, as there is no more +winsome, trait in human nature than the form of egotism which I will call +provincial patriotism—a quality of which Borrow was so full. No matter +what unlovely spot in any country had given Borrow birth, it would have +become in his eyes sanctified because of the all-important fact that it +gave birth to George Borrow, the “word-master.” Rest assured that had he +been a fenman he would have been as proud of his treeless, black-earthed +fen as he would have been proud of the Swiss mountains had his birthplace +chanced to be Switzerland. Rest assured that had he been born upon the +barren soil of Damaraland he would have been proud of his desert, as +proud as he would have been of any hilly district that had chanced to +have the honour of giving him birth. But being born in East Anglia, to +feel that he was the typical Anglo-Saxon of all Anglo-Saxons around him, +gave him a mighty joy. At “The Bald-faced Stag” his eloquent addresses, +to me and the little band of friends who loved him, about Norfolk ale +were inspired by the same cause. Compared to that East Anglian nectar +all other nectars were “swipes.” I know East Anglia well; few men know +it better—few men love it better. I say emphatically that a man more out +of sympathy with the East Anglian temperament never lived than he who +wished to be taken, and was taken, as the representative East Anglian. +Moreover, one very potent reason why he was such a failure in Norfolk—one +very potent reason why he was such a failure in his contact with the +Anglo-Saxon race generally—was this: he was a Celtic duckling hatched at +Dereham, who took himself for a veritable Norfolk chicken. It is no +wonder, therefore, that, without knowing it, his sympathy with the Celt, +especially the Cymric Celt, which he himself fully believed to be +philological, was racial. + +The scenery of Wales had a very especial appeal for him, and no wonder; +for there is nothing like it in the world. Although I am familiar with +the Alps and the other mountain ranges of Europe in their wildest and +most beautiful recesses, it is with me as it was with Borrow: no hill +scenery has the peculiar witchery of that around Eryri. It is unique in +the scenery of Europe. Grander scenery there is on the Continent, no +doubt—much grander—and scenery more soft and lovely; but none in which +grandeur and loveliness meet and mingle in so fascinating a way as in +Wales. Moreover, to Borrow, as to all lovers of Wild Wales, beautiful as +its scenery is, it is the romantic associations of that scenery which +form so large a portion of its charm. For what race in Europe has a +story so poetic, so romantic, so pathetic as the Welsh? Over every inch +of the Principality hovers that great Spirit who walks the earth hand in +hand with his brother, the Spirit of Poetry, and throws a rainbow +radiance over it—the Spirit of Antiquity. Upon this Borrow and the +writer of these lines have often talked. No man ever felt more deeply +than he that part and parcel of the very life of man is the atmosphere in +which the Spirit of Antiquity lives. Irrational the sentiment about this +Spirit may be, if you will, but stifled it will never be. Physical +science strengthens rather than weakens the magical glamour of the Spirit +of Antiquity. Even the most advanced social science, try to hate him as +it may, cannot dim his glory. To the beloved poet of the +socialists—William Morris—he was as dear, as great and as strong as to +the most conservative poet that has ever lived. Those who express +wonderment that in these days there should be the old human playthings as +bright and captivating as ever—those who express wonderment at the +survival of all the delightful features of the old European +raree-show—have not realized the power of this Spirit and the power of +the sentiment about him. What is the use of telling us that even in +Grecian annals there is no kind of heroism recorded which you cannot +match in the histories of modern countries—even of new countries, such as +the United States and the Australias and Canada? What is the use of +telling us that the travels of Ulysses and of Jason are as nothing in +point of real romance compared with Captain Phillip’s voyage to the other +side of the world, when he led his little convict-laden fleet to Botany +Bay—a bay then as unknown almost as any bay in Laputa—that voyage which +resulted in the founding of a cluster of great nations any one of whose +mammoth millionaires could now buy up Ilium and the golden fleece +combined? The Spirit of Antiquity knows not that captain, and hence the +Spirit of Poetry has nothing to say about him. In a thousand years’ +time, no doubt, these things may be as ripe for poetic treatment as the +voyage of the Argonauts, or the voyage of the Cymric Prince Madoc, who +the romantic lover of Wales, in spite of the arguments of Thomas +Stephens, will still believe sailed westward with his fleet and +discovered America before Columbus,—returned, and then sailed westward +again into eternity. Now every peak and cliff of Snowdonia, and every +matchless valley and dale of the land of the Druids, is very specially +beloved by the Spirit of Antiquity. The land of Druidism—the land of +that mysterious poetic religion which more than any other religion +expresses the very voice of Nature, is the land painted in this +delightful volume—Wild Wales. Compared with Druidism, all other +religious systems have a sort of commonplace and modern ring, even those +which preceded it by centuries. The scenic witchery of Wild Wales is +great, no doubt, but it is enormously intensified by the memory of the +heroic struggle of the unconquerable remnant of the ancient Britons with +the brutal, physical power of Roman and Saxon. The history of Wales is +an epic not to be surpassed for poetry and for romance. And even these +things did not comprise all the points in connection with Wild Wales that +delighted Borrow. For when the student of Welsh history and the lover of +Welsh scenery is brought into contact with the contemporary Welsh people, +the charm of the land does not fade, it is not fingered away by personal +contact: it is, indeed, augmented tenfold. I have in “Aylwin” dwelt upon +the poetry of Welsh common life, the passionate love of the Welsh people +for a tiny strip of Welsh soil, the religion of hearth and home, the +devotion to wife and children. In the Arvon edition of that book, +dedicated to a Welsh poet, I have said what I had previously often said +to Borrow, that, “although I have seen a good deal of the races of +Europe, I put the Cymric race in many ways at the top of them all. They +combine, as I think, the poetry, the music, the instinctive love of the +fine arts, and the humour of the other Celtic peoples with the +practicalness and bright-eyed sagacity of the very different race to +which they were so closely linked by circumstance—the race whom it is the +fashion to call the Anglo-Saxon. And as to the charm of the Welsh girls, +no one who knows them as you and I do, can fail to be struck by it +continually. Winifred Wynne I meant to be the typical Welsh girl as I +have found her—affectionate, warm-hearted, self-sacrificing and brave.” + + + +IV +BORROW’S METHOD OF AUTOBIOGRAPHIC NARRATIVE COMPARED WITH THE METHODS OF +DEFOE, WILKIE COLLINS, DICKENS AND THE ABBÉ PRÉVOST + + +It seems almost necessary that in this desultory talk upon “Wild Wales” I +should, before proceeding any further, say a few words upon the book in +its relations to two of Borrow’s other autobiographic narratives, +“Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” and I do not know any literary subject +more suggestive of interesting criticism. + +Although Borrow always acknowledged Defoe as his master, he had, of +course, qualities of his own that were as unlike Defoe’s qualities as +they were unlike those of any other writer. And as this speciality of +his has, so far as I know, never been discussed, I should have liked, had +space permitted, to give interest to my remarks upon “Wild Wales” by a +thorough comparison between Borrow’s imaginative works and Defoe’s +“Robinson Crusoe.” This is impossible in the space at my command. And +yet a few words upon the subject I cannot resist indulging in, for it +relates to the very core and central light of Borrow’s genius; and I may +now never have another opportunity of touching upon it. + +I remember a long talk I once had with him upon the method of Defoe as +contrasted and compared with his own method in “Lavengro,” “The Romany +Rye,” and “Wild Wales,” and the method of other writers who adopt the +autobiographic form of fiction. He agreed with me that the most +successful of all stories in the autobiographic form is “Robinson +Crusoe,” although “Jane Eyre,” “David Copperfield” and “Great +Expectations” among English novels, and “Gil Blas” and “Manon Lescaut” +among French novels, are also autobiographic in form. It is of all forms +the most difficult. But its advantages, if they can be secured without +making too many artistic sacrifices, are enormous. Flexibility is, of +course, the one quality it lacks, but, lacking that, it cannot secure the +variety of picture and the breadth of movement which is the special +strength of the historic form. + +The great pupils of Defoe—and by pupils I mean those writers who try to +give as much commonplace ἀπάτη as possible to new and striking +incidents—Edgar Poe, Wilkie Collins, Gaboriau and others, recognize the +immense aid given to illusion by adopting the autobiographic form. + +The conversation upon this subject occurred in one of my rambles with +Borrow and Dr. Gordon Hake in Richmond Park, when I had been pointing out +to the former certain passages in “Robinson Crusoe” where Defoe adds +richness and piquancy to the incidents by making the reader believe that +these incidents will in the end have some deep influence, spiritual or +physical, upon the narrator himself. + +Borrow was not a theorizer, and yet he took a quaint interest in other +people’s theorizings. He asked me to explain myself more fully. My +reply in substance was something like this: Although in “Robinson Crusoe” +the autobiographer is really introduced only to act as eye-witness for +the purpose of bringing out and authenticating the incidents of the +dramatic action, Defoe had the artistic craftiness to make it appear that +this was not so—to make it appear that the incidents are selected by +Crusoe in such a way as to exhibit and develop the emotions moving within +his own breast. Defoe’s _apparent_ object in writing the story was to +show the effect of a long solitude upon the human heart and mind; but it +was not so—it was simply to bring into fiction a series of incidents and +adventures of extraordinary interest and picturesqueness—incidents such +as did in part happen to Alexander Selkirk. But Defoe was a much greater +artist than he is generally credited with being, and he had sufficient of +the artistic instinct to know that, interesting as these external +incidents were in themselves, they could be made still more interesting +by humanizing them—by making it appear that they worked as a great +life-lesson for the man who experienced them, and that this was why the +man recorded them. Those moralizings of Crusoe upon the way in which the +disasters of his life came upon him as “judgments,” on account of his +running away from his parents, seem to humanize the wheels of +circumstance. They create in the reader’s mind the interest in the man’s +personality which Defoe wished to create. + +In reply to my criticism, Borrow said, “May not the same be said of Le +Sage’s ‘Gil Blas’?” + +And when I pointed out to him that there was a kind of kinship between +the two writers in this particular he asked me to indicate in “Lavengro” +and “The Romany Rye” such incidents in which Defoe’s method had been +followed by himself as had struck me. I pointed out several of them. +Borrow, as a rule, was not at all given to frank discussion of his own +artistic methods, indeed, he had a great deal of the instinct of the +literary _histrio_—more than I have ever seen in any other writer—but he +admitted that he had consciously in part and in part unconsciously +adopted Defoe’s method. The fact is, as I said to Borrow on that +occasion, and as I have since had an opportunity of saying more fully in +print, there are two kinds of autobiographic stories, and these two kinds +are, if properly examined, really more unlike each other than the +autobiographic form is unlike what is generally supposed to be its +antithesis—the historic form. In one kind of autobiographic story, of +which “Rob Roy” is a typical example, the narrator, though nominally the +protagonist, is really not much more than the passive eye-witness of the +dramatic action—not much more than the chorus to other characters who +govern, or at least influence, the main issue. Inasmuch as he is an +eye-witness of the dramatic action, he gives to it the authenticity of +direct testimony. Through him the narrative gains a commonplace ἀπάτη +such as is beyond the scope of the scattered forces of the historic form, +howsoever powerfully handled. By the first-hand testimony of the +eye-witness Frank Osbaldistone in Scott’s fascinating novel, the more +active characters, those who really control the main issue, Di Vernon, +Rashleigh Osbaldistone, Rob, and Bailie Nicol Jarvie, are painted in much +more vivid and much more authentic colours than the method of the +historic form would allow. + +It is in the nature of things that this kind of autobiographic fiction, +howsoever strong may be the incidents, is not nearly so absorbing as is +the other kind I am going to instance, the psychological, to which +“Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye” belong; for in literature, as in life, +the more interest we feel in the character, the more interest we feel in +what befalls the character. Unlike the kind of autobiographic fiction +typified by “Rob Roy,” in which, as I have said, the main issue is little +influenced and not at all controlled by the narrator but by other +characters, or, if not by other characters, by the wheels of +circumstance;—in the psychological kind of autobiographic fiction, the +personality of the narrator controls, or largely controls, the main issue +of the dramatic action. In other words, the incidents in the latter kind +of autobiographic fiction are selected and marshalled for the purpose of +declaring the character of the narrator. The most superb exemplars of +this kind of autobiographic narrative are stories which in all other +respects are extremely unlike Borrow’s—“Caleb Williams,” “Manon Lescaut,” +“Jane Eyre,” and “Villette.” + +A year or two ago I recurred to this subject in some comments I made upon +some judgments of a well-known and admirable critic. I will take the +liberty of referring here to one or two of the remarks I then made, for +they seem to bear very directly upon Borrow’s method as compared with +Defoe’s. The same artistic instinct which we see in Defoe and in +Borrow’s quasi autobiographic work is exhibited by the Abbé Prévost in +“Manon Lescaut.” The real object of the last-mentioned story (which, it +will be remembered, is an episode in a much longer story) was to paint +vivid pictures of the careless life of Paris at the period of the story, +and especially to paint in vivid colours a kind of character which is +essentially peculiar to Paris, the light-hearted, good-natured, unheeding +_grisette_. But by making it appear that the incidents in Chevalier des +Grieux’s life are selected by him in order to show the effect of the +life-lesson upon himself, Prévost gives to every incident the piquancy +which properly belongs to this, the psychological form of autobiographic +fiction. It must, however, be admitted that at its best the +autobiographic form of fiction is rarely, very rarely, broad enough to be +a satisfactory form of art, even when, as in “The Woman in White,” the +story consists of a series of autobiographic narratives stitched +together. It was this difficulty which confronted Dickens when he wrote +“Bleak House.” When he was writing “David Copperfield” he had felt the +sweetness and fascination of writing in the autobiographic form, and had +seen the sweetness and fascination of reading it; but he also felt how +constricted the form is in regard to breadth, and it occurred to him that +he could combine the two forms—that he could give in the same book the +sweetness and the fascination and the authenticity of the autobiographic +form and the breadth and variety of the historic form. To bring into an +autobiographic narrative the complex and wide-spreading net that forms +the story of “Bleak House” was, of course, impossible, and so he mixed up +the chapters of Esther Summerson’s autobiographic narrative with chapters +of the history of the great Chancery suit and all that flowed from it. +In order to minimize as much as possible the confusion of so very +confused a scheme as this, he wrote the historic part of the book in the +present tense; and the result is the most oppressively-laboured novel +that was ever produced by a great novelist. + +I have dwelt at length upon this subject because if I were asked to name +one of the greatest masters of the autobiographic form, in any language, +I should, I think, have to name Borrow. In one variety of that form he +gave us “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” in the other, “Wild Wales.” + + + +V +WHY ARE THE WELSH GYPSIES IGNORED IN “WILD WALES”? + + +“Wild Wales” seems to have disappointed Borrovians because it ignores the +Welsh gypsies, the most superior branch of all the Romany race, except, +perhaps, the gypsy musicians of Hungary. And certainly it is curious to +speculate as to why he ignores them in that fashion. Readers of “The +Romany Rye” wonder why, after his adventure with Mrs. Herne and her +granddaughter, and his rescue by the Welshman, Peter Williams, on +reaching the Welsh border, Borrow kept his mouth closed. Several reasons +have occurred to me, one of which is that his knowledge of Welsh Romany +was of the shakiest kind. Another reason might have been that in “The +Romany Rye,” as much of his story as could be told in two volumes being +told, he abruptly broke off as he had broken off at the end of the third +volume of “Lavengro.” Or did the same reason that caused him to write, +in “Wild Wales,” an autobiographic narrative without any of the fantasies +and romantic ornamentation which did so much to win popularity for his +previous books, govern him when he decided to ignore the gypsies—the +presence of his wife and stepdaughter? There is a very wide class, +including indeed the whole of British Philistia, that cherishes a +positive racial aversion to the Romany—an aversion as strong as the +Russian aversion to the Jew. + +Anyhow, it was very eccentric to write a book upon Wales and to ignore so +picturesque a feature of the subject as the Welsh gypsies. For, beyond +doubt, the finest specimens of the Romany race are—or were in Borrow’s +time—to be found in Wales. And here I cannot help saying +parenthetically, that as Borrow gave us no word about the Welsh Romanies +and their language, the work of Mr. Sampson, the greatest master of the +Welsh Romany that ever lived, is especially precious. So great is the +work of that admirable scholar upon the subject that he told me when I +last saw him that he was actually translating Omar Khayyam into Welsh +Romany! Although the Welsh gypsies have a much greater knowledge of +Welsh Romany than English gypsies have of English Romany, and are more +intelligent, I am a little sceptical, as I told him, as to the Welsh +Romanies taking that deep interest in the immortal quatrains which, it +seems, atheists and Christians agree in doing among the gorgios. + + + +VI +CELT _v_ SAXON + + +Those who have seen much of the writing fraternity of London or Paris, +know that the great mass of authors, whether in prose or in verse, have +just as much and just as little individuality—have just as much and just +as little of any new and true personal accent, as the vast flock of human +sheep whose bleatings will soon drown all other voices over land and sea. +They have the peculiar instinct for putting their thoughts into written +words—that is all. This it is that makes Borrow such a memorable figure. +If ever a man had an accent of his own that man was he. What that accent +was I have tried to indicate here, in the remarks upon his method of +writing autobiographic fiction. Vanity can make all, even the most +cunning, simple on one side of their characters, but it made of Borrow a +veritable child. + +If Tennyson may be accepted as the type of the man without guile, what +type does Borrow represent? In him guile and simplicity were blent in +what must have been the most whimsical amalgam of opposite qualities ever +seen on this planet. Let me give one instance out of a thousand of this. + +Great as was his love of Wales and the Welsh, the Anglo-Saxonism—the John +Bullism which he fondly cherished in that Celtic bosom of his, was so +strong that whenever it came to pitting the prowess and the glories of +the Welshman against those of the Englishman, his championship of the +Cymric race would straightway vanish, and the claim of the Anglo-Saxon to +superiority would be proclaimed against all the opposition of the world. +This was especially so in regard to athletics, as was but natural, seeing +that he always felt himself to be an athlete first, a writing man +afterwards. + +A favourite quotation of his was from Byron— + + “One hates an author that’s _all author_—fellows + In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink.” + +Frederick Sandys, a Norfolk man who knew him well, rarely spoke of Borrow +save as a master in the noble art of self-defence. + +It was as a swimmer I first saw him—one of the strongest and hardiest +that ever rejoiced to buffet with wintry billows on the Norfolk coast. +And to the very last did his interest in swimming, sparring, running, +wrestling, jumping remain. If the Welshman would only have admitted that +in athletics the Englishman stands first—stands easily first among the +competitors of the world, he would have cheerfully admitted that the +Welshman made a good second. General Picton used to affirm that the +ideal—the topmost soldier in the world is a Welshman of five feet, eight +inches in height. Such a man as the six-feet-three giant of Dereham knew +well how to scorn such an assertion even though made by the great Picton +himself. But suppose Borrow had been told, as we have lately been told, +that the so-called “English archers” at Crecy and Agincourt were mainly +made up of Welshmen, what a flush would have overspread his hairless +cheek, what an indignant fire would have blazed from his eyes! Not even +his indignation on being told, as we would sometimes tell him at “The +Bald-faced Stag,” that Scottish Highlanders had proved themselves +superior to their English brothers-in-arms would have equalled his scorn +of such talk about Crecy and Agincourt—scenes of English prowess that he +was never tired of extolling. + +But you had only to admit that Welshmen were superior to all others save +Englishmen in physical prowess, and Borrow’s championship of the Cymric +athlete could be as enthusiastic and even as aggressive as the best and +most self-assertive Welshman ever born in Arvon. Consequently I can but +regret that he did not live to see the great recrudescence of Cymric +energy which we are seeing at the present moment in “Cymru, gwlad y +gân,”—an energy which is declaring itself more vigorously every day, and +not merely in pure intellectual matters, not merely in political matters, +but equally in those same athletics which to Borrow were so important. +Sparring has gone out of fashion as much in the Principality as in +England and Scotland; but that which has succeeded it, football, has +taken a place in athleticism such as would have bewildered Borrow, as it +would have bewildered most of his contemporaries. What would he have +said, I wonder, had he been told that in this favourite twentieth-century +game the Welsh would surpass all others in these islands, and save the +honour of Great Britain? No one would have enjoyed witnessing the great +contest between the Welsh and the New Zealand athletes at the Cardiff +Arms Park on the 16th of last December with more gusto than the admirer +of English sparring and of the English pugilistic heroes, from Big Ben +Bryan to Tom Spring. No one would have been more exhilarated than he by +the song with which it opened— + + “Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn anwyl i mi.” {0} + +But one wonders what he would have said after the struggle was over—after +Wales’s latest triumph over the Saxon record of physical prowess. One +can imagine, perhaps, his mixed feelings had he been a witness of that +great athletic struggle which is going to be historic—the immortal +contest in which after England had succumbed entirely to the Colonials, +the honour of the old country was saved by Wales at the eleventh hour. +His cheek would have glowed with admiration of the exploits of the only +footballers whose names will be historic, and being historic must be +mentioned in connection with his own Welsh pages,—I mean the names of +Travers, of Bush, of Winfield, of Owen, of Jones, of Llewellyn, of Gabe, +of Nicholls, of Morgan, of Williams, of Hodges, of Harding, of Joseph, +and the names of the two Pritchards. Whatsoever might have been his +after-emotions when provincial patriotism began to assert itself, Borrow +would in that great hour of Cymric triumph have frankly admitted, I +think, that for once England’s honour was saved by Wales. + + * * * * * + +The following is a list of the works of George Borrow— + +Faustus, His Life, Death [from the German of F. M. von Klinger], 1825; +Romantic Ballads [from the Danish of Öhlenschläger, and from the Kiempé +Viser], and miscellaneous pieces [from the Danish of Ewald and others], +1826; Targum, or Metrical Translations from Thirty Languages and +Dialects, 1835; The Talisman of A. Pushkin, with other pieces [from +Russian and Polish], 1835; New Testament (Luke), Embéo e Majaró Lucas . . . +El Evangelio segun S. Lucas, traducido al Romani, 1837; The Bible in +Spain, 3 vols., 1843; The Zincali (Gypsies in Spain), 2 vols., 1841; +Lavengro, 1851; The Romany Rye, 2 vols., 1857; The Sleeping Bard, +translated from the Cambrian British, 1860; Wild Wales, 3 vols., 1862; +Romano Lavo-Lil: Word-Book of the Romany, 1874; Násr Al-Din, Khwājah, The +Turkish Jester [from the Turkish], 1884; Death of Balder [from the Danish +of Ewald], 1889. + +The Life, Writings, and Correspondence of George Borrow, by Knapp (W. +I.), appeared in 1899. + + + + +ITINERARY + +CHAPTER PAGE + I. Proposed Excursion 5 + II. The Start, Peterborough, Birmingham 10 + III. Chester 14 + IV. Chester, Camp-meeting 19 + V. Chester, Book-Stall, Wrexham 24 + VI. Llangollen, the Dee 30 + VII. Llangollen, Lodgings 34 + VIII. The Robber’s Leap 37 + IX. Llangollen, Pengwern 43 + X. The Berwyn 48 + XI. Pont Fadog 50 + XII. Pont y Cysswllt 58 + XIII. Llangollen, the Abbey of the Vale of the 64 + Cross + XIV. Expedition to Ruthyn, the Column 69 + XV. The Turf Tavern, Ruthyn 74 + XVI. Return from Ruthyn, Agricola’s Hill 80 + XVII. Llangollen, Plas Newydd, Llyn Ceiriog 84 + XVIII. Llangollen, the Parish Clerk 92 + XIX. Llangollen, the Vicar, the Pool of 100 + Catherine Lingo, Robber’s Leap + XX. The Valley of Ceiriog, Huw Morris’s Chair, 107 + Pont y Meibion + XXI. Pandy Teirw 116 + XXII. Llangollen Fair 124 + XXIII. Pont y Pandy, Glendower’s Mount, Corwen 125 + XXIV. The Rock of Heroes, the Italian at the Inn 134 + XXV. On the way to Bangor, the Irishman 142 + XXVI. Pentre Voelas, the Conway, Swallow Falls, 149 + Capel Curig + XXVII. Bangor 159 + XXVIII. Menai bridges 165 + XXIX. Snowdon, the Wyddfa 172 + XXX. Gronwy Owen 179 + XXXI. Anglesea, Pentraeth Coch 181 + XXXII. Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf, the Birthplace 186 + of Gronwy Owen + XXXIII. The Inn at Pentraeth Coch 199 + XXXIV. Conversation at the Inn 203 + XXXV. A Brilliant Morning 206 + XXXVI. Leaving Pentraeth Coch, Penmynnydd, Tomb 209 + of Owen Tudor + XXXVII. Dyffryn Gaint 213 + XXXVIII. The Inn at L— 225 + XXXIX. Bound for Holy Head 231 + XL. Caer Gybi 237 + XLI. The Pier 240 + XLII. Town of Holy Head, Pen Caer Gybi 244 + XLIII. Bangor, Port Dyn Norwig, Caernarvon 251 + XLIV. Pont Bettws, Llyn Cwellyn 255 + XLV. Inn at Bethgelert 265 + XLVI. The Valley of Gelert 267 + XLVII. Tan y Bwlch, Festiniog 273 + XLVIII. Mynydd Mawr and Mynydd Bach, Tref y Talcot 279 + XLIX. Bala 288 + L. The Tomen Bala 298 + LI. Back at Llangollen 300 + LII. Llangollen, Attempted Murder 304 + LIII. Pen y Coed 308 + LIV. Chirk 310 + LV. Llangollen, Some of the Inhabitants 320 + LVI. Llangollen, News of the Fall of Sebastopol 324 + LVII. Pentré y Dwr 329 + LVIII. Sunday at Llangollen 334 + LIX. Llangollen, History of Twm O’r Nant 338 + LX. Twm O’r Nant, his Interludes 348 + LXI. Walk to Wrexham, Methodistical Volume 354 + LXII. Rhiwabon Road 360 + LXIII. Last Night at Llangollen 364 + LXIV. Departure for South Wales 367 + LXV. Inn at Llan Rhyadr 373 + LXVI. Sycharth 378 + LXVII. Llan Silin 384 + LXVIII. Llan Silin Church, Tomb of Huw Morris 388 + LXIX. Church of Llan Rhyadr 393 + LXX. Rhyadr, Mountain Scenery 395 + LXXI. Wild Moors, Arrival at Bala 398 + LXXII. Bala, The White Lion 403 + LXXIII. Llyn Tegid 409 + LXXIV. Bala to Dinas Mawddwy 414 + LXXV. Inn at Mallwydd 423 + LXXVI. Mallwydd and its Church, Cemmaes 424 + LXXVII. The Vale of Dyfi 428 + LXXVIII. Machynlleth 432 + LXXIX. Machynlleth, Historic Events 438 + LXXX. Machynlleth to Esgyrn Hirion 442 + LXXXI. The Mining Compting Room 450 + LXXXII. Inn at Pont Erwyd 457 + LXXXIII. Conversation at the inn and on the way to 465 + the Devil’s Bridge + LXXXIV. The Devil’s Bridge 474 + LXXXV. Dinner at the Hospice 477 + LXXXVI. Dafydd Ab Gwilym 481 + LXXXVII. Start for Plynlimmon 489 + LXXXVIII. Plynlimmon, and back to the Devil’s Bridge 491 + LXXXIX. Hafod 499 + XC. Spytty Ystwyth 503 + XCI. Strata Florida, burial-place of Dafydd Ab 507 + Gwilym + XCII. Rhyd Fendigaid to Tregaron 512 + XCIII. Tregaron Church 523 + XCIV. Llan Ddewi Brefi 527 + XCV. Lampeter to the Bridge of Twrch 532 + XCVI. Llandovery 539 + XCVII. Llandovery Church 544 + XCVIII. Llandovery to Gutter Vawr 553 + XCIX. Inn at Gutter Vawr 561 + C. Gutter Vawr to Swansea 568 + CI. Swansea 579 + CII. Swansea to Neath 581 + CIII. Town of Neath, the Glowing Mountain 583 + CIV. Merthyr Tydvil 586 + CV. Start for Caerfili 589 + CVI. Pen y Glas to Caerfili 599 + CVII. Caerfili 602 + CVIII. Town of Newport 606 + CIX. Arrival at Chepstow 616 + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Proposed Excursion—Knowledge of Welsh—Singular Groom—Harmonious +Distich—Welsh Pronunciation—Dafydd Ab Gwilym. + +In the summer of the year 1854 myself, wife, and daughter determined upon +going into Wales, to pass a few months there. We are country people of a +corner of East Anglia, and, at the time of which I am speaking, had been +residing so long on our own little estate, that we had become tired of +the objects around us, and conceived that we should be all the better for +changing the scene for a short period. We were undetermined for some +time with respect to where we should go. I proposed Wales from the +first, but my wife and daughter, who have always had rather a hankering +after what is fashionable, said they thought it would be more advisable +to go to Harrowgate or Leamington. On my observing that those were +terrible places for expense, they replied that, though the price of corn +had of late been shamefully low, we had a spare hundred pounds or two in +our pockets, and could afford to pay for a little insight into +fashionable life. I told them that there was nothing I so much hated as +fashionable life, but that, as I was anything but a selfish person, I +would endeavour to stifle my abhorrence of it for a time, and attend them +either to Leamington or Harrowgate. By this speech I obtained my wish, +even as I knew I should, for my wife and daughter instantly observed, +that, after all, they thought we had better go into Wales, which, though +not so fashionable as either Leamington or Harrowgate, was a very nice +picturesque country, where, they had no doubt, they should get on very +well, more especially as I was acquainted with the Welsh language. + +It was my knowledge of Welsh, such as it was, that made me desirous that +we should go to Wales, where there was a chance that I might turn it to +some little account. In my boyhood I had been something of a +philologist; had picked up some Latin and Greek at school; some Irish in +Ireland, where I had been with my father, who was in the army; and +subsequently whilst an articled clerk to the first solicitor in East +Anglia—indeed I may say the prince of all English solicitors—for he was a +gentleman, had learnt some Welsh, partly from books and partly from a +Welsh groom, whose acquaintance I had made. A queer groom he was, and +well deserving of having his portrait drawn. He might be about +forty-seven years of age, and about five feet eight inches in height; his +body was spare and wiry; his chest rather broad, and his arms remarkably +long; his legs were of the kind generally known as spindle-shanks, but +vigorous withal, for they carried his body with great agility; neck he +had none, at least that I ever observed; and his head was anything but +high, not measuring, I should think, more than four inches from the +bottom of the chin to the top of the forehead; his cheek-bones were high, +his eyes grey and deeply sunken in his face, with an expression in them, +partly sullen, and partly irascible; his complexion was indescribable; +the little hair which he had, which was almost entirely on the sides and +the back part of his head, was of an iron-grey hue. He wore a leather +hat on ordinary days, low at the crown, and with the side eaves turned +up. A dirty pepper and salt coat, a waistcoat which had once been red, +but which had lost its pristine colour, and looked brown; dirty yellow +leather breeches, grey worsted stockings, and high-lows. Surely I was +right when I said he was a very different groom to those of the present +day, whether Welsh or English? What say you, Sir Watkin? What say you, +my Lord of Exeter? He looked after the horses, and occasionally assisted +in the house of a person who lived at the end of an alley, in which the +office of the gentleman to whom I was articled was situated, and having +to pass by the door of the office half-a-dozen times in the day, he did +not fail to attract the notice of the clerks, who, sometimes +individually, sometimes by twos, sometimes by threes, or even more, not +unfrequently stood at the door, bareheaded—mis-spending the time which +was not legally their own. Sundry observations, none of them very +flattering, did the clerks and, amongst them, myself, make upon the +groom, as he passed and repassed, some of them direct, others somewhat +oblique. To these he made no reply save by looks, which had in them +something dangerous and menacing, and clenching without raising his +fists, which looked singularly hard and horny. At length a whisper ran +about the alley that the groom was a Welshman; this whisper much +increased the malice of my brother clerks against him, who were now +whenever he passed the door, and they happened to be there by twos or +threes, in the habit of saying something, as if by accident, against +Wales and Welshmen, and, individually or together, were in the habit of +shouting out “Taffy,” when he was at some distance from them, and his +back was turned, or regaling his ears with the harmonious and well-known +distich of “Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief: Taffy came to my +house and stole a piece of beef.” It had, however, a very different +effect upon me. I was trying to learn Welsh, and the idea occurring to +me that the groom might be able to assist me in my pursuit, I instantly +lost all desire to torment him, and determined to do my best to scrape +acquaintance with him, and persuade him to give me what assistance he +could in Welsh. I succeeded; how I will not trouble the reader with +describing: he and I became great friends, and he taught me what Welsh he +could. In return for his instructions I persuaded my brother clerks to +leave off holloing after him, and to do nothing further to hurt his +feelings, which had been very deeply wounded, so much so, that after the +first two or three lessons he told me in confidence that on the morning +of the very day I first began to conciliate him he had come to the +resolution of doing one of two things, namely, either to hang himself +from the balk of the hayloft, or to give his master warning, both of +which things he told me he should have been very unwilling to do, more +particularly as he had a wife and family. He gave me lessons on Sunday +afternoons, at my father’s house, where he made his appearance very +respectably dressed, in a beaver hat, blue surtout, whitish waistcoat, +black trowsers and Wellingtons, all with a somewhat ancient look—the +Wellingtons I remember were slightly pieced at the sides—but all upon the +whole very respectable. I wished at first to persuade him to give me +lessons in the office, but could not succeed: “No, no, lad,” said he; +“catch me going in there: I would just as soon venture into a nest of +parcupines.” To translate from books I had already, to a certain degree, +taught myself, and at his first visit I discovered, and he himself +acknowledged, that at book Welsh I was stronger than himself, but I +learnt Welsh pronunciation from him, and to discourse a little in the +Welsh tongue. “Had you much difficulty in acquiring the sound of the +ll?” I think I hear the reader inquire. None whatever: the double l of +the Welsh is by no means the terrible guttural which English people +generally suppose it to be, being in reality a pretty liquid, exactly +resembling in sound the Spanish ll, the sound of which I had mastered +before commencing Welsh, and which is equivalent to the English lh; so +being able to pronounce llano I had of course no difficulty in +pronouncing Lluyd, which by the bye was the name of the groom. + +I remember that I found the pronunciation of the Welsh far less difficult +than I had found the grammar, the most remarkable feature of which is the +mutation, under certain circumstances, of particular consonants, when +forming the initials of words. This feature I had observed in the Irish, +which I had then only learnt by ear. + +But to return to the groom. He was really a remarkable character, and +taught me two or three things besides Welsh pronunciation; and to +discourse a little in Cumraeg. He had been a soldier in his youth, and +had served under Moore and Wellington in the Peninsular campaigns, and +from him I learnt the details of many a bloody field and bloodier storm, +of the sufferings of poor British soldiers, and the tyranny of haughty +British officers; more especially of the two commanders just mentioned, +the first of whom he swore was shot by his own soldiers, and the second +more frequently shot at by British than French. But it is not deemed a +matter of good taste to write about such low people as grooms, I shall +therefore dismiss him with no observation further than that after he had +visited me on Sunday afternoons for about a year he departed for his own +country with his wife, who was an Englishwoman, and his children, in +consequence of having been left a small freehold there by a distant +relation, and that I neither saw nor heard of him again. + +But though I had lost my oral instructor I had still my silent ones, +namely, the Welsh books, and of these I made such use that before the +expiration of my clerkship I was able to read not only Welsh prose, but, +what was infinitely more difficult, Welsh poetry in any of the +four-and-twenty measures, and was well versed in the compositions of +various of the old Welsh bards, especially those of Dafydd ab Gwilym, +whom, since the time when I first became acquainted with his works, I +have always considered as the greatest poetical genius that has appeared +in Europe since the revival of literature. + +After this exordium I think I may proceed to narrate the journey of +myself and family into Wales. As perhaps, however, it will be thought +that, though I have said quite enough about myself and a certain groom, I +have not said quite enough about my wife and daughter, I will add a +little more about them. Of my wife I will merely say that she is a +perfect paragon of wives—can make puddings and sweets and treacle posset, +and is the best woman of business in Eastern Anglia—of my +step-daughter—for such she is, though I generally call her daughter, and +with good reason, seeing that she has always shown herself a daughter to +me—that she has all kinds of good qualities, and several accomplishments, +knowing something of conchology, more of botany, drawing capitally in the +Dutch style, and playing remarkably well on the guitar—not the trumpery +German thing so-called—but the real Spanish guitar. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +The Starting—Peterborough Cathedral—Anglo-Saxon Names—Kæmpe +Viser—Steam—Norman Barons—Chester Ale—Sion Tudor—Pretty Welsh Tongue. + +So our little family, consisting of myself, my wife Mary, and my daughter +Henrietta, for daughter I shall persist in calling her, started for Wales +in the afternoon of the 27th July, 1854. We flew through part of Norfolk +and Cambridgeshire in a train which we left at Ely, and getting into +another, which did not fly quite so fast as the one we had quitted, +reached the Peterborough station at about six o’clock of a delightful +evening. We proceeded no farther on our journey that day, in order that +we might have an opportunity of seeing the cathedral. + +Sallying arm in arm from the Station Hotel, where we had determined to +take up our quarters for the night, we crossed a bridge over the deep +quiet Nen, on the southern bank of which stands the station, and soon +arrived at the cathedral—unfortunately we were too late to procure +admission into the interior, and had to content ourselves with walking +round it and surveying its outside. + +It is named after, and occupies the site, or part of the site, of an +immense monastery, founded by the Mercian King Peda in the year 665, and +destroyed by fire in the year 1116, which monastery, though originally +termed Medeshamsted, or the homestead on the meads, was subsequently +termed Peterborough, from the circumstance of its having been reared by +the old Saxon monarch for the love of God and the honour of Saint Peter, +as the Saxon Chronicle says, a book which I went through carefully in my +younger days, when I studied Saxon, for, as I have already told the +reader, I was in those days a bit of a philologist. Like the first, the +second edifice was originally a monastery, and continued so till the time +of the Reformation; both were abodes of learning; for if the Saxon +Chronicle was commenced in the monkish cells of the first, it was +completed in those of the second. What is at present called Peterborough +Cathedral is a noble venerable pile, equal upon the whole in external +appearance to the cathedrals of Toledo, Burgos, and Leon, all of which I +have seen. Nothing in architecture can be conceived more beautiful than +the principal entrance, which fronts the west, and which, at the time we +saw it, was gilded with the rays of the setting sun. + +After having strolled about the edifice surveying it until we were weary, +we returned to our inn, and after taking an excellent supper retired to +rest. + +At ten o’clock next morning we left the capital of the meads. With +dragon speed, and dragon noise, fire, smoke, and fury, the train dashed +along its road through beautiful meadows, garnished here and there with +pollard sallows; over pretty streams, whose waters stole along +imperceptibly; by venerable old churches, which I vowed I would take the +first opportunity of visiting: stopping now and then to recruit its +energies at places, whose old Anglo-Saxon names stared me in the eyes +from station boards, as specimens of which, let me only dot down Willy +Thorpe, Ringsted, and Yrthling Boro. Quite forgetting everything Welsh, +I was enthusiastically Saxon the whole way from Medeshampsted to +Blissworth, so thoroughly Saxon was the country, with its rich meads, its +old churches, and its names. After leaving Blissworth, a thoroughly +Saxon place by the bye, as its name shows signifying the stronghold or +possession of Bligh or Blee, I became less Saxon; the country was rather +less Saxon, and I caught occasionally the word “by” on a board, the +Danish for a town; which “by” waked in me a considerable portion of +Danish enthusiasm, of which I have plenty, and with reason, having +translated the glorious Kæmpe Viser over the desk of my ancient master, +the gentleman solicitor of East Anglia. At length we drew near the great +workshop of England, called by some Brummagem or Bromwicham, by others +Birmingham, and I fell into a philological reverie, wondering which was +the right name. Before, however, we came to the station, I decided that +both names were right enough, but that Bromwicham was the original name; +signifying the home on the Broomie moor, which name it lost in polite +parlance for Birmingham, or the home of the son of Biarmer, when a +certain man of Danish blood, called Biarming, or the son of Biarmer, got +possession of it, whether by force, fraud, or marriage—the latter, by the +bye, is by far the best way of getting possession of an estate—this +deponent neither knoweth nor careth. At Birmingham station I became a +modern Englishman, enthusiastically proud of modern England’s science and +energy; that station alone is enough to make one proud of being a modern +Englishman. Oh, what an idea does that station, with its thousand trains +dashing off in all directions, or arriving from all quarters, give of +modern English science and energy. My modern English pride accompanied +me all the way to Tipton; for all along the route there were wonderful +evidences of English skill and enterprise; in chimneys high as cathedral +spires, vomiting forth smoke, furnaces emitting flame and lava, and in +the sound of gigantic hammers, wielded by steam, the Englishman’s slave. +After passing Tipton, at which place one leaves the great working +district behind, I became for a considerable time a yawning, listless +Englishman, without pride, enthusiasm or feeling of any kind, from which +state I was suddenly roused by the sight of ruined edifices on the tops +of hills. They were remains of castles built by Norman barons. Here, +perhaps, the reader will expect from me a burst of Norman enthusiasm: if +so he will be mistaken; I have no Norman enthusiasm, and hate and +abominate the name of Norman, for I have always associated that name with +the deflowering of helpless Englishwomen, the plundering of English +homesteads, and the tearing out of poor Englishmen’s eyes. The sight of +those edifices, now in ruins, but which were once the strongholds of +plunder, violence, and lust, made me almost ashamed of being an +Englishman, for they brought to my mind the indignities to which poor +English blood had been subjected. I sat silent and melancholy, till +looking from the window I caught sight of a long line of hills, which I +guessed to be the Welsh hills, as indeed they proved, which sight causing +me to remember that I was bound for Wales, the land of the bard, made me +cast all gloomy thoughts aside and glow with all the Welsh enthusiasm +with which I glowed when I first started in the direction of Wales. + +On arriving at Chester, at which place we intended to spend two or three +days, we put up at an old-fashioned inn in Northgate Street, to which we +had been recommended; my wife and daughter ordered tea and its +accompaniments; and I ordered ale, and that which always should accompany +it, cheese. “The ale I shall find bad,” said I; Chester ale had a +villainous character in the time of old Sion Tudor, who made a first-rate +englyn upon it, and it has scarcely improved since; “but I shall have a +treat in the cheese, Cheshire cheese has always been reckoned excellent, +and now that I am in the capital of the cheese country, of course I shall +have some of the very prime.” Well, the tea, loaf, and butter made their +appearance, and with them my cheese and ale. To my horror the cheese had +much the appearance of soap of the commonest kind, which indeed I found +it much resembled in taste, on putting a small portion into my mouth. +“Ah,” said I, after I had opened the window and ejected the +half-masticated morsel into the street; “those who wish to regale on good +Cheshire cheese must not come to Chester, no more than those who wish to +drink first-rate coffee must go to Mocha. I’ll now see whether the ale +is drinkable;” so I took a little of the ale into my mouth, and instantly +going to the window, spirted it out after the cheese. “Of, a surety,” +said I, “Chester ale must be of much the same quality as it was in the +time of Sion Tudor, who spoke of it to the following effect:— + + “‘Chester ale, Chester ale! I could ne’er get it down, + ’Tis made of ground-ivy, of dirt, and of bran, + ’Tis as thick as a river below a huge town! + ’Tis not lap for a dog, far less drink for a man.’ + +Well! if I have been deceived in the cheese, I have at any rate not been +deceived in the ale, which I expected to find execrable. Patience! I +shall not fall into a passion, more especially as there are things I can +fall back upon. Wife! I will trouble you for a cup of tea. Henrietta! +have the kindness to cut me a slice of bread and butter.” + +Upon the whole we found ourselves very comfortable in the old-fashioned +inn, which was kept by a nice old-fashioned gentlewoman, with the +assistance of three servants, namely, a “boots” and two strapping +chambermaids, one of which was a Welsh girl, with whom I soon scraped +acquaintance, not, I assure the reader, for the sake of the pretty Welsh +eyes which she carried in her head, but for the sake of the pretty Welsh +tongue which she carried in her mouth, from which I confess occasionally +proceeded sounds which, however pretty, I was quite unable to understand. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Chester—The Rows—Lewis Glyn Cothi—Tragedy of Mold—Native of +Antigua—Slavery and the Americans—The Tents—Saturday Night. + +On the morning after our arrival we went out together, and walked up and +down several streets; my wife and daughter, however, soon leaving me to +go into a shop, I strolled about by myself. Chester is an ancient town +with walls and gates, a prison called a castle, built on the site of an +ancient keep, an unpretending-looking red sandstone cathedral, two or +three handsome churches, several good streets, and certain curious places +called rows. The Chester row is a broad arched stone gallery running +parallel with the street within the façades of the houses; it is partly +open on the side of the street, and just one story above it. Within the +rows, of which there are three or four, are shops, every shop being on +that side which is farthest from the street. All the best shops in +Chester are to be found in the rows. These rows, to which you ascend by +stairs up narrow passages, were originally built for the security of the +wares of the principal merchants against the Welsh. Should the +mountaineers break into the town, as they frequently did, they might +rifle some of the common shops, where their booty would be slight, but +those which contained the more costly articles would be beyond their +reach; for at the first alarm the doors of the passages, up which the +stairs led, would be closed, and all access to the upper streets cut off, +from the open arches of which missiles of all kinds, kept ready for such +occasions, could be discharged upon the intruders, who would be soon glad +to beat a retreat. These rows and the walls are certainly the most +remarkable memorials of old times which Chester has to boast of. + +Upon the walls it is possible to make the whole compass of the city, +there being a good but narrow walk upon them. The northern wall abuts +upon a frightful ravine, at the bottom of which is a canal. From the +western one there is a noble view of the Welsh hills. + +As I stood gazing upon the hills from the wall, a ragged man came up and +asked for charity. + +“Can you tell me the name of that tall hill?” said I, pointing in the +direction of the south-west. “That hill, sir,” said the beggar, “is +called Moel Vamagh; I ought to know something about it as I was born at +its foot.” “Moel,” said I, “a bald hill; Vamagh; maternal or motherly. +Moel Vamagh, the mother Moel.” “Just so, sir,” said the beggar; “I see +you are a Welshman, like myself, though I suppose you come from the +South—Moel Vamagh is the Mother Moel, and is called so because it is the +highest of all the Moels.” “Did you ever hear of a place called Mold?” +said I. “Oh, yes, your honour,” said the beggar; “many a time; and +many’s the time I have been there.” “In which direction does it lie?” +said I. “Towards Moel Vamagh, your honour,” said the beggar, “which is a +few miles beyond it; you can’t see it from here, but look towards Moel +Vamagh and you will see over it.” “Thank you,” said I, and gave +something to the beggar, who departed, after first taking off his hat. +Long and fixedly did I gaze in the direction of Mold. The reason which +induced me to do so was the knowledge of an appalling tragedy transacted +there in the old time, in which there is every reason to suppose a +certain Welsh bard, called Lewis Glyn Cothi, had a share. + +This man, who was a native of South Wales, flourished during the wars of +the Roses. Besides being a poetical he was something of a military +genius, and had a command of foot in the army of the Lancastrian Jasper +Earl of Pembroke, the son of Owen Tudor, and half-brother of Henry the +Sixth. After the battle of Mortimer’s Cross, in which the Earl’s forces +were defeated, the warrior bard found his way to Chester, where he +married the widow of a citizen and opened a shop, without asking the +permission of the mayor, who with the officers of justice came and seized +all his goods, which, according to his own account, filled nine sacks, +and then drove him out of the town. The bard in a great fury indited an +awdl, in which he invites Reinallt ap Grufydd ap Bleddyn, a kind of +predatory chieftain, who resided a little way off in Flintshire, to come +and set the town on fire, and slaughter the inhabitants, in revenge for +the wrongs he had suffered, and then proceeds to vent all kinds of +imprecations against the mayor and people of Chester, wishing, amongst +other things, that they might soon hear that the Dee had become too +shallow to bear their ships—that a certain cutaneous disorder might +attack the wrists of great and small, old and young, laity and +clergy—that grass might grow in their streets—that Ilar and Cyveilach, +Welsh saints, might slay them—that dogs might snarl at them—and that the +king of heaven, with the saints Brynach and Non, might afflict them with +blindness—which piece, however ineffectual in inducing God and the saints +to visit the Chester people with the curses with which the furious bard +wished them to be afflicted, seems to have produced somewhat of its +intended effect on the chieftain, who shortly afterwards, on learning +that the mayor and many of the Chester people were present at the fair of +Mold, near which place he resided, set upon them at the head of his +forces, and after a desperate combat, in which many lives were lost, took +the mayor prisoner, and drove those of his people who survived into a +tower, which he set on fire and burnt, with all the unhappy wretches +which it contained, completing the horrors of the day by hanging the +unfortunate mayor. + +Conversant as I was with all this strange history, is it wonderful that I +looked with great interest from the wall of Chester in the direction of +Mold? + +Once did I make the compass of the city upon the walls, and was beginning +to do the same a second time, when I stumbled against a black, who, with +his arms leaning upon the wall, was spitting over it, in the direction of +the river. I apologized, and contrived to enter into conversation with +him. He was tolerably well dressed, had a hairy cap on his head, was +about forty years of age, and brutishly ugly, his features scarcely +resembling those of a human being. He told me he was a native of +Antigua, a blacksmith by trade, and had been a slave. I asked him if he +could speak any language besides English, and received for answer that +besides English, he could speak Spanish and French. Forthwith I spoke to +him in Spanish, but he did not understand me. I then asked him to speak +to me in Spanish, but he could not. “Surely you can tell me the word for +water in Spanish,” said I; he, however, was not able. “How is it,” said +I, “that, pretending to be acquainted with Spanish, you do not even know +the word for water?” He said he could not tell, but supposed that he had +forgotten the Spanish language, adding, however, that he could speak +French perfectly. I spoke to him in French—he did not understand me: I +told him to speak to me in French, but he did not. I then asked him the +word for bread in French, but he could not tell me. I made no +observations on his ignorance, but inquired how he liked being a slave? +He said not at all; that it was very bad to be a slave, as a slave was +forced to work. I asked him if he did not work now that he was free? He +said very seldom; that he did not like work, and that it did not agree +with him. I asked how he came into England, and he said that wishing to +see England, he had come over with a gentleman as his servant, but that +as soon as he got there, he had left his master, as he did not like work. +I asked him how he contrived to live in England without working? He said +that any black might live in England without working; that all he had to +do was to attend religious meetings, and speak against slavery and the +Americans. I asked him if he had done so. He said he had, and that the +religious people were very kind to him, and gave him money, and that a +religious lady was going to marry him. I asked him if he knew anything +about the Americans? He said he did, and that they were very bad people, +who kept slaves and flogged them. “And quite right too,” said I, “if +they are lazy rascals like yourself, who want to eat without working. +What a pretty set of knaves or fools must they be, who encourage a fellow +like you to speak against negro slavery, of the necessity for which you +yourself are a living instance, and against a people of whom you know as +much as of French or Spanish.” Then leaving the black, who made no other +answer to what I said, than by spitting with considerable force in the +direction of the river, I continued making my second compass of the city +upon the wall. + +Having walked round the city for the second time, I returned to the inn. +In the evening I went out again, passed over the bridge, and then turned +to the right in the direction of the hills. Near the river, on my right, +on a kind of green, I observed two or three tents resembling those of +gypsies. Some ragged children were playing near them, who, however, had +nothing of the appearance of the children of the Egyptian race, their +locks being not dark, but either of a flaxen or red hue, and their +features not delicate and regular, but coarse and uncouth, and their +complexions not olive, but rather inclining to be fair. I did not go up +to them, but continued my course till I arrived near a large factory. I +then turned and retraced my steps into the town. It was Saturday night +and the streets were crowded with people, many of whom must have been +Welsh, as I heard the Cambrian language spoken on every side. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Sunday Morning—Tares and Wheat—Teetotalism—Hearsay—Irish Family—What +Profession?—Sabbath Evening—Priest or Minister—Give us God. + +On the Sunday morning, as we sat at breakfast, we heard the noise of +singing in the street; running to the window, we saw a number of people, +bareheaded, from whose mouths the singing or psalmody proceeded. These, +on inquiry, we were informed, were Methodists, going about to raise +recruits for a grand camp-meeting, which was to be held a little way out +of the town. We finished our breakfast, and at eleven attended divine +service at the cathedral. The interior of this holy edifice was smooth +and neat, strangely contrasting with its exterior, which was rough and +weather-beaten. We had decent places found us by a civil verger, who +probably took us for what we were—decent country people. We heard much +fine chanting by the choir, and an admirable sermon, preached by a +venerable prebend, on “Tares and Wheat.” The congregation was numerous +and attentive. After service, we returned to our inn, and at two o’clock +dined. During dinner, our conversation ran almost entirely on the +sermon, which we all agreed was one of the best sermons we had ever +heard, and most singularly adapted to country people like ourselves, +being on “Wheat and Tares.” When dinner was over, my wife and daughter +repaired to a neighbouring church, and I went in quest of the +camp-meeting, having a mighty desire to know what kind of a thing +Methodism at Chester was. + +I found about two thousand people gathered together in a field near the +railroad station; a waggon stood under some green elms at one end of the +field, in which were ten or a dozen men with the look of Methodist +preachers; one of these was holding forth to the multitude when I +arrived, but he presently sat down, I having, as I suppose, only come in +time to hear the fag-end of his sermon. Another succeeded him, who, +after speaking for about half an hour, was succeeded by another. All the +discourses were vulgar and fanatical, and in some instances +unintelligible, at least to my ears. There was plenty of vociferation, +but not one single burst of eloquence. Some of the assembly appeared to +take considerable interest in what was said, and every now and then +showed they did by devout hums and groans; but the generality evidently +took little or none, staring about listlessly, or talking to one another. +Sometimes, when anything particularly low escaped from the mouth of the +speaker, I heard exclamations of “How low! well, I think I could preach +better than that,” and the like. At length a man of about fifty, +pock-broken and somewhat bald, began to speak: unlike the others who +screamed, shouted, and seemed in earnest, he spoke in a dry, waggish +style, which had all the coarseness and nothing of the cleverness of that +of old Rowland Hill, whom I once heard. After a great many jokes, some +of them very poor, and others exceedingly threadbare, on the folly of +those who sell themselves to the Devil for a little temporary enjoyment, +he introduced the subject of drunkenness, or rather drinking fermented +liquors, which he seemed to consider the same thing; and many a sorry +joke on the folly of drinking them did he crack, which some half-dozen +amidst the concourse applauded. At length he said— + +“After all, brethren, such drinking is no joking matter, for it is the +root of all evil. Now, brethren, if you would all get to heaven, and +cheat the enemy of your souls, never go into a public-house to drink, and +never fetch any drink from a public-house. Let nothing pass your lips, +in the shape of drink, stronger than water or tea. Brethren, if you +would cheat the Devil, take the pledge and become teetotalers. I am a +teetotaler myself, thank God—though once I was a regular lushington.” + +Here ensued a burst of laughter in which I joined, though not at the +wretched joke, but at the absurdity of the argument; for, according to +that argument, I thought my old friends the Spaniards and Portuguese must +be the most moral people in the world, being almost all water-drinkers. +As the speaker was proceeding with his nonsense, I heard some one say +behind me—“A pretty fellow, that, to speak against drinking and +public-houses: he pretends to be reformed, but he is still as fond of the +lush as ever. It was only the other day I saw him reeling out of a +gin-shop.” + +Now that speech I did not like, for I saw at once that it could not be +true, so I turned quickly round and said— + +“Old chap, I can scarcely credit that!” + +The man whom I addressed, a rough-and-ready-looking fellow of the lower +class, seemed half disposed to return me a savage answer; but an +Englishman of the lower class, though you call his word in question, is +never savage with you, provided you call him old chap, and he considers +you by your dress to be his superior in station. Now I, who had called +the word of this man in question, had called him old chap, and was +considerably better dressed than himself; so, after a little hesitation, +he became quite gentle, and something more, for he said in a +half-apologetic tone—“Well, sir, I did not exactly see him myself, but a +particular friend of mine heer’d a man say, that he heer’d another man +say, that he was told that a man heer’d that that fellow—” + +“Come, come!” said I, “a man must not be convicted on evidence like that; +no man has more contempt for the doctrine which that man endeavours to +inculcate than myself, for I consider it to have been got up partly for +fanatical, partly for political purposes; but I will never believe that +he was lately seen coming out of a gin-shop; he is too wise, or rather +too cunning, for that.” + +I stayed listening to these people till evening was at hand. I then left +them, and without returning to the inn strolled over the bridge to the +green, where the tents stood. I went up to them: two women sat at the +entrance of one; a man stood by them, and the children, whom I had before +seen, were gambolling near at hand. One of the women was about forty, +the other some twenty years younger; both were ugly. The younger was a +rude, stupid-looking creature, with red cheeks and redder hair, but there +was a dash of intelligence and likewise of wildness in the countenance of +the elder female, whose complexion and hair were rather dark. The man +was about the same age as the elder woman; he had rather a sharp look, +and was dressed in hat, white frock-coat, corduroy breeches, long +stockings and shoes. I gave them the seal of the evening. + +“Good evening to your haner,” said the man. “Good evening to you, sir,” +said the woman; whilst the younger mumbled something, probably to the +same effect, but which I did not catch. + +“Fine weather,” said I. + +“Very, sir,” said the elder female. “Won’t you please to sit down?” and +reaching back into the tent, she pulled out a stool which she placed near +me. + +I sat down on the stool. “You are not from these parts?” said I, +addressing myself to the man. + +“We are not, your haner,” said the man; “we are from Ireland.” + +“And this lady,” said I, motioning with my head to the elder female, “is, +I suppose, your wife.” + +“She is, your haner, and the children which your haner sees are my +children.” + +“And who is this young lady?” said I, motioning to the uncouth-looking +girl. + +“The young lady, as your haner is pleased to call her, is a daughter of a +sister of mine who is now dead, along with her husband. We have her with +us, your haner, because if we did not she would be alone in the world.” + +“And what trade or profession do you follow?” said I. + +“We do a bit in the tinkering line, your haner.” + +“Do you find tinkering a very profitable profession?” said I. + +“Not very, your haner; but we contrive to get a crust and a drink by it.” + +“That’s more than I ever could,” said I. + +“Has your haner then ever followed tinkering?” said the man. + +“Yes,” said I, “but I soon left off.” + +“And became a minister,” said the elder female. “Well, your honour is +not the first indifferent tinker, that’s turn’d out a shining minister.” + +“Why do you think me a minister?” + +“Because your honour has the very look and voice of one. Oh, it was kind +of your honour to come to us here in the Sabbath evening, in order that +you might bring us God.” + +“What do you mean by bringing you God?” said I. + +“Talking to us about good things, sir, and instructing us out of the Holy +Book.” + +“I am no minister,” said I. + +“Then you are a priest; I am sure that you are either a minister or a +priest; and now that I look on you, sir, I think you look more like a +priest than a minister. Yes, I see you are a priest. Oh, your +Reverence, give us God! pull out the crucifix from your bosom, and let us +kiss the face of God!” + +“Of what religion are you?” said I. + +“Catholics, your Reverence, Catholics are we all.” + +“I am no priest.” + +“Then you are a minister; I am sure you are either a priest or a +minister. O sir, pull out the Holy Book, and instruct us from it this +blessed Sabbath evening. Give us God, sir, give us God!” + +“And would you, who are Catholics, listen to the voice of a minister?” + +“That would we, sir; at least I would. If you are a minister, and a good +minister, I would as soon listen to your words as those of Father Toban +himself.” + +“And who is Father Toban?” + +“A powerful priest in these parts, sir, who has more than once eased me +of my sins, and given me God upon the cross. Oh, a powerful and +comfortable priest is Father Toban.” + +“And what would he say if he were to know that you asked for God from a +minister?” + +“I do not know, and do not much care; if I get God, I do not care whether +I get Him from a minister or a priest; both have Him, no doubt, only give +Him in different ways. O sir, do give us God; we need Him, sir, for we +are sinful people; we call ourselves tinkers, but many is the sinful +thing—” + +“Bi-do-hosd,” said the man: Irish words tantamount to “Be silent!” + +“I will not be hushed,” said the woman, speaking English. “The man is a +good man, and he will do us no harm. We are tinkers, sir; but we do many +things besides tinkering, many sinful things, especially in Wales, +whither we are soon going again. Oh, I want to be eased of some of my +sins before I go into Wales again, and so do you Tourlough, for you know +how you are sometimes haunted by Devils at night in those dreary Welsh +hills. O sir, give us comfort in some shape or other, either as priest +or minister; give us God! give us God!” + +“I am neither priest nor minister,” said I, “and can only say: Lord have +mercy upon you!” Then getting up I flung the children some money and +departed. + +“We do not want your money, sir,” screamed the woman after me; “we have +plenty of money. Give us God! give us God!” + +“Yes, your haner,” said the man, “Give us God! we do not want money;” and +the uncouth girl said something, which sounded much like Give us God! but +I hastened across the meadow, which was now quite dusky, and was +presently in the inn with my wife and daughter. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Welsh Book-Stall—Wit and Poetry—Welsh of Chester—Beautiful Morning—Noble +Fellow—The Coiling Serpent—Wrexham Church—Welsh or English?—Codiad yr +Ehedydd. + +On the afternoon of Monday I sent my family off by the train to +Llangollen, which place we had determined to make our headquarters during +our stay in Wales. I intended to follow them next day, not in train, but +on foot, as by walking I should be better able to see the country, +between Chester and Llangollen, than by making the journey by the flying +vehicle. As I returned to the inn from the train I took refuge from a +shower in one of the rows or covered streets, to which, as I have already +said, one ascends by flights of steps; stopping at a book-stall I took up +a book which chanced to be a Welsh one—the proprietor, a short red-faced +man, observing me reading the book, asked me if I could understand it. I +told him that I could. + +“If so,” said he, “let me hear you translate the two lines on the +title-page.” + +“Are you a Welshman?” said I. + +“I am!” he replied. + +“Good!” said I, and I translated into English the two lines which were a +couplet by Edmund Price, an old archdeacon of Merion, celebrated in his +day for wit and poetry. + +The man then asked me from what part of Wales I came, and when I told him +that I was an Englishman was evidently offended, either because he did +not believe me, or, as I more incline to think, did not approve of an +Englishman’s understanding Welsh. + +The book was the life of the Rev. Richards, and was published at +Caerlleon, or the city of the legion, the appropriate ancient British +name for the place now called Chester, a legion having been kept +stationed there during the occupation of Britain by the Romans. + +I returned to the inn and dined, and then yearning for society, descended +into the kitchen and had some conversation with the Welsh maid. She told +me that there were a great many Welsh in Chester from all parts of Wales, +but chiefly from Denbighshire and Flintshire, which latter was her own +county. That a great many children were born in Chester of Welsh +parents, and brought up in the fear of God and love of the Welsh tongue. +That there were some who had never been in Wales, who spoke as good Welsh +as herself, or better. That the Welsh of Chester were of various +religious persuasions; that some were Baptists, some Independents, but +that the greater parts were Calvinistic-Methodists; that she herself was +a Calvinistic-Methodist; that the different persuasions had their +different chapels, in which God was prayed to in Welsh; that there were +very few Welsh in Chester who belonged to the Church of England, and that +the Welsh in general do not like Church of England worship, as I should +soon find if I went into Wales. + +Late in the evening I directed my steps across the bridge to the green, +where I had discoursed with the Irish itinerants. I wished to have some +more conversation with them respecting their way of life, and, likewise, +as they had so strongly desired it, to give them a little Christian +comfort, for my conscience reproached me for my abrupt departure on the +preceding evening. On arriving at the green, however, I found them gone, +and no traces of them but the mark of their fire and a little dirty +straw. I returned, disappointed and vexed, to my inn. + +Early the next morning I departed from Chester for Llangollen, distant +about twenty miles; I passed over the noble bridge and proceeded along a +broad and excellent road, leading in a direction almost due south through +pleasant meadows. I felt very happy—and no wonder; the morning was +beautiful, the birds sang merrily, and a sweet smell proceeded from the +new-cut hay in the fields, and I was bound for Wales. I passed over the +river Allan and through two villages called, as I was told, Pulford and +Marford, and ascended a hill; from the top of this hill the view is very +fine. To the east are the high lands of Cheshire, to the west the bold +hills of Wales, and below, on all sides a fair variety of wood and water, +green meads and arable fields. + +“You may well look around, Measter,” said a waggoner, who, coming from +the direction in which I was bound, stopped to breathe his team on the +top of the hill; “you may well look around—there isn’t such a place to +see the country from, far and near, as where we stand. Many come to this +place to look about them.” + +I looked at the man, and thought I had never seen a more powerful-looking +fellow; he was about six feet two inches high, immensely broad in the +shoulders, and could hardly have weighed less than sixteen stone. I gave +him the seal of the morning, and asked whether he was Welsh or English. + +“English, Measter, English; born t’other side of Beeston, pure Cheshire, +Measter.” + +“I suppose,” said I, “there are few Welshmen such big fellows as +yourself.” + +“No, Measter,” said the fellow, with a grin, “there are few Welshmen so +big as I, or yourself either, they are small men mostly, Measter, them +Welshers, very small men—and yet the fellows can use their hands. I am a +bit of a fighter, Measter, at least I was before my wife made me join the +Methodist connexion, and I once fit with a Welshman at Wrexham, he came +from the hills, and was a real Welshman, and shorter than myself by a +whole head and shoulder, but he stood up against me, and gave me more +than play for my money, till I gripped him, flung him down and myself +upon him, and then of course ’twas all over with him.” + +“You are a noble fellow,” said I, “and a credit to Cheshire. Will you +have sixpence to drink?” + +“Thank you, Measter, I shall stop at Pulford, and shall be glad to drink +your health in a jug of ale.” + +I gave him sixpence, and descended the hill on one side, while he, with +his team, descended it on the other. + +“A genuine Saxon,” said I; “I dare say just like many of those who, under +Hengist, subdued the plains of Lloegr and Britain. Taliesin called the +Saxon race the Coiling Serpent. He had better have called it the Big +Bull. He was a noble poet, however: what wonderful lines, upon the +whole, are those in his prophecy, in which he speaks of the Saxons and +Britons, and of the result of their struggle— + + “A serpent which coils, + And with fury boils, + From Germany coming with arm’d wings spread, + Shall subdue and shall enthrall + The broad Britain all, + From the Lochlin ocean to Severn’s bed. + + “And British men + Shall be captives then + To strangers from Saxonia’s strand; + They shall praise their God, and hold + Their language as of old, + But except wild Wales they shall lose their land.” + +I arrived at Wrexham, and having taken a very hearty breakfast at the +principal inn, for I felt rather hungry after a morning’s walk of ten +miles, I walked about the town. The town is reckoned a Welsh town, but +its appearance is not Welsh—its inhabitants have neither the look nor +language of Welshmen, and its name shows that it was founded by some +Saxon adventurer, Wrexham being a Saxon compound, signifying the home or +habitation of Rex or Rag, and identical, or nearly so, with the Wroxham +of East Anglia. It is a stirring bustling place, of much traffic, and of +several thousand inhabitants. Its most remarkable object is its church, +which stands at the south-western side. To this church, after wandering +for some time about the streets, I repaired. The tower is quadrangular, +and is at least one hundred feet high; it has on its summit four little +turrets, one at each corner, between each of which are three spirelets, +the middlemost of the three the highest. The nave of the church is to +the east; it is of two stories, both crenelated at the top. I wished to +see the interior of the church, but found the gate locked. Observing a +group of idlers close at hand with their backs against a wall, I went up +to them and addressing myself to one, inquired whether I could see the +church. “O yes, sir,” said the man; “the clerk who has the key lives +close at hand; one of us shall go and fetch him; by the bye, I may as +well go myself.” He moved slowly away. He was a large bulky man of +about the middle age, and his companions were about the same age and size +as himself. I asked them if they were Welsh. “Yes, sir,” said one, “I +suppose we are, for they call us Welsh.” I asked if any of them could +speak Welsh. “No, sir,” said the man, “all the Welsh that any of us +know, or indeed wish to know, is Cwrw da.” Here there was a general +laugh. Cwrw da signifies good ale. I at first thought that the words +might be intended as a hint for a treat, but was soon convinced of the +contrary. There was no greedy expectation in his eyes, nor, indeed, in +those of his companions, though they all looked as if they were fond of +good ale. I inquired whether much Welsh was spoken in the town, and was +told very little. When the man returned with the clerk I thanked him. +He told me I was welcome, and then went and leaned with his back against +the wall. He and his mates were probably a set of boon companions +enjoying the air after a night’s bout at drinking. I was subsequently +told that all the people of Wrexham are fond of good ale. The clerk +unlocked the church door, and conducted me in. The interior was modern, +but in no respects remarkable. The clerk informed me that there was a +Welsh service every Sunday afternoon in the church, but that few people +attended, and those few were almost entirely from the country. He said +that neither he nor the clergyman were natives of Wrexham. He showed me +the Welsh Church Bible, and at my request read a few verses from the +sacred volume. He seemed a highly intelligent man. I gave him +something, which appeared to be more than he expected, and departed, +after inquiring of him the road to Llangollen. + +I crossed a bridge, for there is a bridge and a stream too at Wrexham. +The road at first bore due west, but speedily took a southerly direction. +I moved rapidly over an undulating country; a region of hills or rather +of mountains lay on my right hand. At the entrance of a small village a +poor sickly-looking woman asked me for charity. + +“Are you Welsh or English?” said I. + +“Welsh,” she replied; “but I speak both languages, as do all the people +here.” + +I gave her a halfpenny; she wished me luck, and I proceeded. I passed +some huge black buildings which a man told me were collieries, and +several carts laden with coal, and soon came to Rhiwabon, a large village +about half way between Wrexham and Llangollen. I observed in this place +nothing remarkable, but an ancient church. My way from hence lay nearly +west. I ascended a hill, from the top of which I looked down into a +smoky valley. I descended, passing by a great many collieries, in which +I observed grimy men working amidst smoke and flame. At the bottom of +the hill near a bridge I turned round. A ridge to the east particularly +struck my attention; it was covered with dusky edifices, from which +proceeded thundering sounds, and puffs of smoke. A woman passed me going +towards Rhiwabon; I pointed to the ridge and asked its name; I spoke +English. The woman shook her head and replied, “Dim Saesneg.” + +“This is as it should be,” said I to myself; “I now feel I am in Wales.” +I repeated the question in Welsh. + +“Cefn Bach,” she replied—which signifies the little ridge. + +“Diolch iti,” I replied, and proceeded on my way. + +I was now in a wide valley—enormous hills were on my right. The road was +good; and above it, in the side of a steep bank, was a causeway intended +for foot passengers. It was overhung with hazel bushes. I walked along +it to its termination, which was at Llangollen. I found my wife and +daughter at the principal inn. They had already taken a house. We dined +together at the inn; during the dinner we had music, for a Welsh harper +stationed in the passage played upon his instrument “Codiad yr ehedydd.” +“Of a surety,” said I, “I am in Wales!” + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Llangollen—Wyn Ab Nudd—The Dee—Dinas Bran. + +The northern side of the vale of Llangollen is formed by certain enormous +rocks, called the Eglwysig rocks, which extend from east to west, a +distance of about two miles. The southern side is formed by the Berwyn +hills. The valley is intersected by the River Dee, the origin of which +is a deep lake near Bala, about twenty miles to the west. Between the +Dee and the Eglwysig rises a lofty hill, on the top of which are the +ruins of Dinas Bran, which bear no slight resemblance to a crown. The +upper part of the hill is bare with the exception of what is covered by +the ruins; on the lower part there are inclosures and trees, with, here +and there, a grove or farm-house. On the other side of the valley, to +the east of Llangollen, is a hill called Pen y Coed, beautifully covered +with trees of various kinds; it stands between the river and the Berwyn, +even as the hill of Dinas Bran stands between the river and the Eglwysig +rocks—it does not, however, confront Dinas Bran, which stands more to the +west. + +Llangollen is a small town or large village of white houses with slate +roofs, it contains about two thousand inhabitants, and is situated +principally on the southern side of the Dee. At its western end it has +an ancient bridge and a modest unpretending church nearly in its centre, +in the chancel of which rest the mortal remains of an old bard called +Gryffydd Hiraethog. From some of the houses on the southern side there +is a noble view—Dinas Bran and its mighty hill forming the principal +objects. The view from the northern part of the town, which is indeed +little more than a suburb, is not quite so grand, but is nevertheless +highly interesting. The eastern entrance of the vale of Llangollen is +much wider than the western, which is overhung by bulky hills. There are +many pleasant villas on both sides of the river, some of which stand a +considerable way up the hill; of the villas the most noted is Plas Newydd +at the foot of the Berwyn, built by two Irish ladies of high rank, who +resided in it for nearly half-a-century, and were celebrated throughout +Europe by the name of the Ladies of Llangollen. + +The view of the hill of Dinas Bran, from the southern side of Llangollen, +would be much more complete were it not for a bulky excrescence, towards +its base, which prevents the gazer from obtaining a complete view. The +name of Llangollen signifies the church of Collen, and the vale and +village take their name from the church, which was originally dedicated +to Saint Collen, though some, especially the neighbouring peasantry, +suppose that Llangollen is a compound of Llan a church and Collen a +hazel-wood, and that the church was called the church of the hazel-wood +from the number of hazels in the neighbourhood. Collen, according to a +legendary life, which exists of him in Welsh, was a Briton by birth, and +of illustrious ancestry. He served for some time abroad as a soldier +against Julian the Apostate, and slew a Pagan champion who challenged the +best man amongst the Christians. Returning to his own country, he +devoted himself to religion, and became Abbot of Glastonbury, but +subsequently retired to a cave on the side of a mountain, where he lived +a life of great austerity. Once as he was lying in his cell he heard two +men out abroad discoursing about Wyn Ab Nudd, and saying that he was king +of the Tylwyth Teg or Fairies, and lord of Unknown, whereupon Collen +thrusting his head out of his cave told them to hold their tongues, for +that Wyn Ab Nudd and his host were merely devils. At dead of night he +heard a knocking at the door, and on his asking who was there, a voice +said: “I am a messenger from Wyn Ab Nudd, king of Unknown, and I am come +to summon thee to appear before my master to-morrow, at midday, on the +top of the hill.” + +Collen did not go. The next night there was the same knocking and the +same message. Still Collen did not go. The third night the messenger +came again and repeated his summons, adding that if he did not go it +would be the worse for him. The next day Collen made some holy water, +put it into a pitcher and repaired to the top of the hill, where he saw a +wonderfully fine castle, attendants in magnificent liveries, youths and +damsels dancing with nimble feet, and a man of honourable presence before +the gate, who told him that the king was expecting him to dinner. Collen +followed the man into the castle, and beheld the king on a throne of +gold, and a table magnificently spread before him. The king welcomed +Collen, and begged him to taste of the dainties on the table, adding that +he hoped that in future he would reside with him. “I will not eat of the +leaves of the forest,” said Collen. + +“Did you ever see men better dressed?” said the king, “than my attendants +here in red and blue?” + +“Their dress is good enough,” said Collen, “considering what kind of +dress it is.” + +“What kind of dress is it?” said the king. + +Collen replied: “The red on the one side denotes burning, and the blue on +the other side denotes freezing.” Then drawing forth his sprinkler, he +flung the holy water in the faces of the king and his people, whereupon +the whole vision disappeared, so that there was neither castle nor +attendants, nor youth nor damsel, nor musician with his music, nor +banquet, nor anything to be seen save the green bushes. + +The valley of the Dee, of which the Llangollen district forms part, is +called in the British tongue Glyndyfrdwy—that is, the valley of the Dwy +or Dee. The celebrated Welsh chieftain, generally known as Owen +Glendower, was surnamed after the valley, the whole of which belonged to +him, and in which he had two or three places of strength, though his +general abode was a castle in Sycharth, a valley to the south-east of the +Berwyn, and distant about twelve miles from Llangollen. + +Connected with the Dee there is a wonderful Druidical legend to the +following effect. The Dee springs from two fountains, high up in +Merionethshire, called Dwy Fawr and Dwy Fach, or the great and little +Dwy, whose waters pass through those of the lake of Bala without mingling +with them, and come out at its northern extremity. These fountains had +their names from two individuals, Dwy Fawr and Dwy Fach, who escaped from +the Deluge, when all the rest of the human race were drowned, and the +passing of the waters of the two fountains through the lake, without +being confounded with its flood, is emblematic of the salvation of the +two individuals from the Deluge, of which the lake is a type. + +Dinas Bran, which crowns the top of the mighty hill on the northern side +of the valley, is a ruined stronghold of unknown antiquity. The name is +generally supposed to signify Crow Castle, bran being the British word +for crow, and flocks of crows being frequently seen hovering over it. It +may, however, mean the castle of Bran or Brennus, or the castle above the +Bran, a brook which flows at its foot. + +Dinas Bran was a place quite impregnable in the old time, and served as a +retreat to Gruffydd, son of Madawg, from the rage of his countrymen, who +were incensed against him because, having married Emma, the daughter of +James Lord Audley, he had, at the instigation of his wife and +father-in-law, sided with Edward the First against his own native +sovereign. But though it could shield him from his foes, it could not +preserve him from remorse and the stings of conscience, of which he +speedily died. + +At present the place consists only of a few ruined walls, and probably +consisted of little more two or three hundred years ago: Roger Cyffyn, a +Welsh bard who flourished at the beginning of the seventeenth century, +wrote an englyn upon it, of which the following is a translation:— + + “Gone, gone are thy gates, Dinas Bran on the height! + Thy warders are blood-crows and ravens, I trow; + Now no one will wend from the field of the fight + To the fortress on high, save the raven and crow.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +Poor Black Cat—Dissenters—Persecution—What Impudence! + +The house or cottage, for it was called a cottage though it consisted of +two stories, in which my wife had procured lodgings for us, was situated +in the northern suburb. Its front was towards a large perllan or +orchard, which sloped down gently to the banks of the Dee; its back was +towards the road leading from Wrexham, behind which was a high bank, on +the top of which was a canal called in Welsh the Camlas, whose +commencement was up the valley about two miles west. A little way up the +road, towards Wrexham, was the vicarage, and a little way down was a +flannel factory, beyond which was a small inn, with pleasure grounds, +kept by an individual who had once been a gentleman’s servant. The +mistress of the house was a highly respectable widow, who with a servant +maid was to wait upon us. It was as agreeable a place in all respects as +people like ourselves could desire. + +As I and my family sat at tea in our parlour, an hour or two after we had +taken possession of our lodgings, the door of the room and that of the +entrance to the house being open, on account of the fineness of the +weather, a poor black cat entered hastily, sat down on the carpet by the +table, looked up towards us, and mewed piteously. I never had seen so +wretched a looking creature. It was dreadfully attenuated, being little +more than skin and bone, and was sorely afflicted with an eruptive +malady. And here I may as well relate the history of this cat previous +to our arrival, which I subsequently learned by bits and snatches. It +had belonged to a previous vicar of Llangollen, and had been left behind +at his departure. His successor brought with him dogs and cats, who +conceiving that the late vicar’s cat had no business at the vicarage, +drove it forth to seek another home, which, however, it could not find. +Almost all the people of the suburb were dissenters, as indeed were the +generality of the people of Llangollen, and knowing the cat to be a +church cat, not only would not harbour it, but did all they could to make +it miserable; whilst the few who were not dissenters, would not receive +it into their houses, either because they had cats of their own, or dogs, +or did not want a cat, so that the cat had no home, and was dreadfully +persecuted by nine-tenths of the suburb. O, there never was a cat so +persecuted as that poor Church of England animal, and solely on account +of the opinions which it was supposed to have imbibed in the house of its +late master, for I never could learn that the dissenters of the suburb, +nor indeed of Llangollen in general, were in the habit of persecuting +other cats; the cat was a Church of England cat, and that was enough: +stone it, hang it, drown it! were the cries of almost everybody. If the +workmen of the flannel factory, all of whom were Calvinistic Methodists, +chanced to get a glimpse of it in the road from the windows of the +building, they would sally forth in a body, and with sticks, stones, or +for want of other weapons, with clots of horse-dung, of which there was +always plenty on the road, would chase it up the high bank or perhaps +over the Camlas—the inhabitants of a small street between our house and +the factory leading from the road to the river, all of whom were +dissenters, if they saw it moving about the perllan, into which their +back windows looked, would shriek and hoot at it, and fling anything of +no value, which came easily to hand at the head or body of the +ecclesiastical cat. The good woman of the house, who though a very +excellent person, was a bitter dissenter, whenever she saw it upon her +ground or heard it was there, would make after it, frequently attended by +her maid Margaret, and her young son, a boy about nine years of age, both +of whom hated the cat, and were always ready to attack it, either alone +or in company, and no wonder, the maid being not only a dissenter, but a +class teacher, and the boy not only a dissenter, but intended for the +dissenting ministry. Where it got its food, and food it sometimes must +have got, for even a cat, an animal known to have nine lives, cannot live +without food, was only known to itself, as was the place where it lay, +for even a cat must lie down sometimes; though a labouring man who +occasionally dug in the garden told me he believed that in the springtime +it ate freshets, and the woman of the house once said that she believed +it sometimes slept in the hedge, which hedge, by the bye, divided our +perllan from the vicarage grounds, which were very extensive. Well might +the cat after having led this kind of life for better than two years look +mere skin and bone when it made its appearance in our apartment, and have +an eruptive malady, and also a bronchitic cough, for I remember it had +both. How it came to make its appearance there is a mystery, for it had +never entered the house before, even when there were lodgers; that it +should not visit the woman, who was its declared enemy, was natural +enough, but why if it did not visit her other lodgers, did it visit us? +Did instinct keep it aloof from them? Did instinct draw it towards us? +We gave it some bread-and-butter, and a little tea with milk and sugar. +It ate and drank and soon began to purr. The good woman of the house was +horrified when on coming in to remove the things she saw the church cat +on her carpet. “What impudence!” she exclaimed, and made towards it, but +on our telling her that we did not expect that it should be disturbed, +she let it alone. A very remarkable circumstance was, that though the +cat had hitherto been in the habit of flying not only from her face, but +the very echo of her voice, it now looked her in the face with perfect +composure, as much as to say, “I don’t fear you, for I know that I am now +safe and with my own people.” It stayed with us two hours and then went +away. The next morning it returned. To be short, though it went away +every night, it became our own cat, and one of our family. I gave it +something which cured it of its eruption, and through good treatment it +soon lost its other ailments and began to look sleek and bonny. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +The Mowers—Deep Welsh—Extensive View—Old Celtic +Hatred—Fish-Preserving—Smollett’s Morgan. + +Next morning I set out to ascend Dinas Bran; a number of children, almost +entirely girls, followed me. I asked them why they came after me. “In +the hope that you will give us something,” said one in very good English. +I told them that I should give them nothing, but they still followed me. +A little way up the hill I saw some men cutting hay. I made an +observation to one of them respecting the fineness of the weather; he +answered civilly, and rested on his scythe, whilst the others pursued +their work. I asked him whether he was a farming man; he told me that he +was not; that he generally worked at the flannel manufactory, but that +for some days past he had not been employed there, work being slack, and +had on that account joined the mowers in order to earn a few shillings. +I asked him how it was he knew how to handle a scythe, not being bred up +a farming man; he smiled, and said that, somehow or other, he had learnt +to do so. + +“You speak very good English,” said I, “have you much Welsh?” + +“Plenty,” said he; “I am a real Welshman.” + +“Can you read Welsh?” said I. + +“O, yes!” he replied. + +“What books have you read?” said I. + +“I have read the Bible, sir, and one or two other books.” + +“Did you ever read the _Bardd Cwsg_?” said I. + +He looked at me with some surprise. + +“No,” said he, after a moment or two, “I have never read it. I have seen +it, but it was far too deep Welsh for me.” + +“I have read it,” said I. + +“Are you a Welshman?” said he. + +“No,” said I; “I am an Englishman.” + +“And how is it,” said he, “that you can read Welsh without being a +Welshman?” + +“I learned to do so,” said I, “even as you learned to mow, without being +bred up to farming work.” + +“Ah!” said he, “but it is easier to learn to mow than to read the _Bardd +Cwsg_.” + +“I don’t know that,” said I; “I have taken up a scythe a hundred times, +but I cannot mow.” + +“Will your honour take mine now, and try again?” said he. + +“No,” said I, “for if I take your scythe in hand I must give you a +shilling, you know, by mowers’ law.” + +He gave a broad grin, and I proceeded up the hill. When he rejoined his +companions he said something to them in Welsh, at which they all laughed. +I reached the top of the hill, the children still attending me. + +The view over the vale is very beautiful; but on no side, except in the +direction of the west, is it very extensive, Dinas Bran being on all +other sides overtopped by other hills: in that direction, indeed, the +view is extensive enough, reaching on a fine day even to the Wyddfa or +peak of Snowdon, a distance of sixty miles, at least as some say, who +perhaps ought to add, to very good eyes, which mine are not. The day +that I made my first ascent of Dinas Bran was very clear, but I do not +think I saw the Wyddfa then from the top of Dinas Bran. It is true I +might see it without knowing it, being utterly unacquainted with it, +except by name; but I repeat I do not think I saw it, and I am quite sure +that I did not see it from the top of Dinas Bran on a subsequent ascent, +on a day equally clear, when if I had seen the Wyddfa I must have +recognized it, having been at its top. As I stood gazing around the +children danced about upon the grass, and sang a song. The song was +English. I descended the hill; they followed me to its foot, and then +left me. The children of the lower class of Llangollen are great pests +to visitors. The best way to get rid of them is to give them nothing: I +followed that plan, and was not long troubled with them. + +Arrived at the foot of the hill, I walked along the bank of the canal to +the west. Presently I came to a barge lying by the bank; the boatman was +in it. I entered into conversation with him. He told me that the canal +and its branches extended over a great part of England. That the boats +carried slates—that he had frequently gone as far as Paddington by the +canal—that he was generally three weeks on the journey—that the boatmen +and their families lived in the little cabins aft—that the boatmen were +all Welsh—that they could read English, but little or no Welsh—that +English was a much more easy language to read than Welsh—that they passed +by many towns, among others Northampton, and that he liked no place so +much as Llangollen. I proceeded till I came to a place where some people +were putting huge slates into a canal boat. It was near a bridge which +crossed the Dee, which was on the left. I stopped and entered into +conversation with one, who appeared to be the principal man. He told me +amongst other things that he was a blacksmith from the neighbourhood of +Rhiwabon, and that the flags were intended for the flooring of his +premises. In the boat was an old bareheaded, bare-armed fellow, who +presently joined in the conversation in very broken English. He told me +that his name was Joseph Hughes, and that he was a real Welshman and was +proud of being so; he expressed a great dislike for the English, who he +said were in the habit of making fun of him and ridiculing his language; +he said that all the fools that he had known were Englishmen. I told him +that all Englishmen were not fools. “But the greater part are,” said he. +“Look how they work,” said I. “Yes,” said he, “some of them are good at +breaking stones for the road, but not more than one in a hundred.” +“There seems to be something of the old Celtic hatred to the Saxon in +this old fellow,” said I to myself, as I walked away. + +I proceeded till I came to the head of the canal, where the navigation +first commences. It is close to a weir, over which the Dee falls. Here +there is a little floodgate, through which water rushes from an oblong +pond or reservoir, fed by water from a corner of the upper part of the +weir. On the left, or south-west side, is a mound of earth fenced with +stones which is the commencement of the bank of the canal. The pond or +reservoir above the floodgate is separated from the weir by a stone wall +on the left, or south-west side. This pond has two floodgates, the one +already mentioned, which opens into the canal, and another, on the other +side of the stone mound, opening to the lower part of the weir. +Whenever, as a man told me who was standing near, it is necessary to lay +the bed of the canal dry in the immediate neighbourhood for the purpose +of making repairs, the floodgate to the canal is closed, and the one to +the lower part of the weir is opened, and then the water from the pond +flows into the Dee, whilst a sluice, near the first lock, lets out the +water of the canal into the river. The head of the canal is situated in +a very beautiful spot. To the left or south is a lofty hill covered with +wood. To the right is a beautiful slope or lawn, on the top of which is +a pretty villa, to which you can get by a little wooden bridge over the +floodgate of the canal, and indeed forming part of it. Few things are so +beautiful in their origin as this canal, which, be it known, with its +locks and its aqueducts, the grandest of which last is the stupendous +erection near Stockport, which by the bye filled my mind when a boy with +wonder, constitutes the grand work of England, and yields to nothing in +the world of the kind, with the exception of the great canal of China. + +Retracing my steps some way I got upon the river’s bank and then again +proceeded in the direction of the west. I soon came to a cottage nearly +opposite a bridge, which led over the river, not the bridge which I have +already mentioned, but one much smaller, and considerably higher up the +valley. The cottage had several dusky outbuildings attached to it, and a +paling before it. Leaning over the paling in his shirt-sleeves was a +dark-faced, short, thickset man, who saluted me in English. I returned +his salutation, stopped, and was soon in conversation with him. I +praised the beauty of the river and its banks: he said that both were +beautiful and delightful in summer, but not at all in winter, for then +the trees and bushes on the banks were stripped of their leaves, and the +river was a frightful torrent. He asked me if I had been to see the +place called the Robber’s Leap, as strangers generally went to see it. I +inquired where it was. + +“Yonder,” said he, pointing to some distance down the river. + +“Why is it called the Robber’s Leap?” said I. + +“It is called the Robber’s Leap, or Llam y Lleidyr,” said he, “because a +thief pursued by justice once leaped across the river there and escaped. +It was an awful leap, and he well deserved to escape after taking it.” I +told him that I should go and look at it on some future opportunity, and +then asked if there were many fish in the river. He said there were +plenty of salmon and trout, and that owing to the river being tolerably +high, a good many had been caught during the last few days. I asked him +who enjoyed the right of fishing in the river. He said that in these +parts the fishing belonged to two or three proprietors, who either +preserved the fishing for themselves, as they best could by means of +keepers, or let it out to other people; and that many individuals came +not only from England, but from France and Germany and even Russia for +the purpose of fishing, and that the keepers of the proprietors from whom +they purchased permission to fish went with them, to show them the best +places, and to teach them how to fish. He added that there was a report +that the river would shortly be rhydd, or free, and open to any one. I +said that it would be a bad thing to fling the river open, as in that +event the fish would be killed at all times and seasons, and eventually +all destroyed. He replied that he questioned whether more fish would be +taken then than now, and that I must not imagine that the fish were much +protected by what was called preserving; that the people to whom the +lands in the neighbourhood belonged, and those who paid for fishing did +not catch a hundredth part of the fish which were caught in the river: +that the proprietors went with their keepers, and perhaps caught two or +three stone of fish, or that strangers went with the keepers, whom they +paid for teaching them how to fish, and perhaps caught half-a-dozen fish, +and that shortly after the keepers would return and catch on their own +account sixty stone of fish from the very spot where the proprietors or +strangers had great difficulty in catching two or three stone or the +half-dozen fish, or the poachers would go and catch a yet greater +quantity. He added that gentry did not understand how to catch fish, and +that to attempt to preserve was nonsense. I told him that if the river +was flung open everybody would fish; he said that I was much mistaken, +that hundreds who were now poachers would then keep at home, mind their +proper trades, and never use line or spear; that folks always longed to +do what they were forbidden, and that Shimei would never have crossed the +brook provided he had not been told he should be hanged if he did. That +he himself had permission to fish in the river whenever he pleased, but +never availed himself of it, though in his young time, when he had no +leave, he had been an arrant poacher. + +The manners and way of speaking of this old personage put me very much in +mind of those of Morgan, described by Smollett in his immortal novel of +_Roderick Random_. I had more discourse with him: I asked him in what +line of business he was—he told me that he sold coals. From his +complexion, and the hue of his shirt, I had already concluded that he was +in some grimy trade. I then inquired of what religion he was, and +received for answer that he was a Baptist. I thought that both himself +and part of his apparel would look all the better for a good immersion. +We talked of the war then raging—he said it was between the false prophet +and the Dragon. I asked him who the Dragon was—he said the Turk. I told +him that the Pope was far worse than either the Turk or the Russian, that +his religion was the vilest idolatry, and that he would let no one alone. +That it was the Pope who drove his fellow religionists the Anabaptists +out of the Netherlands. He asked me how long ago that was. Between two +and three hundred years, I replied. He asked me the meaning of the word +Anabaptist; I told him; whereupon he expressed great admiration for my +understanding, and said that he hoped he should see me again. + +I inquired of him to what place the bridge led; he told me that if I +passed over it, and ascended a high bank beyond, I should find myself on +the road from Llangollen to Corwen, and that if I wanted to go to +Llangollen I must turn to the left. I thanked him, and passing over the +bridge, and ascending the bank, found myself upon a broad road. I turned +to the left, and walking briskly, in about half-an-hour reached our +cottage in the northern suburb, where I found my family and dinner +awaiting me. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +The Dinner—English Foibles—Pengwern—The +Yew-Tree—Carn-Lleidyr—Applications of a Term. + +For dinner we had salmon and leg of mutton; the salmon from the Dee, the +leg from the neighbouring Berwyn. The salmon was good enough, but I had +eaten better; and here it will not be amiss to say, that the best salmon +in the world is caught in the Suir, a river that flows past the beautiful +town of Clonmel in Ireland. As for the leg of mutton, it was truly +wonderful; nothing so good had I ever tasted in the shape of a leg of +mutton. The leg of mutton of Wales beats the leg of mutton of any other +country, and I had never tasted a Welsh leg of mutton before. Certainly +I shall never forget the first Welsh leg of mutton which I tasted, rich +but delicate, replete with juices derived from the aromatic herbs of the +noble Berwyn, cooked to a turn, and weighing just four pounds. + + “O its savoury smell was great, + Such as might well tempt, I trow, + One that’s dead to lift his brow.” + +Let any one who wishes to eat leg of mutton in perfection go to Wales, +but mind you to eat leg of mutton only. Welsh leg of mutton is +superlative; but with the exception of the leg, the mutton of Wales is +decidedly inferior to that of many other parts of Britain. + +Here, perhaps, as I have told the reader what we ate for dinner, it will +be as well to tell him what we drank at dinner. Let him know, then, that +with our salmon we drank water, and with our mutton ale, even ale of +Llangollen; but not the best ale of Llangollen; it was very fair; but I +subsequently drank far better Llangollen ale than that which I drank at +our first dinner in our cottage at Llangollen. + +In the evening I went across the bridge and strolled along in a +south-east direction. Just as I had cleared the suburb a man joined me +from a cottage, on the top of a high bank, whom I recognized as the mower +with whom I had held discourse in the morning. He saluted me and asked +me if I were taking a walk. I told him I was, whereupon he said that if +I were not too proud to wish to be seen walking with a poor man like +himself, he should wish to join me. I told him I should be glad of his +company, and that I was not ashamed to be seen walking with any person, +however poor, who conducted himself with propriety. He replied that I +must be very different from my countrymen in general, who were ashamed to +be seen walking with any people who were not, at least, as well-dressed +as themselves. I said that my country-folk in general had a great many +admirable qualities, but at the same time a great many foibles, foremost +amongst which last was a crazy admiration for what they called gentility, +which made them sycophantic to their superiors in station, and extremely +insolent to those whom they considered below them. He said that I had +spoken his very thoughts, and then asked me whether I wished to be taken +the most agreeable walk near Llangollen. + +On my replying by all means, he led me along the road to the south-east. +A pleasant road it proved: on our right at some distance was the mighty +Berwyn; close on our left the hill called Pen y Coed. I asked him what +was beyond the Berwyn? + +“A very wild country, indeed,” he replied, “consisting of wood, rock, and +river; in fact, an anialwch.” + +He then asked if I knew the meaning of anialwch. + +“A wilderness,” I replied, “you will find the word in the Welsh Bible.” + +“Very true, sir,” said he, “it was there I met it, but I did not know the +meaning of it, till it was explained to me by one of our teachers.” + +On my inquiring of what religion he was, he told me he was a Calvinistic +Methodist. + +We passed an ancient building which stood on our right. I turned round +to look at it. Its back was to the road: at its eastern end was a fine +arched window like the oriel window of a church. + +“That building,” said my companion, “is called Pengwern Hall. It was +once a convent of nuns; a little time ago a farm-house, but is now used +as a barn, and a place of stowage. Till lately it belonged to the Mostyn +family, but they disposed of it, with the farm on which it stood, +together with several other farms, to certain people from Liverpool, who +now live yonder,” pointing to a house a little way farther on. I still +looked at the edifice. + +“You seem to admire the old building,” said my companion. + +“I was not admiring it,” said I; “I was thinking of the difference +between its present and former state. Formerly it was a place devoted to +gorgeous idolatry and obscene lust; now it is a quiet old barn in which +hay and straw are placed, and broken tumbrils stowed away: surely the +hand of God is visible here?” + +“It is so, sir,” said the man in a respectful tone, “and so it is in +another place in this neighbourhood. About three miles from here, in the +north-west part of the valley, is an old edifice. It is now a +farm-house, but was once a splendid abbey, and was called—” + +“The abbey of the vale of the cross,” said I; “I have read a deal about +it. Iolo Goch, the bard of your celebrated hero, Owen Glendower, was +buried somewhere in its precincts.” + +We went on: my companion took me over a stile behind the house which he +had pointed out, and along a path through hazel coppices. After a little +time I inquired whether there were any Papists in Llangollen. + +“No,” said he, “there is not one of that family at Llangollen, but I +believe there are some in Flintshire, at a place called Holywell, where +there is a pool or fountain, the waters of which it is said they +worship.” + +“And so they do,” said I, “true to the old Indian superstition, of which +their religion is nothing but a modification. The Indians and sepoys +worship stocks and stones, and the river Ganges, and our Papists worship +stocks and stones, holy wells and fountains.” + +He put some questions to me about the origin of nuns and friars. I told +him they originated in India, and made him laugh heartily by showing him +the original identity of nuns and nautch-girls, begging priests and +begging Brahmins. We passed by a small house with an enormous yew-tree +before it; I asked him who lived there. + +“No one,” he replied, “it is to let. It was originally a cottage, but +the proprietors have furbished it up a little, and call it yew-tree +villa.” + +“I suppose they would let it cheap,” said I. + +“By no means,” he replied, “they ask eighty pounds a year for it.” + +“What could have induced them to set such a rent upon it?” I demanded. + +“The yew-tree, sir, which is said to be the largest in Wales. They hope +that some of the grand gentry will take the house for the romance of the +yew-tree, but somehow or other nobody has taken it, though it has been to +let for three seasons.” + +We soon came to a road leading east and west. + +“This way,” said he, pointing in the direction of the west, “leads back +to Llangollen, the other to Offa’s Dyke and England.” + +We turned to the west. He inquired if I had ever heard before of Offa’s +Dyke. + +“O yes,” said I, “it was built by an old Saxon king called Offa, against +the incursions of the Welsh.” + +“There was a time,” said my companion, “when it was customary for the +English to cut off the ears of every Welshman who was found to the east +of the dyke, and for the Welsh to hang every Englishman whom they found +to the west of it. Let us be thankful that we are now more humane to +each other. We are now on the north side of Pen y Coed. Do you know the +meaning of Pen y Coed, sir?” + +“Pen y Coed,” said I, “means the head of the wood. I suppose that in the +old time the mountain looked over some extensive forest, even as the +nunnery of Pengwern looked originally over an alder-swamp, for Pengwern +means the head of the alder-swamp.” + +“So it does, sir; I shouldn’t wonder if you could tell me the real +meaning of a word, about which I have thought a good deal, and about +which I was puzzling my head last night as I lay in bed.” + +“What may it be?” said I. + +“Carn-lleidyr,” he replied: “now, sir, do you know the meaning of that +word?” + +“I think I do,” said I. + +“What may it be, sir?” + +“First let me hear what you conceive its meaning to be,” said I. + +“Why, sir, I should say that Carn-lleidyr is an out-and-out thief—one +worse than a thief of the common sort. Now, if I steal a matrass I am a +lleidyr, that is a thief of the common sort; but if I carry it to a +person, and he buys it, knowing it to be stolen, I conceive he is a far +worse thief than I; in fact, a carn-lleidyr.” + +“The word is a double word,” said I, “compounded of carn and lleidyr. +The original meaning of carn is a heap of stones, and carn-lleidyr means +properly a thief without house or home, and with no place on which to +rest his head, save the carn or heap of stones on the bleak top of the +mountain. For a long time the word was only applied to a thief of that +description, who, being without house and home, was more desperate than +other thieves, and as savage and brutish as the wolves and foxes with +whom he occasionally shared his pillow, the carn. In course of time, +however, the original meaning was lost or disregarded, and the term +carn-lleidyr was applied to any particular dishonest person. At present +there can be no impropriety in calling a person who receives a matrass, +knowing it to be stolen, a carn-lleidyr, seeing that he is worse than the +thief who stole it, or in calling a knavish attorney a carn-lleidyr, +seeing that he does far more harm than a common pick-pocket; or in +calling the Pope so, seeing that he gets huge sums of money out of people +by pretending to be able to admit their souls to heaven, or to hurl them +to the other place, knowing all the time that he has no such power; +perhaps, indeed, at the present day the term carn-lleidyr is more +applicable to the Pope than to any one else, for he is certainly the +arch-thief of the world. So much for Carn-lleidyr. But I must here tell +you that the term carn may be applied to any one who is particularly bad +or disagreeable in any respect, and now I remember, has been applied for +centuries both in prose and poetry. One Lewis Glyn Cothi, a poet, who +lived more than three hundred years ago, uses the word carn in the sense +of arrant or exceedingly bad, for in his abusive ode to the town of +Chester, he says that the women of London itself were never more carn +strumpets than those of Chester, by which he means that there were never +more arrant harlots in the world than those of the cheese capital. And +the last of your great poets, Gronwy Owen, who flourished about the +middle of the last century, complains in a letter to a friend, whilst +living in a village of Lancashire, that he was amongst Carn Saeson. He +found all English disagreeable enough, but those of Lancashire +particularly so—savage, brutish louts, out-and-out John Bulls, and +therefore he called them Carn Saeson.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said my companion; “I now thoroughly understand the +meaning of carn. Whenever I go to Chester, and a dressed-up madam +jostles against me, I shall call her carn-butein. The Pope of Rome I +shall in future term carn-lleidyr y byd, or the arch-thief of the world. +And whenever I see a stupid, brutal Englishman swaggering about +Llangollen, and looking down upon us poor Welsh, I shall say to myself, +Get home, you carn Sais! Well, sir, we are now near Llangollen; I must +turn to the left. You go straight forward. I never had such an +agreeable walk in my life. May I ask your name?” + +I told him my name, and asked him for his. + +“Edward Jones,” he replied. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + + The Berwyn—Mountain Cottage—The Barber’s Pole. + +On the following morning I strolled up the Berwyn on the south-west of +the town, by a broad winding path, which was at first very steep, but by +degrees became less so. When I had accomplished about three parts of the +ascent I came to a place where the road, or path, divided into two. I +took the one to the left, which seemingly led to the top of the mountain, +and presently came to a cottage from which a dog rushed barking towards +me; an old woman, however, coming to the door, called him back. I said a +few words to her in Welsh, whereupon in broken English she asked me to +enter the cottage and take a glass of milk. I went in and sat down on a +chair which a sickly-looking young woman handed to me. I asked her in +English who she was, but she made no answer, whereupon the old woman told +me that she was her daughter and had no English. I then asked her in +Welsh what was the matter with her; she replied that she had the cryd or +ague. The old woman now brought me a glass of milk, and said in the +Welsh language that she hoped that I should like it. What further +conversation we had was in the Cambrian tongue. I asked the name of the +dog, who was now fondling upon me, and was told that his name was +Pharaoh. I inquired if they had any books, and was shown two, one a +common Bible printed by the Bible Society, and the other a volume in +which the Book of Prayer of the Church of England was bound up with the +Bible, both printed at Oxford, about the middle of the last century. I +found that both mother and daughter were Calvinistic Methodists. After a +little further discourse I got up and gave the old woman twopence for the +milk; she accepted it, but with great reluctance. I inquired whether by +following the road I could get to the Pen y bryn or the top of the hill. +They shook their heads and the young woman said that I could not, as the +road presently took a turn and went down. I asked her how I could get to +the top of the hill. “Which part of the top?” said she. “I’r +gor-uchaf,” I replied. “That must be where the barber’s pole stands,” +said she. “Why does the barber’s pole stand there?” said I. “A barber +was hanged there a long time ago,” said she, “and the pole was placed to +show the spot.” “Why was he hanged?” said I. “For murdering his wife,” +said she. I asked her some questions about the murder, but the only +information she could give me was, that it was a very bad murder and +occurred a long time ago. I had observed the pole from our garden at +Llangollen, but had concluded that it was a common flagstaff. I inquired +the way to it. It was not visible from the cottage, but they gave me +directions how to reach it. I bade them farewell, and in about a quarter +of an hour reached the pole on the top of the hill. I imagined that I +should have a glorious view of the vale of Llangollen from the spot where +it stood; the view, however, did not answer my expectations. I returned +to Llangollen by nearly the same way by which I had come. + +The remainder of the day I spent entirely with my family, whom at their +particular request I took in the evening to see Plas Newydd, once the +villa of the two ladies of Llangollen. It lies on the farther side of +the bridge, at a little distance from the back part of the church. There +is a thoroughfare through the grounds, which are not extensive. Plas +Newydd, or the New Place, is a small, gloomy mansion, with a curious +dairy on the right-hand side, as you go up to it, and a remarkable stone +pump. An old man whom we met in the grounds, and with whom I entered +into conversation, said that he remembered the building of the house, and +that the place where it now stands was called before its erection Pen y +maes, or the head of the field. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Welsh Farm-house—A Poet’s Grandson—Hospitality—Mountain Village—Madoc—The +Native Valley—Corpse Candles—The Midnight Call. + +My curiosity having been rather excited with respect to the country +beyond the Berwyn, by what my friend, the intelligent flannel-worker, had +told me about it, I determined to go and see it. Accordingly on Friday +morning I set out. Having passed by Pengwern Hall I turned up a lane in +the direction of the south, with a brook on the right running amongst +hazels. I presently arrived at a small farm-house standing on the left +with a little yard before it. Seeing a woman at the door I asked her in +English if the road in which I was would take me across the mountain. +She said it would, and forthwith cried to a man working in a field, who +left his work and came towards us. “That is my husband,” said she; “he +has more English than I.” + +The man came up and addressed me in very good English: he had a brisk, +intelligent look, and was about sixty. I repeated the question which I +had put to his wife, and he also said that by following the road I could +get across the mountain. We soon got into conversation. He told me that +the little farm in which he lived belonged to the person who had bought +Pengwern Hall. He said that he was a good kind of gentleman, but did not +like the Welsh. I asked him if the gentleman in question did not like +the Welsh why he came to live among them. He smiled, and I then said +that I liked the Welsh very much, and was particularly fond of their +language. He asked me whether I could read Welsh, and on my telling him +I could, he said that if I would walk in he would show me a Welsh book. +I went with him and his wife into a neat kind of kitchen, flagged with +stone, where were several young people, their children. I spoke some +Welsh to them which appeared to give them great satisfaction. The man +went to a shelf and taking down a book put it into my hand. It was a +Welsh book, and the title of it in English was _Evening Work of the +Welsh_. It contained the lives of illustrious Welshmen, commencing with +that of Cadwalader. I read a page of it aloud, while the family stood +round and wondered to hear a Saxon read their language. I entered into +discourse with the man about Welsh poetry, and repeated the famous +prophecy of Taliesin about the Coiling Serpent. I asked him if the Welsh +had any poets at the present day. “Plenty,” said he, “and good +ones—Wales can never be without a poet.” Then after a pause he said that +he was the grandson of a great poet. + +“Do you bear his name?” said I. + +“I do,” he replied. + +“What may it be?” + +“Hughes,” he answered. + +“Two of the name of Hughes have been poets,” said I—“one was Huw Hughes, +generally termed the Bardd Coch, or red bard; he was an Anglesea man, and +the friend of Lewis Morris and Gronwy Owen—the other was Jonathan Hughes, +where he lived I know not.” + +“He lived here, in this very house,” said the man; “Jonathan Hughes was +my grandfather!” and as he spoke his eyes flashed fire. + +“Dear me!” said I; “I read some of his pieces thirty-two years ago when I +was a lad in England. I think I can repeat some of the lines.” I then +repeated a quartet which I chanced to remember. + +“Ah!” said the man, “I see you know his poetry. Come into the next room +and I will show you his chair.” He led me into a sleeping-room on the +right hand, where in a corner he showed me an antique three-cornered +arm-chair. “That chair,” said he, “my grandsire won at Llangollen, at an +Eisteddfod of Bards. Various bards recited their poetry, but my +grandfather won the prize. Ah, he was a good poet. He also won a prize +of fifteen guineas at a meeting of bards in London.” + +We returned to the kitchen, where I found the good woman of the house +waiting with a plate of bread-and-butter in one hand, and a glass of +buttermilk in the other—she pressed me to partake of both—I drank some of +the buttermilk, which was excellent, and after a little more discourse +shook the kind people by the hand and thanked them for their hospitality. +As I was about to depart the man said that I should find the lane farther +up very wet, and that I had better mount through a field at the back of +the house. He took me to a gate, which he opened, and then pointed out +the way which I must pursue. As I went away he said that both he and his +family should be always happy to see me at Ty yn y Pistyll, which words, +interpreted, are the house by the spout of water. + +I went up the field with the lane on my right, down which ran a runnel of +water, from which doubtless the house derived its name. I soon came to +an unenclosed part of the mountain covered with gorse and whin, and still +proceeding upward reached a road, which I subsequently learned was the +main road from Llangollen over the hill. I was not long in gaining the +top, which was nearly level. Here I stood for some time looking about +me, having the vale of Llangollen to the north of me, and a deep valley +abounding with woods and rocks to the south. + +Following the road to the south, which gradually descended, I soon came +to a place where a road diverged from the straight one to the left. As +the left-hand road appeared to lead down a romantic valley I followed it. +The scenery was beautiful—steep hills on each side. On the right was a +deep ravine, down which ran a brook; the hill beyond it was covered +towards the top with a wood, apparently of oak, between which and the +ravine were small green fields. Both sides of the ravine were fringed +with trees, chiefly ash. I descended the road which was zig-zag and +steep, and at last arrived at the bottom of the valley, where there was a +small hamlet. On the farther side of the valley to the east was a steep +hill on which were a few houses—at the foot of the hill was a brook +crossed by an antique bridge of a single arch. I directed my course to +the bridge, and after looking over the parapet, for a minute or two, upon +the water below, which was shallow and noisy, ascended a road which led +up the hill: a few scattered houses were on each side. I soon reached +the top of the hill, where were some more houses, those which I had seen +from the valley below. I was in a Welsh mountain village, which put me +much in mind of the villages which I had strolled through of old in +Castile and La Mancha; there were the same silence and desolation here as +yonder away—the houses were built of the same material, namely stone. I +should perhaps have fancied myself for a moment in a Castilian or +Manchegan mountain pueblicito, but for the abundance of trees which met +my eyes on every side. + +In walking up this mountain village I saw no one, and heard no sound but +the echo of my steps amongst the houses. As I returned, however, I saw a +man standing at a door—he was a short figure, about fifty. He had an old +hat on his head, a stick in his hand, and was dressed in a duffel great +coat. + +“Good day, friend,” said I; “what may be the name of this place?” + +“Pont Fadog, sir, is its name, for want of a better.” + +“That’s a fine name,” said I; “it signifies in English the bridge of +Madoc.” + +“Just so, sir; I see you know Welsh.” + +“And I see you know English,” said I. + +“Very little, sir; I can read English much better than I can speak it.” + +“So can I Welsh,” said I. “I suppose the village is named after the +bridge.” + +“No doubt it is, sir.” + +“And why was the bridge called the bridge of Madoc?” said I. + +“Because one Madoc built it, sir.” + +“Was he the son of Owain Gwynedd?” said I. + +“Ah, I see you know all about Wales, sir. Yes, sir; he built it, or I +dare say he built it, Madawg ap Owain Gwynedd. I have read much about +him—he was a great sailor, sir, and was the first to discover Tir y +Gorllewin, or America. Not many years ago his tomb was discovered there +with an inscription in old Welsh—saying who he was, and how he loved the +sea. I have seen the lines which were found on the tomb.” + +“So have I,” said I; “or at least those which were said to be found on a +tomb: they run thus in English:— + + “‘Here, after sailing far, I, Madoc, lie, + Of Owain Gwynedd lawful progeny: + The verdant land had little charms for me; + From earliest youth I loved the dark-blue sea.’” + +“Ah, sir,” said the man, “I see you know all about the son of Owain +Gwynedd. Well, sir, those lines, or something like them, were found upon +the tomb of Madoc in America.” + +“That I doubt,” said I. + +“Do you doubt, sir, that Madoc discovered America?” + +“Not in the least,” said I; “but I doubt very much that his tomb was ever +discovered with the inscription which you allude to upon it.” + +“But it was, sir, I do assure you, and the descendants of Madoc and his +people are still to be found in a part of America speaking the pure iaith +Cymraeg better Welsh than we of Wales do.” + +“That I doubt,” said I. “However, the idea is a pretty one; therefore +cherish it. This is a beautiful country.” + +“A very beautiful country, sir; there is none more beautiful in all +Wales.” + +“What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?” + +“The Ceiriog, sir.” + +“The Ceiriog,” said I; “the Ceiriog!” + +“Did you ever hear the name before, sir?” + +“I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog,” said I; “the Nightingale of Ceiriog.” + +“That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of Ceiriog.” + +“Did he live hereabout?” + +“O no, sir; he lived far away up towards the head of the valley, at a +place called Pont y Meibion.” + +“Are you acquainted with his works?” said I. + +“O yes, sir, at least with some of them. I have read the Marwnad on +Barbara Middleton; and likewise the piece on Oliver and his men. Ah, it +is a funny piece that—he did not like Oliver nor his men.” + +“Of what profession are you?” said I; “are you a schoolmaster or +apothecary?” + +“Neither, sir, neither; I am merely a poor shoemaker.” + +“You know a great deal for a shoemaker,” said I. + +“Ah, sir; there are many shoemakers in Wales who know much more than I.” + +“But not in England,” said I. “Well, farewell.” + +“Farewell, sir. When you have any boots to mend, or shoes, sir—I shall +be happy to serve you.” + +“I do not live in these parts,” said I. + +“No, sir; but you are coming to live here.” + +“How do you know that?” said I. + +“I know it very well, sir; you left these parts very young, and went far +away—to the East Indies, sir, where you made a large fortune in the +medical line, sir; you are now coming back to your own valley, where you +will buy a property, and settle down, and try to recover your language, +sir, and your health, sir; for you are not the person you pretend to be, +sir; I know you very well, and shall be happy to work for you.” + +“Well,” said I, “if I ever settle down here, I shall be happy to employ +you. Farewell.” + +I went back the way I had come, till I reached the little hamlet. Seeing +a small public-house, I entered it—a good-looking woman, who met me in +the passage, ushered me into a neat sanded kitchen, handed me a chair and +inquired my commands; I sat down, and told her to bring me some ale; she +brought it, and then seated herself by a bench close by the door. + +“Rather a quiet place this,” said I. “I have seen but two faces since I +came over the hill, and yours is one.” + +“Rather too quiet, sir,” said the good woman; “one would wish to have +more visitors.” + +“I suppose,” said I, “people from Llangollen occasionally come to visit +you.” + +“Sometimes, sir, for curiosity’s sake; but very rarely—the way is very +steep.” + +“Do the Tylwyth Teg ever pay you visits?” + +“The Tylwyth Teg, sir?” + +“Yes; the fairies. Do they never come to have a dance on the green sward +in this neighbourhood?” + +“Very rarely, sir; indeed, I do not know how long it is since they have +been seen.” + +“You have never seen them?” + +“I have not, sir; but I believe there are people living who have.” + +“Are corpse candles ever seen on the bank of that river?” + +“I have never heard of more than one being seen, sir, and that was at a +place where a tinker was drowned a few nights after—there came down a +flood, and the tinker in trying to cross by the usual ford was drowned.” + +“And did the candle prognosticate, I mean foreshow his death?” + +“It did, sir. When a person is to die, his candle is seen a few nights +before the time of his death.” + +“Have you ever seen a corpse candle?” + +“I have, sir; and as you seem to be a respectable gentleman, I will tell +you all about it. When I was a girl, I lived with my parents, a little +way from here. I had a cousin, a very good young man, who lived with his +parents in the neighbourhood of our house. He was an exemplary young +man, sir, and having a considerable gift of prayer, was intended for the +ministry; but he fell sick, and shortly became very ill indeed. One +evening when he was lying in this state, as I was returning home from +milking, I saw a candle proceeding from my cousin’s house. I stood still +and looked at it. It moved slowly forward for a little way, and then +mounted high in the air above the wood, which stood not far in front of +the house, and disappeared. Just three nights after that my cousin +died.” + +“And you think that what you saw was his corpse candle?” + +“I do, sir! what else should it be?” + +“Are deaths prognosticated by any other means than corpse candles?” + +“They are, sir; by the knockers, and by a supernatural voice heard at +night.” + +“Have you ever heard the knockers, or the supernatural voice?” + +“I have not, sir; but my father and mother, who are now dead, heard once +a supernatural voice, and knocking. My mother had a sister who was +married like herself, and expected to be confined. Day after day, +however, passed away, without her confinement taking place. My mother +expected every moment to be summoned to her assistance, and was so +anxious about her that she could not rest at night. One night, as she +lay in bed, by the side of her husband, between sleeping and waking, she +heard of a sudden, a horse coming stump, stump, up to the door. Then +there was a pause—she expected every moment to hear some one cry out, and +tell her to come to her sister, but she heard no farther sound, neither +voice nor stump of horse. She thought she had been deceived, so, without +awakening her husband, she tried to go to sleep, but sleep she could not. +The next night, at about the same time, she again heard a horse’s feet +coming stump, stump, up to the door. She now waked her husband and told +him to listen. He did so, and both heard the stumping. Presently, the +stumping ceased, and then there was a loud “Hey!” as if somebody wished +to wake them. “Hey!” said my father, and they both lay for a minute, +expecting to hear something more, but they heard nothing. My father then +sprang out of bed, and looked out of the window; it was bright moonlight, +but he saw nothing. The next night, as they lay in bed both asleep, they +were suddenly aroused by a loud and terrible knocking. Out sprang my +father from the bed, flung open the window, and looked out, but there was +no one at the door. The next morning, however, a messenger arrived with +the intelligence that my aunt had had a dreadful confinement with twins +in the night, and that both she and the babes were dead.” + +“Thank you,” said I; and paying for my ale. I returned to Llangollen. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +A Calvinistic Methodist—Turn for Saxon—Our Congregation—Pont y +Cyssylltau—Catherine Lingo. + +I had inquired of the good woman of the house in which we lived whether +she could not procure a person to accompany me occasionally in my walks, +who was well acquainted with the strange nooks and corners of the +country, and who could speak no language but Welsh; as I wished to +increase my knowledge of colloquial Welsh by having a companion, who +would be obliged, in all he had to say to me, to address me in Welsh, and +to whom I should perforce have to reply in that tongue. The good lady +had told me that there was a tenant of hers who lived in one of the +cottages, which looked into the perllan, who, she believed, would be glad +to go with me, and was just the kind of man I was in quest of. The day +after I had met with the adventures which I have related in the preceding +chapter, she informed me that the person in question was awaiting my +orders in the kitchen. I told her to let me see him. He presently made +his appearance. He was about forty-five years of age, of middle stature, +and had a good-natured open countenance. His dress was poor, but clean. + +“Well,” said I to him in Welsh, “are you the Cumro who can speak no +Saxon?” + +“In truth, sir, I am.” + +“Are you sure that you know no Saxon?” + +“Sir! I may know a few words, but I cannot converse in Saxon, nor +understand a conversation in that tongue.” + +“Can you read Cumraeg?” + +“In truth, sir, I can.” + +“What have you read in it?” + +“I have read, sir, the Ysgrythyr-lan, till I have it nearly at the ends +of my fingers.” + +“Have you read anything else besides the Holy Scripture?” + +“I read the newspaper, sir, when kind friends lend it to me.” + +“In Cumraeg?” + +“Yes, sir, in Cumraeg. I can read Saxon a little, but not sufficient to +understand a Saxon newspaper.” + +“What newspaper do you read?” + +“I read, sir, _Yr Amserau_.” + +“Is that a good newspaper?” + +“Very good, sir; it is written by good men.” + +“Who are they?” + +“They are our ministers, sir.” + +“Of what religion are you?” + +“A Calvinistic Methodist, sir.” + +“Why are you of the Methodist religion?” + +“Because it is the true religion, sir.” + +“You should not be bigoted. If I had more Cumraeg than I have, I would +prove to you that the only true religion is that of the Lloegrian +Church.” + +“In truth, sir, you could not do that; had you all the Cumraeg in Cumru +you could not do that.” + +“What are you by trade?” + +“I am a gwehydd, sir.” + +“What do you earn by weaving?” + +“About five shillings a week, sir.” + +“Have you a wife?” + +“I have, sir.” + +“Does she earn anything?” + +“Very seldom, sir; she is a good wife, but is generally sick.” + +“Have you children?” + +“I have three, sir.” + +“Do they earn anything?” + +“My eldest son, sir, sometimes earns a few pence, the others are very +small.” + +“Will you sometimes walk with me, if I pay you?” + +“I shall be always glad to walk with you, sir, whether you pay me or +not.” + +“Do you think it lawful to walk with one of the Lloegrian Church?” + +“Perhaps, sir, I ought to ask the gentleman of the Lloegrian Church +whether he thinks it lawful to walk with the poor Methodist weaver.” + +“Well, I think we may venture to walk with one another. What is your +name?” + +“John Jones, sir.” + +“Jones! Jones! I was walking with a man of that name the other night.” + +“The man with whom you walked the other night is my brother, sir, and +what he said to me about you made me wish to walk with you also.” + +“But he spoke very good English.” + +“My brother had a turn for Saxon, sir; I had not. Some people have a +turn for the Saxon, others have not. I have no Saxon, sir, my wife has +digon iawn—my two youngest children speak good Saxon, sir, my eldest son +not a word.” + +“Well, shall we set out?” + +“If you please, sir.” + +“To what place shall we go?” + +“Shall we go to the Pont y Cyssylltau, sir?” + +“What is that?” + +“A mighty bridge, sir, which carries the Camlas over a valley on its +back.” + +“Good! let us go and see the bridge of the junction, for that I think is +the meaning in Saxon of Pont y Cyssylltau.” + +We set out; my guide conducted me along the bank of the Camlas in the +direction of Rhiwabon, that is towards the east. On the way we +discoursed on various subjects, and understood each other tolerably well. +I asked if he had ever been anything besides a weaver. He told me that +when a boy he kept sheep on the mountain. “Why did you not go on keeping +sheep?” said I; “I would rather keep sheep than weave.” + +“My parents wanted me at home, sir,” said he; “and I was not sorry to go +home; I earned little, and lived badly.” + +“A shepherd,” said I, “can earn more than five shillings a week.” + +“I was never a regular shepherd, sir,” said he. “But, sir, I would +rather be a weaver with five shillings a week in Llangollen, than a +shepherd with fifteen on the mountain. The life of a shepherd, sir, is +perhaps not exactly what you and some other gentlefolks think. The +shepherd bears much cold and wet, sir, and he is very lonely; no society +save his sheep and dog. Then, sir, he has no privileges. I mean gospel +privileges. He does not look forward to Dydd Sul, as a day of llawenydd, +of joy and triumph, as the weaver does; that is if he is religiously +disposed. The shepherd has no chapel, sir, like the weaver. Oh, sir, I +say again that I would rather be a weaver in Llangollen with five +shillings a week, than a shepherd on the hill with fifteen.” + +“Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you live with your family on five +shillings a week?” + +“No, sir. I frequently do little commissions by which I earn something. +Then, sir, I have friends, very good friends. A good lady of our +congregation sent me this morning half-a-pound of butter. The people of +our congregation are very kind to each other, sir.” + +“That is more,” thought I to myself, “than the people of my congregation +are; they are always cutting each other’s throats.” I next asked if he +had been much about Wales. + +“Not much, sir. However, I have been to Pen Caer Gybi, which you call +Holy Head, and to Bethgelert, sir.” + +“What took you to those places?” + +“I was sent to those places on business, sir; as I told you before, sir, +I sometimes execute commissions. At Bethgelert I stayed some time. It +was there I married, sir; my wife comes from a place called Dol Gellyn +near Bethgelert.” + +“What was her name?” + +“Her name was Jones, sir.” + +“What, before she married?” + +“Yes, sir, before she married. You need not be surprised, sir; there are +plenty of the name of Jones in Wales. The name of my brother’s wife, +before she married, was also Jones.” + +“Your brother is a clever man,” said I. + +“Yes, sir, for a Cumro he is clebber enough.” + +“For a Cumro?” + +“Yes, sir, he is not a Saxon, you know.” + +“Are Saxons then so very clever?” + +“O yes, sir; who so clebber? The clebberest people in Llangollen are +Saxons; that is, at carnal things—for at spiritual things I do not think +them at all clebber. Look at Mr. A., sir.” + +“Who is he?” + +“Do you not know him, sir? I thought everybody knew Mr. A. He is a +Saxon, sir, and keeps the inn on the road a little way below where you +live. He is the clebberest man in Llangollen, sir. He can do +everything. He is a great cook, and can wash clothes better than any +woman. O, sir, for carnal things, who so clebber as your Countrymen!” + +After walking about four miles by the side of the canal we left it, and +bearing to the right presently came to the aqueduct, which strode over a +deep and narrow valley, at the bottom of which ran the Dee. “This is the +Pont y Cysswllt, sir,” said my guide; “it’s the finest bridge in the +world, and no wonder, if what the common people say be true, namely that +every stone cost a golden sovereign.” We went along it; the height was +awful. My guide, though he had been a mountain shepherd, confessed that +he was somewhat afraid. “It gives me the pendro, sir,” said he, “to look +down.” I too felt somewhat dizzy, as I looked over the parapet into the +glen. The canal which this mighty bridge carries across the gulf is +about nine feet wide, and occupies about two-thirds of the width of the +bridge and the entire western side. The footway is towards the east. +From about the middle of the bridge there is a fine view of the forges on +the Cefn Bach and also of a huge hill near it called the Cefn Mawr. We +reached the termination, and presently crossing the canal by a little +wooden bridge we came to a village. My guide then said, “If you please, +sir, we will return by the old bridge, which leads across the Dee in the +bottom of the vale.” He then led me by a romantic road to a bridge on +the west of the aqueduct, and far below. It seemed very ancient. “This +is the old bridge, sir,” said my guide; “it was built a hundred years +before the Pont y Cysswllt was dreamt of.” We now walked to the west, in +the direction of Llangollen, along the bank of the river. Presently we +arrived where the river, after making a bend, formed a pool. It was +shaded by lofty trees, and to all appearance was exceedingly deep. I +stopped to look at it, for I was struck with its gloomy horror. “That +pool, sir,” said John Jones, “is called Llyn y Meddwyn, the drunkard’s +pool. It is called so, sir, because a drunken man once fell into it, and +was drowned. There is no deeper pool in the Dee, sir, save one, a little +below Llangollen, which is called the pool of Catherine Lingo. A girl of +that name fell into it, whilst gathering sticks on the high bank above +it. She was drowned, and the pool was named after her. I never look at +either without shuddering, thinking how certainly I should be drowned if +I fell in, for I cannot swim, sir.” + +“You should have learnt to swim when you were young,” said I, “and to +dive too. I know one who has brought up stones from the bottom, I dare +say, of deeper pools than either, but he was a Saxon, and at carnal +things, you know, none so clebber as the Saxons.” + +I found my guide a first-rate walker, and a good botanist, knowing the +names of all the plants and trees in Welsh. By the time we returned to +Llangollen I had formed a very high opinion of him, in which I was +subsequently confirmed by what I saw of him during the period of our +acquaintance, which was of some duration. He was very honest, +disinterested, and exceedingly good-humoured. It is true, he had his +little skits occasionally at the Church, and showed some marks of +hostility to the church cat, more especially when he saw it mounted on my +shoulders; for the creature soon began to take liberties, and in less +than a week after my arrival at the cottage, generally mounted on my +back, when it saw me reading or writing, for the sake of the warmth. But +setting aside those same skits at the Church and that dislike of the +church cat, venial trifles after all, and easily to be accounted for, on +the score of his religious education, I found nothing to blame and much +to admire in John Jones the Calvinistic Methodist of Llangollen. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +Divine Service—Llangollen Bells—Iolo Goch—The Abbey—Twm o’r Nant—Holy +Well—Thomas Edwards. + +Sunday arrived—a Sunday of unclouded sunshine. We attended Divine +service at church in the morning. The congregation was very numerous, +but to all appearance consisted almost entirely of English visitors, like +ourselves. There were two officiating clergymen, father and son. They +both sat in a kind of oblong pulpit on the southern side of the church, +at a little distance below the altar. The service was in English, and +the elder gentleman preached; there was good singing and chanting. + +After dinner I sat in an arbour in the perllan thinking of many things, +amongst others, spiritual. Whilst thus engaged the sound of the church +bells calling people to afternoon service, came upon my ears. I listened +and thought I had never heard bells with so sweet a sound. I had heard +them in the morning, but without paying much attention to them, but as I +now sat in the umbrageous arbour I was particularly struck with them. O, +how sweetly their voice mingled with the low rush of the river, at the +bottom of the perllan. I subsequently found that the bells of Llangollen +were celebrated for their sweetness. Their merit indeed has even been +admitted by an enemy; for a poet of the Calvinistic-Methodist persuasion, +one who calls himself Einion Du, in a very beautiful ode, commencing +with— + + “Tangnefedd i Llangollen,” + +says that in no part of the world do bells call people so sweetly to +church as those of Llangollen town. + +In the evening, at about half-past six, I attended service again, but +without my family. This time the congregation was not numerous, and was +composed principally of poor people. The service and sermon were now in +Welsh, the sermon was preached by the younger gentleman, and was on the +building of the second temple, and, as far as I understood it, appeared +to me to be exceedingly good. + +On the Monday evening myself and family took a walk to the abbey. My +wife and daughter, who are fond of architecture and ruins, were very +anxious to see the old place. I too was anxious enough to see it, less +from love of ruins and ancient architecture, than from knowing that a +certain illustrious bard was buried in its precincts, of whom perhaps a +short account will not be unacceptable to the reader. + +This man, whose poetical appellation was Iolo Goch, but whose real name +was Llwyd, was of a distinguished family, and Lord of Llechryd. He was +born and generally resided at a place called Coed y Pantwn, in the upper +part of the Vale of Clwyd. He was a warm friend and partisan of Owen +Glendower, with whom he lived, at Sycharth, for some years before the +great Welsh insurrection, and whom he survived, dying at an extreme old +age beneath his own roof-tree at Coed y Pantwn. He composed pieces of +great excellence on various subjects; but the most remarkable of his +compositions are decidedly certain ones connected with Owen Glendower. +Amongst these is one in which he describes the Welsh chieftain’s mansion +at Sycharth, and his hospitable way of living at that his favourite +residence; and another in which he hails the advent of the comet, which +made its appearance in the month of March, fourteen hundred and two, as +of good augury to his darling hero. + +It was from knowing that this distinguished man lay buried in the +precincts of the old edifice that I felt so anxious to see it. After +walking about two miles we perceived it on our right hand. + +The abbey of the vale of the cross stands in a green meadow, in a corner +near the north-west end of the valley of Llangollen. The vale or glen, +in which the abbey stands, takes its name from a certain ancient pillar +or cross, called the pillar of Eliseg, and which is believed to have been +raised over the body of an ancient British chieftain of that name, who +perished in battle against the Saxons, about the middle of the tenth +century. In the Papist times the abbey was a place of great +pseudo-sanctity, wealth and consequence. The territory belonging to it +was very extensive, comprising, amongst other districts, the vale of +Llangollen and the mountain region to the north of it, called the +Eglwysig Rocks, which region derived its name Eglwysig, or +ecclesiastical, from the circumstance of its pertaining to the abbey of +the vale of the cross. + +We first reached that part of the building which had once been the +church, having previously to pass through a farm-yard, in which was +abundance of dirt and mire. + +The church fronts the west and contains the remains of a noble window, +beneath which is a gate, which we found locked. Passing on we came to +that part where the monks had lived, but which now served as a farmhouse; +an open door-way exhibited to us an ancient gloomy hall, where was some +curious old-fashioned furniture, particularly an ancient rack, in which +stood a goodly range of pewter trenchers. A respectable dame kindly +welcomed us and invited us to sit down. We entered into conversation +with her, and asked her name, which she said was Evans. I spoke some +Welsh to her, which pleased her. She said that Welsh people at the +present day were so full of fine airs that they were above speaking the +old language—but that such was not the case formerly, and that she had +known a Mrs. Price, who was housekeeper to the Countess of Mornington, +who lived in London upwards of forty years, and at the end of that time +prided herself upon speaking as good Welsh as she did when a girl. I +spoke to her about the abbey, and asked if she had ever heard of Iolo +Goch. She inquired who he was. I told her he was a great bard, and was +buried in the abbey. She said she had never heard of him, but that she +could show me the portrait of a great poet, and going away, presently +returned with a print in a frame. + +“There,” said she, “is the portrait of Twm o’r Nant, generally called the +Welsh Shakespear.” + +I looked at it. The Welsh Shakespear was represented sitting at a table +with a pen in his hand; a cottage-latticed window was behind him, on his +left hand; a shelf with plates and trenchers behind him, on his right. +His features were rude, but full of wild, strange expression; below the +picture was the following couplet:— + + “Llun Gwr yw llawn gwir Awen; + Y Byd a lanwodd o’i Ben.” + +“Did you ever hear of Twm o’r Nant?” said the old dame. + +“I never heard of him by word of mouth,” said I; “but I know all about +him—I have read his life in Welsh, written by himself, and a curious life +it is. His name was Thomas Edwards, but he generally called himself Twm +o’r Nant, or Tom of the Dingle, because he was born in a dingle, at a +place called Pen Porchell in the vale of Clwyd—which, by the bye, was on +the estate which once belonged to Iolo Goch, the poet I was speaking to +you about just now. Tom was a carter by trade, but once kept a toll-bar +in South Wales, which, however, he was obliged to leave at the end of two +years, owing to the annoyance which he experienced from ghosts and +goblins, and unearthly things, particularly phantom hearses, which used +to pass through his gate at midnight without paying, when the gate was +shut.” + +“Ah,” said the Dame, “you know more about Twm o’r Nant than I do; and was +he not a great poet?” + +“I dare say he was,” said I, “for the pieces which he wrote, and which he +called Interludes, had a great run, and he got a great deal of money by +them, but I should say the lines beneath the portrait are more applicable +to the real Shakespear than to him.” + +“What do the lines mean?” said the old lady; “they are Welsh, I know, but +they are far beyond my understanding.” + +“They may be thus translated,” said I: + + “God in his head the Muse instill’d, + And from his head the world he fill’d.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said the old lady; “I never found any one before who +could translate them.” She then said she would show me some English +lines written on the daughter of a friend of hers who was lately dead, +and put some printed lines in a frame into my hand. They were an Elegy +to Mary, and were very beautiful. I read them aloud, and when I had +finished she thanked me and said she had no doubt that if I pleased I +could put them into Welsh. She then sighed and wiped her eyes. + +On our inquiring whether we could see the interior of the abbey she said +we could, and that if we rang a bell at the gate a woman would come to +us, who was in the habit of showing the place. We then got up and bade +her farewell—but she begged that we would stay and taste the dwr santaidd +of the holy well. + +“What holy well is that?” said I. + +“A well,” said she, “by the road’s side, which in the time of the popes +was said to perform wonderful cures.” + +“Let us taste it by all means,” said I; whereupon she went out, and +presently returned with a tray on which were a jug and tumbler, the jug +filled with the water of the holy well; we drank some of the dwr +santaidd, which tasted like any other water, and then after shaking her +by the hand, we went to the gate, and rang at the bell. + +Presently a woman made her appearance at the gate; she was genteelly +drest, about the middle age, rather tall, and bearing in her countenance +the traces of beauty. When we told her the object of our coming she +admitted us, and after locking the gate conducted us into the church. It +was roofless, and had nothing remarkable about it, save the western +window, which we had seen from without. Our attendant pointed out to us +some tombs, and told us the names of certain great people whose dust they +contained. “Can you tell us where Iolo Goch lies interred?” said I. + +“No,” said she; “indeed I never heard of such a person.” + +“He was the bard of Owen Glendower,” said I, “and assisted his cause +wonderfully by the fiery odes, in which he incited the Welsh to rise +against the English.” + +“Indeed!” said she; “well, I am sorry to say that I never heard of him.” + +“Are you Welsh?” said I. + +“I am,” she replied. + +“Did you ever hear of Thomas Edwards?” + +“O, yes,” said she; “I have frequently heard of him.” + +“How odd,” said I, “that the name of a great poet should be unknown in +the very place where he is buried, whilst that of one certainly not his +superior, should be well known in that same place, though he is not +buried there.” + +“Perhaps,” said she, “the reason is that the poet, whom you mentioned, +wrote in the old measures and language which few people now understand, +whilst Thomas Edwards wrote in common verse and in the language of the +present day.” + +“I dare say it is so,” said I. + +From the church she led us to other parts of the ruin—at first she had +spoken to us rather cross and loftily, but she now became kind and +communicative. She said that she resided near the ruins, which she was +permitted to show; that she lived alone, and wished to be alone—there was +something singular about her, and I believe that she had a history of her +own. After showing us the ruins she conducted us to a cottage in which +she lived; it stood behind the ruins by a fishpond, in a beautiful and +romantic place enough—she said that in the winter she went away, but to +what place she did not say. She asked us whether we came walking, and on +our telling her that we did, she said that she would point out to us a +near way home. She then pointed to a path up a hill, telling us we must +follow it. After making her a present we bade her farewell, and passing +through a meadow crossed a brook by a rustic bridge, formed of the stem +of a tree, and ascending the hill by a path which she had pointed out, we +went through a corn field or two on its top, and at last found ourselves +on the Llangollen road, after a most beautiful walk. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Expedition to Ruthyn—The Column—Slate Quarries—The Gwyddelod—Nocturnal +Adventure. + +Nothing worthy of commemoration took place during the two following days, +save that myself and family took an evening walk on the Wednesday up the +side of the Berwyn, for the purpose of botanizing, in which we were +attended by John Jones. There, amongst other plants, we found a curious +moss which our good friend said was called in Welsh Corn Carw, or deer’s +horn, and which he said the deer were very fond of. On the Thursday he +and I started on an expedition on foot to Ruthyn, distant about fourteen +miles, proposing to return in the evening. + +The town and castle of Ruthyn possessed great interest for me from being +connected with the affairs of Owen Glendower. It was at Ruthyn that the +first and not the least remarkable scene of the Welsh insurrection took +place by Owen making his appearance at the fair held there in fourteen +hundred, plundering the English who had come with their goods, slaying +many of them, sacking the town and concluding his day’s work by firing +it; and it was at the castle of Ruthyn that Lord Grey dwelt, a minion of +Henry the Fourth and Glendower’s deadliest enemy, and who was the +principal cause of the chieftain’s entering into rebellion, having in the +hope of obtaining his estates in the vale of Clwyd poisoned the mind of +Henry against him, who proclaimed him a traitor, before he had committed +any act of treason, and confiscated his estates, bestowing that part of +them upon his favourite, which the latter was desirous of obtaining. + +We started on our expedition at about seven o’clock of a brilliant +morning. We passed by the abbey and presently came to a small fountain +with a little stone edifice, with a sharp top above it. “That is the +holy well,” said my guide: “Llawer iawn o barch yn yr amser yr Pabyddion +yr oedd i’r fynnon hwn—much respect in the times of the Papists there was +to this fountain.” + +“I heard of it,” said I, “and tasted of its water the other evening at +the abbey.” Shortly after we saw a tall stone standing in a field on our +right hand at about a hundred yards distance from the road. “That is the +pillar of Eliseg, sir,” said my guide. “Let us go and see it,” said I. +We soon reached the stone. It is a fine upright column about seven feet +high, and stands on a quadrate base. “Sir,” said my guide, “a dead king +lies buried beneath this stone. He was a mighty man of valour and +founded the abbey. He was called Eliseg.” “Perhaps Ellis,” said I, “and +if his name was Ellis his stone was very properly called Colofn Eliseg, +in Saxon the Ellisian column.” The view from the column is very +beautiful, below on the south-east is the venerable abbey, slumbering in +its green meadow. Beyond it runs a stream, descending from the top of a +glen, at the bottom of which the old pile is situated; beyond the stream +is a lofty hill. The glen on the north is bounded by a noble mountain, +covered with wood. Struck with its beauty I inquired its name. “Moel +Eglwysig, sir,” said my guide. “The Moel of the Church,” said I. “That +is hardly a good name for it, for the hill is not bald (moel).” “True, +sir,” said John Jones. “At present its name is good for nothing, but +estalom (of old) before the hill was planted with trees its name was good +enough. Our fathers were not fools when they named their hills.” “I +dare say not,” said I, “nor in many other things which they did, for +which we laugh at them, because we do not know the reasons they had for +doing them.” We regained the road; the road tended to the north up a +steep ascent. I asked John Jones the name of a beautiful village, which +lay far away on our right, over the glen, and near its top. “Pentref y +dwr, sir” (the village of the water). It is called the village of the +water, because the river below comes down through part of it. I next +asked the name of the hill up which we were going, and he told me Allt +Bwlch; that is, the high place of the hollow road. + +This bwlch, or hollow way, was a regular pass, which put me wonderfully +in mind of the passes of Spain. It took us a long time to get to the +top. After resting a minute on the summit we began to descend. My guide +pointed out to me some slate-works, at some distance on our left. “There +is a great deal of work going on there, sir,” said he: “all the slates +that you see descending the canal at Llangollen come from there.” The +next moment we heard a blast, and then a thundering sound: “Llais craig +yn syrthiaw; the voice of the rock in falling, sir,” said John Jones; +“blasting is dangerous and awful work.” We reached the bottom of the +descent, and proceeded for two or three miles up and down a rough and +narrow road; I then turned round and looked at the hills which we had +passed over. They looked bulky and huge. + +We continued our way, and presently saw marks of a fire in some grass by +the side of the road. “Have the Gipsiaid been there?” said I to my +guide. + +“Hardly, sir; I should rather think that the Gwyddeliad (Irish) have been +camping there lately.” + +“The Gwyddeliad?” + +“Yes, sir, the vagabond Gwyddeliad, who at present infest these parts +much, and do much more harm than the Gipsiaid ever did.” + +“What do you mean by the Gipsiaid?” + +“Dark, handsome people, sir, who occasionally used to come about in vans +and carts, the men buying and selling horses, and sometimes tinkering, +whilst the women told fortunes.” + +“And they have ceased to come about?” + +“Nearly so, sir; I believe they have been frightened away by the +Gwyddelod.” + +“What kind of people are these Gwyddelod?” + +“Savage, brutish people, sir; in general without shoes and stockings, +with coarse features and heads of hair like mops.” + +“How do they live?” + +“The men tinker a little, sir, but more frequently plunder. The women +tell fortunes, and steal whenever they can.” + +“They live something like the Gipsiaid.” + +“Something, sir; but the hen Gipsiaid were gentlefolks in comparison.” + +“You think the Gipsiaid have been frightened away by the Gwyddelians?” + +“I do, sir; the Gwyddelod made their appearance in these parts about +twenty years ago, and since then the Gipsiaid have been rarely seen.” + +“Are these Gwyddelod poor?” + +“By no means, sir; they make large sums by plundering and other means, +with which, ’tis said, they retire at last to their own country or +America, where they buy land and settle down.” + +“What language do they speak?” + +“English, sir; they pride themselves on speaking good English, that is to +the Welsh. Amongst themselves they discourse in their own Paddy +Gwyddel.” + +“Have they no Welsh?” + +“Only a few words, sir; I never heard of one of them speaking Welsh, save +a young girl—she fell sick by the roadside, as she was wandering by +herself—some people at a farm-house took her in, and tended her till she +was well. During her sickness she took a fancy to their quiet way of +life, and when she was recovered she begged to stay with them and serve +them. They consented; she became a very good servant, and hearing +nothing but Welsh spoken, soon picked up the tongue.” + +“Do you know what became of her?” + +“I do, sir; her own people found her out, and wished to take her away +with them, but she refused to let them, for by that time she was +perfectly reclaimed, had been to chapel, renounced her heathen crefydd, +and formed an acquaintance with a young Methodist who had a great gift of +prayer, whom she afterwards married—she and her husband live at present +not far from Mineira.” + +“I almost wonder that her own people did not kill her.” + +“They threatened to do so, sir, and would doubtless have put their threat +into execution, had they not been prevented by the Man on High.” + +And here my guide pointed with his finger reverently upward. + +“Is it a long time since you have seen any of these Gwyddeliaid?” + +“About two months, sir, and then a terrible fright they caused me.” + +“How was that?” + +“I will tell you, sir; I had been across the Berwyn to carry home a piece +of weaving work to a person who employs me. It was night as I returned, +and when I was about half-way down the hill, at a place which is called +Allt Paddy, because the Gwyddelod are in the habit of taking up their +quarters there, I came upon a gang of them, who had come there and camped +and lighted their fire, whilst I was on the other side of the hill. +There were nearly twenty of them, men and women, and amongst the rest was +a man standing naked in a tub of water with two women stroking him down +with clouts. He was a large fierce-looking fellow, and his body, on +which the flame of the fire glittered, was nearly covered with red hair. +I never saw such a sight. As I passed they glared at me and talked +violently in their Paddy Gwyddel, but did not offer to molest me. I +hastened down the hill, and right glad I was when I found myself safe and +sound at my house in Llangollen, with my money in my pocket, for I had +several shillings there, which the man across the hill had paid me for +the work which I had done.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +The Turf Tavern—Don’t Understand—The Best Welsh—The Maids of Merion—Old +and New—Ruthyn—The Ash Yggdrasill. + +We now emerged from the rough and narrow way which we had followed for +some miles, upon one much wider, and more commodious, which my guide told +me was the coach road from Wrexham to Ruthyn, and going on a little +farther we came to an avenue of trees which shaded the road. It was +chiefly composed of ash, sycamore, and birch, and looked delightfully +cool and shady. I asked my guide if it belonged to any gentleman’s +house. He told me that it did not, but to a public-house, called Tafarn +Tywarch, which stood near the end, a little way off the road. “Why is it +called Tafarn Tywarch?” said I, struck by the name, which signifies “the +tavern of turf.” + +“It was called so, sir,” said John, “because it was originally merely a +turf hovel, though at present it consists of good brick and mortar.” + +“Can we breakfast there,” said I, “for I feel both hungry and thirsty?” + +“O, yes, sir,” said John, “I have heard there is good cheese and cwrw +there.” + +We turned off to the “tafarn,” which was a decent public-house of rather +an antiquated appearance. We entered a sanded kitchen, and sat down by a +large oaken table. “Please to bring us some bread, cheese and ale,” said +I in Welsh to an elderly woman, who was moving about. + +“Sar?” said she. + +“Bring us some bread, cheese and ale,” I repeated in Welsh. + +“I do not understand you, sar,” said she in English. + +“Are you Welsh?” said I in English. + +“Yes, I am Welsh!” + +“And can you speak Welsh?” + +“O, yes, and the best.” + +“Then why did you not bring what I asked for?” + +“Because I did not understand you.” + +“Tell her,” said I to John Jones, “to bring us some bread, cheese and +ale.” + +“Come, aunt,” said John, “bring us bread and cheese and a quart of the +best ale.” + +The woman looked as if she was going to reply in the tongue in which he +addressed her, then faltered, and at last said in English that she did +not understand. + +“Now,” said I, “you are fairly caught: this man is a Welshman, and +moreover understands no language but Welsh.” + +“Then how can he understand you?” said she. + +“Because I speak Welsh,” said I. + +“Then you are a Welshman?” said she. + +“No I am not,” said I, “I am English.” + +“So I thought,” said she, “and on that account I could not understand +you.” + +“You mean that you would not,” said I. “Now do you choose to bring what +you are bidden?” + +“Come, aunt,” said John, “don’t be silly and cenfigenus, but bring the +breakfast.” + +The woman stood still for a moment or two, and then biting her lips went +away. + +“What made the woman behave in this manner?” said I to my companion. + +“O, she was cenfigenus, sir,” he replied; “she did not like that an +English gentleman should understand Welsh; she was envious; you will find +a dozen or two like her in Wales; but let us hope not more.” + +Presently the woman returned with the bread, cheese and ale, which she +placed on the table. + +“Oh,” said I, “you have brought what was bidden, though it was never +mentioned to you in English, which shows that your pretending not to +understand was all a sham. What made you behave so?” + +“Why I thought,” said the woman, “that no Englishman could speak Welsh, +that his tongue was too short.” + +“Your having thought so,” said I, “should not have made you tell a +falsehood, saying that you did not understand, when you knew that you +understood very well. See what a disgraceful figure you cut.” + +“I cut no disgraced figure,” said the woman: “after all, what right have +the English to come here speaking Welsh, which belongs to the Welsh +alone, who in fact are the only people that understand it.” + +“Are you sure that you understand Welsh?” said I. + +“I should think so,” said the woman, “for I come from the vale of Clwyd, +where they speak the best Welsh in the world, the Welsh of the Bible.” + +“What do they call a salmon in the vale of Clwyd?” said I. + +“What do they call a salmon?” said the woman. + +“Yes,” said I, “when they speak Welsh.” + +“They call it—they call it—why a salmon.” + +“Pretty Welsh!” said I. “I thought you did not understand Welsh.” + +“Well, what do you call it?” said the woman. + +“Eawg,” said I, “that is the word for a salmon in general—but there are +words also to show the sex—when you speak of a male salmon you should say +cemyw, when of a female hwyfell.” + +“I never heard the words before,” said the woman, “nor do I believe them +to be Welsh.” + +“You say so,” said I, “because you do not understand Welsh.” + +“I not understand Welsh!” said she. “I’ll soon show you that I do. +Come, you have asked me the word for salmon in Welsh, I will now ask you +the word for salmon-trout. Now tell me that, and I will say you know +something of the matter.” + +“A tinker of my country can tell you that,” said I. “The word for +salmon-trout is gleisiad.” + +The countenance of the woman fell. + +“I see you know something about the matter,” said she; “there are very +few hereabouts, though so near to the vale of Clwyd, who know the word +for salmon-trout in Welsh. I shouldn’t have known the word myself, but +for the song which says: + + “‘Glân yw’r gleisiad yn y llyn.’” + +“And who wrote that song?” said I. + +“I don’t know,” said the woman. + +“But I do,” said I; “one Lewis Morris wrote it.” + +“Oh,” said she, “I have heard all about Huw Morris.” + +“I was not talking of Huw Morris,” said I, “but Lewis Morris, who lived +long after Huw Morris. He was a native of Anglesea, but resided for some +time in Merionethshire, and whilst there composed a song about the +Morwynion bro Meirionydd, or the lasses of County Merion, of a great many +stanzas, in one of which the gleisiad is mentioned. Here it is in +English: + + “‘Full fair the gleisiad in the flood, + Which sparkles ’neath the summer’s sun, + And fair the thrush in green abode + Spreading his wings in sportive fun, + But fairer look if truth be spoke, + The maids of County Merion.’” + +The woman was about to reply, but I interrupted her. + +“There,” said I, “pray leave us to our breakfast, and the next time you +feel inclined to talk nonsense about no Englishman’s understanding Welsh, +or knowing anything of Welsh matters, remember that it was an Englishman +who told you the Welsh word for salmon, and likewise the name of the +Welshman who wrote the song in which the gleisiad is mentioned.” + +The ale was very good, and so were the bread and cheese. The ale indeed +was so good that I ordered a second jug. Observing a large antique +portrait over the mantel-piece I got up to examine it. It was that of a +gentleman in a long wig, and underneath it was painted in red letters +“Sir Watkin Wynn 1742.” It was doubtless the portrait of the Sir Watkin +who in 1745 was committed to the Tower under suspicion of being suspected +of holding Jacobite opinions, and favouring the Pretender. The portrait +was a very poor daub, but I looked at it long and attentively as a +memorial of Wales at a critical and long past time. + +When we had dispatched the second jug of ale, and I had paid the +reckoning, we departed and soon came to where stood a turnpike house at a +junction of two roads, to each of which was a gate. + +“Now, sir,” said John Jones, “the way straight forward is the ffordd +newydd and the one on our right hand, is the hen ffordd. Which shall we +follow, the new or the old?” + +“There is a proverb in the Gerniweg,” said I, “which was the language of +my forefathers, saying, ‘ne’er leave the old way for the new,’ we will +therefore go by the hen ffordd.” + +“Very good, sir,” said my guide, “that is the path I always go, for it is +the shortest.” So we turned to the right and followed the old road. +Perhaps, however, it would have been well had we gone by the new, for the +hen ffordd was a very dull and uninteresting road, whereas the ffordd +newydd, as I long subsequently found, is one of the grandest passes in +Wales. After we had walked a short distance my guide said, “Now, sir, if +you will turn a little way to the left hand I will show you a house built +in the old style, such a house, sir, as I dare say the original turf +tavern was.” Then leading me a little way from the road he showed me, +under a hollow bank, a small cottage covered with flags. + +“That is a house, sir, built yn yr hen dull in the old fashion, of earth, +flags and wattles, and in one night. It was the custom of old when a +house was to be built, for the people to assemble, and to build it in one +night of common materials, close at hand. The custom is not quite dead. +I was at the building of this myself, and a merry building it was. The +cwrw da passed quickly about among the builders, I assure you.” We +returned to the road, and when we had ascended a hill my companion told +me that if I looked to the left I should see the vale of Clwyd. + +I looked and perceived an extensive valley pleasantly dotted with trees +and farm-houses, and bounded on the west by a range of hills. + +“It is a fine valley, sir,” said my guide, “four miles wide and twenty +long, and contains the richest land in all Wales. Cheese made in that +valley, sir, fetches a penny a pound more than cheese made in any other +valley.” + +“And who owns it?” said I. + +“Various are the people who own it, sir, but Sir Watkin owns the greater +part.” + +We went on, passed by a village called Craig Vychan, where we saw a +number of women washing at a fountain, and by a gentle descent soon +reached the vale of Clwyd. + +After walking about a mile we left the road and proceeded by a footpath +across some meadows. The meadows were green and delightful, and were +intersected by a beautiful stream. Trees in abundance were growing +about, some of which were oaks. We passed by a little white chapel with +a small graveyard before it, which my guide told me belonged to the +Baptists, and shortly afterwards reached Ruthyn. + +We went to an inn called the Crossed Foxes, where we refreshed ourselves +with ale. We then sallied forth to look about, after I had ordered a +duck to be got ready for dinner, at three o’clock. Ruthyn stands on a +hill above the Clwyd, which in the summer is a mere brook, but in the +winter a considerable stream, being then fed with the watery tribute of a +hundred hills. About three miles to the north is a range of lofty +mountains, dividing the shire of Denbigh from that of Flint, amongst +which, almost parallel with the town, and lifting its head high above the +rest, is the mighty Moel Vamagh, the 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 had come on by the time we reached the foot of the huge hills we +had crossed in the morning. We toiled up the ascent, and after crossing +the level ground on the top, plunged down the bwlch between walking and +running, occasionally stumbling, for we were nearly in complete darkness, +and the bwlch was steep and stony. We more than once passed people who +gave us the n’s da, the hissing night salutation of the Welsh. At length +I saw the abbey looming amidst the darkness, and John Jones said that we +were just above the fountain. We descended, and putting my head down, I +drank greedily of the dwr santaidd, my guide following my example. We +then proceeded on our way, and in about half-an-hour reached Llangollen. +I took John Jones home with me. We had a cheerful cup of tea. Henrietta +played on the guitar, and sang a Spanish song, to the great delight of +John Jones, who at about ten o’clock departed contented and happy to his +own dwelling. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +John Jones and his Bundle—A Good Lady—The Irishman’s Dingle—Ab Gwilym and +the Mist—The Kitchen—The Two Individuals—The Horse-Dealer—I can manage +him—The Mist again. + +The following day was gloomy. In the evening John Jones made his +appearance with a bundle under his arm, and an umbrella in his hand. + +“Sir,” said he, “I am going across the mountain with a piece of weaving +work, for the man on the other side, who employs me. Perhaps you would +like to go with me, as you are fond of walking.” + +“I suppose,” said I, “you wish to have my company for fear of meeting +Gwyddelians on the hill.” + +John smiled. + +“Well, sir,” said he, “if I do meet them I would sooner be with company +than without. But I dare venture by myself, trusting in the Man on High, +and perhaps I do wrong to ask you to go, as you must be tired with your +walk of yesterday.” + +“Hardly more than yourself,” said I. “Come; I shall be glad to go. What +I said about the Gwyddelians was only in jest.” + +As we were about to depart John said, + +“It does not rain at present, sir, but I think it will. You had better +take an umbrella.” + +I did so, and away we went. We passed over the bridge, and turning to +the right went by the back of the town through a field. As we passed by +the Plas Newydd John Jones said: + +“No one lives there now, sir; all dark and dreary; very different from +the state of things when the ladies lived there—all gay then and +cheerful. I remember the ladies, sir, particularly the last, who lived +by herself after her companion died. She was a good lady, and very kind +to the poor; when they came to her gate they were never sent away without +something to cheer them. She was a grand lady too—kept grand company, +and used to be drawn about in a coach by four horses. But she too is +gone, and the house is cold and empty; no fire in it, sir; no furniture. +There was an auction after her death; and a grand auction it was and +lasted four days. O, what a throng of people there was, some of whom +came from a great distance, to buy the curious things, of which there +were plenty.” + +We passed over a bridge, which crosses a torrent, which descends from the +mountain on the south side of Llangollen, which bridge John Jones told me +was called the bridge of the Melin Bac, or mill of the nook, from a mill +of that name close by. Continuing our way we came to a glen, down which +the torrent comes which passes under the bridge. There was little water +in the bed of the torrent, and we crossed easily enough by +stepping-stones. I looked up the glen; a wild place enough, its sides +overgrown with trees. Dreary and dismal it looked in the gloom of the +closing evening. John Jones said that there was no regular path up it, +and that one could only get along by jumping from stone to stone, at the +hazard of breaking one’s legs. Having passed over the bed of the +torrent, we came to a path, which led up the mountain. The path was very +steep and stony; the glen with its trees and darkness on our right. We +proceeded some way. At length John Jones pointed to a hollow lane on our +right, seemingly leading into the glen. + +“That place, sir,” said he, “is called Pant y Gwyddel—the Irishman’s +dingle, and sometimes Pant Paddy, from the Irish being fond of taking up +their quarters there. It was just here, at the entrance of the pant, +that the tribe were encamped, when I passed two months ago at night, in +returning from the other side of the hill with ten shillings in my +pocket, which I had been paid for a piece of my work, which I had carried +over the mountain to the very place where I am now carrying this. I +shall never forget the fright I was in, both on account of my life, and +my ten shillings. I ran down what remained of the hill as fast as I +could, not minding the stones. Should I meet a tribe now on my return I +shall not run; you will be with me, and I shall not fear for my life nor +for my money, which will be now more than ten shillings, provided the man +over the hill pays me, as I have no doubt he will.” + +As we ascended higher we gradually diverged from the glen, though we did +not lose sight of it till we reached the top of the mountain. The top +was nearly level. On our right were a few fields enclosed with stone +walls. On our left was an open space where whin, furze and heath were +growing. We passed over the summit, and began to descend by a tolerably +good, though steep road. But for the darkness of evening and a drizzling +mist, which, for some time past, had been coming on, we should have +enjoyed a glorious prospect down into the valley, or perhaps I should say +that I should have enjoyed a glorious prospect, for John Jones, like a +true mountaineer, cared not a brass farthing for prospects. Even as it +was, noble glimpses of wood and rock were occasionally to be obtained. +The mist soon wetted us to the skin, notwithstanding that we put up our +umbrellas. It was a regular Welsh mist, a niwl, like that in which the +great poet Ab Gwilym lost his way, whilst trying to keep an assignation +with his beloved Morfydd, and which he abuses in the following manner:— + + “O ho! thou villain mist, O ho! + What plea hast thou to plague me so! + I scarcely know a scurril name, + But dearly thou deserv’st the same; + Thou exhalation from the deep + Unknown, where ugly spirits keep! + Thou smoke from hellish stews uphurl’d + To mock and mortify the world! + Thou spider-web of giant race, + Spun out and spread through airy space! + Avaunt, thou filthy, clammy thing, + Of sorry rain the source and spring! + Moist blanket dripping misery down, + Loathed alike by land and town! + Thou watery monster, wan to see, + Intruding ’twixt the sun and me, + To rob me of my blessed right, + To turn my day to dismal night. + Parent of thieves and patron best, + They brave pursuit within thy breast! + Mostly from thee its merciless snow + Grim January doth glean, I trow. + Pass off with speed, thou prowler pale, + Holding along o’er hill and dale, + Spilling a noxious spittle round, + Spoiling the fairies’ sporting ground! + Move off to hell, mysterious haze; + Wherein deceitful meteors blaze; + Thou wild of vapour, vast, o’ergrown, + Huge as the ocean of unknown.” + +As we descended the path became more steep; it was particularly so at a +part where it was overshadowed with trees on both sides. Here finding +walking very uncomfortable, my knees suffering much, I determined to run. +So shouting to John Jones, “Nis gallav gerdded rhaid rhedeg,” I set off +running down the pass. My companion followed close behind, and luckily +meeting no mischance, we presently found ourselves on level ground, +amongst a collection of small houses. On our turning a corner a church +appeared on our left hand on the slope of the hill. In the churchyard, +and close to the road, grew a large yew-tree which flung its boughs far +on every side. John Jones stopping by the tree said, that if I looked +over the wall of the yard I should see the tomb of a Lord Dungannon, who +had been a great benefactor to the village. I looked, and through the +lower branches of the yew, which hung over part of the churchyard, I saw +what appeared to be a mausoleum. Jones told me that in the church also +there was the tomb of a great person of the name of Tyrwhitt. + +We passed on by various houses till we came nearly to the bottom of the +valley. Jones then pointing to a large house, at a little distance on +the right, told me that it was a good gwesty, and advised me to go and +refresh myself in it, whilst he went and carried home his work to the man +who employed him, who he said lived in a farm-house a few hundred yards +off. I asked him where we were. + +“At Llyn Ceiriog,” he replied. + +I then asked if we were near Pont Fadog; and received for answer that +Pont Fadog was a good way down the valley, to the north-east, and that we +could not see it owing to a hill which intervened. + +Jones went his way and I proceeded to the gwestfa, the door of which +stood invitingly open. I entered a large kitchen, at one end of which a +good fire was burning in a grate, in front of which was a long table, and +a high settle on either side. Everything looked very comfortable. There +was nobody in the kitchen: on my calling, however, a girl came whom I +bade in Welsh to bring me a pint of the best ale. The girl stared, but +went away apparently to fetch it. Presently came the landlady, a +good-looking middle-aged woman. I saluted her in Welsh and then asked +her if she could speak English. She replied “Tipyn bach,” which +interpreted, is, a little bit. I soon, however, found that she could +speak it very passably, for two men coming in from the rear of the house +she conversed with them in English. These two individuals seated +themselves on chairs near the door, and called for beer. The girl +brought in the ale, and I sat down by the fire, poured myself out a +glass, and made myself comfortable. Presently a gig drove up to the +door, and in came a couple of dogs, one a tall black greyhound, the other +a large female setter, the coat of the latter dripping with rain, and +shortly after two men from the gig entered, one who appeared to be the +principal was a stout bluff-looking person between fifty and sixty +dressed in a grey stuff coat and with a slouched hat on his head. This +man bustled much about, and in a broad Yorkshire dialect ordered a fire +to be lighted in another room, and a chamber to be prepared for him and +his companion; the landlady, who appeared to know him, and to treat him +with a kind of deference, asked if she should prepare two beds; whereupon +he answered “No! As we came together, and shall start together, so shall +we sleep together; it will not be for the first time.” + +His companion was a small mean-looking man dressed in a black coat, and +behaved to him with no little respect. Not only the landlady but the two +men, of whom I have previously spoken, appeared to know him and to treat +him with deference. He and his companion presently went out to see after +the horse. After a little time they returned, and the stout man called +lustily for two fourpennyworths of brandy and water—“Take it into the +other room!” said he, and went into a side room with his companion, but +almost immediately came out saying that the room smoked and was cold, and +that he preferred sitting in the kitchen. He then took his seat near me, +and when the brandy was brought drank to my health. I said thank you: +but nothing farther. He then began talking to the men and his companion +upon indifferent subjects. After a little time John Jones came in, +called for a glass of ale, and at my invitation seated himself between me +and the stout personage. The latter addressed him roughly in English, +but receiving no answer said, “Ah, you no understand. You have no +English and I no Welsh.” + +“You have not mastered Welsh yet, Mr. —” said one of the men to him. + +“No!” said he: “I have been doing business with the Welsh forty years, +but can’t speak a word of their language. I sometimes guess at a word, +spoken in the course of business, but am never sure.” + +Presently John Jones began talking to me, saying that he had been to the +river, that the water was very low, and that there was little but stones +in the bed of the stream. + +I told him if its name was Ceiriog no wonder there were plenty of stones +in it, Ceiriog being derived from Cerrig, a rock. The men stared to hear +me speak Welsh. + +“Is the gentleman a Welshman?” said one of the men, near the door, to his +companion; “he seems to speak Welsh very well.” + +“How should I know?” said the other, who appeared to be a low working +man. + +“Who are those people?” said I to John Jones. + +“The smaller man is a workman at a flannel manufactory,” said Jones. +“The other I do not exactly know.” + +“And who is the man on the other side of you?” said I. + +“I believe he is an English dealer in gigs and horses,” replied Jones, +“and that he is come here either to buy or sell.” + +The man, however, soon put me out of all doubt with respect to his +profession. + +“I was at Chirk,” said he, “and Mr. So-and-so asked me to have a look at +his new gig and horse, and have a ride. I consented. They were both +brought out—everything new: gig new, harness new, and horse new. Mr. +So-and-so asked me what I thought of his turn-out. I gave a look and +said, ‘I like the car very well, harness very well, but I don’t like the +horse at all: a regular bolter, rearer, and kicker, or I’m no judge; +moreover, he’s pigeon-toed.’ However, we all got on the car—four of us, +and I was of course complimented with the ribbons. Well, we hadn’t gone +fifty yards before the horse, to make my words partly good, began to kick +like a new ’un. However, I managed him, and he went on for a couple of +miles till we got to the top of the hill, just above the descent with the +precipice on the right hand. Here he began to rear like a very devil. + +“‘O dear me!’ says Mr. So-and-so; ‘let me get out!’ + +“‘Keep where you are,’ says I, ‘I can manage him.’ + +“However, Mr. So-and-so would not be ruled, and got out; coming down, not +on his legs, but his hands and knees. And then the two others said— + +“‘Let us get out!’ + +“‘Keep where you are,’ said I, ‘I can manage him.’ + +“But they must needs get out, or rather tumble out, for they both came +down on the road hard on their backs. + +“‘Get out yourself,’ said they all, ‘and let the devil go, or you are a +done man.’ + +“‘Getting out may do for you young hands,’ says I, ‘but it won’t do for +I; neither my back nor bones will stand the hard road.’ + +“Mr. So-and-so ran to the horse’s head. + +“‘Are you mad?’ says I, ‘if you try to hold him he’ll be over the +pree-si-pice in a twinkling, and then where am I? Give him head; I can +manage him.’ + +“So Mr. So-and-so got out of the way, and down flew the horse right down +the descent, as fast as he could gallop. I tell you what, I didn’t half +like it! A pree-si-pice on my right, the rock on my left, and a devil +before me, going, like a cannon-ball, right down the hill. However, I +contrived, as I said I would, to manage him; kept the car from the rock +and from the edge of the gulf too. Well, just when we had come to the +bottom of the hill out comes the people running from the inn, almost +covering the road. + +“‘Now get out of the way,’ I shouts, ‘if you don’t wish to see your +brains knocked out, and what would be worse, mine too.’ + +“So they gets out of the way, and on I spun, I and my devil. But by this +time I had nearly taken the devil out of him. Well, he hadn’t gone fifty +yards on the level ground, when, what do you think he did? why, went +regularly over, tumbled down regularly on the road, even as I knew he +would some time or other, because why? he was pigeon-toed. Well, I gets +out of the gig, and no sooner did Mr. So-and-so come up than I says— + +“‘I likes your car very well, and I likes your harness, but — me if I +likes your horse, and it will be some time before you persuade me to +drive him again.’” + +I am a great lover of horses, and an admirer of good driving, and should +have wished to have some conversation with this worthy person about +horses and their management. I should also have wished to ask him some +questions about Wales and the Welsh, as he must have picked up a great +deal of curious information about both in his forty years’ traffic, +notwithstanding he did not know a word of Welsh, but John Jones prevented +my farther tarrying by saying that it would be as well to get over the +mountain before it was entirely dark. So I got up, paid for my ale, +vainly endeavoured to pay for that of my companion, who insisted upon +paying for what he had ordered, made a general bow, and departed from the +house, leaving the horse-dealer and the rest staring at each other and +wondering who we were, or at least who I was. We were about to ascend +the hill when John Jones asked me whether I should not like to see the +bridge and the river. I told him I should. The bridge and the river +presented nothing remarkable. The former was of a single arch; and the +latter anything but abundant in its flow. + +We now began to retrace our steps over the mountain. At first the mist +appeared to be nearly cleared away. As we proceeded, however, large +sheets began to roll up the mountain sides, and by the time we reached +the summit we were completely shrouded in vapour. The night, however, +was not very dark, and we found our way tolerably well, though once in +descending I had nearly tumbled into the nant or dingle, now on our left +hand. The bushes and trees, seen indistinctly through the mist, had +something the look of goblins, and brought to my mind the elves, which Ab +Gwilym of old saw, or thought he saw, in a somewhat similar situation:— + + “In every hollow dingle stood + Of wry-mouth’d elves a wrathful brood.” + +Drenched to the skin, but uninjured in body and limb, we at length +reached Llangollen. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Venerable Old Gentleman—Surnames in Wales—Russia and Britain—Church of +England—Yriarte—The Eagle and his Young—Poets of the Gael—The +Oxonian—Master Salisburie. + +My wife had told me that she had had some conversation upon the Welsh +language and literature with a venerable old man, who kept a shop in the +town, that she had informed him that I was very fond of both, and that he +had expressed a great desire to see me. One afternoon I said: “Let us go +and pay a visit to your old friend of the shop. I think from two or +three things which you have told me about him, that he must be worth +knowing.” We set out. She conducted me across the bridge a little way; +then presently turning to the left into the principal street, she entered +the door of a shop on the left-hand side, over the top of which was +written: “Jones; provision dealer and general merchant.” The shop was +small, with two little counters, one on each side. Behind one was a +young woman, and behind the other a venerable-looking old man. + +“I have brought my husband to visit you,” said my wife, addressing +herself to him. + +“I am most happy to see him,” said the old gentleman, making me a polite +bow. + +He then begged that we would do him the honour to walk into his parlour, +and led us into a little back room, the window of which looked out upon +the Dee a few yards below the bridge. On the left side of the room was a +large case, well stored with books. He offered us chairs, and we all sat +down. I was much struck with the old man. He was rather tall, and +somewhat inclined to corpulency. His hair was grey; his forehead high; +his nose aquiline; his eyes full of intelligence; whilst his manners were +those of a perfect gentleman. I entered into conversation by saying that +I supposed his name was Jones, as I had observed that name over the door. + +“Jones is the name I bear at your service, sir,” he replied. + +I said that it was a very common name in Wales, as I knew several people +who bore it, and observed that most of the surnames in Wales appeared to +be modifications of Christian names; for example Jones, Roberts, Edwards, +Humphreys, and likewise Pugh, Powel, and Probert, which were nothing more +than the son of Hugh, the son of Howel, and the son of Robert. He said I +was right, that there were very few real surnames in Wales; that the +three great families, however, had real surnames; for that Wynn, Morgan, +and Bulkley were all real surnames. I asked him whether the Bulkleys of +Anglesea were not originally an English family. He said they were, and +that they settled down in Anglesea in the time of Elizabeth. + +After some minutes my wife got up and left us. The old gentleman and I +had then some discourse in Welsh; we soon, however, resumed speaking +English. We got on the subject of Welsh bards, and after a good deal of +discourse the old gentleman said: + +“You seem to know something about Welsh poetry; can you tell me who wrote +the following line? + + “‘There will be great doings in Britain, and I shall have no concern + in them.’” + +“I will not be positive,” said I, “but I think from its tone and tenor +that it was composed by Merddyn, whom my countrymen call Merlin.” + +“I believe you are right,” said the old gentleman, “I see you know +something of Welsh poetry. I met the line, a long time ago, in a Welsh +grammar. It then made a great impression upon me and of late it has +always been ringing in my ears. I love Britain. Britain has just +engaged in a war with a mighty country, and I am apprehensive of the +consequences. I am old, upwards of fourscore, and shall probably not +live to see the evil, if evil happens, as I fear it will—‘There will be +strange doings in Britain, but they will not concern me.’ I cannot get +the line out of my head.” + +I told him that the line probably related to the progress of the Saxons +in Britain, but that I did not wonder that it made an impression upon him +at the present moment. I said, however, that we ran no risk from Russia; +that the only power at all dangerous to Britain was France, which though +at present leagued with her against Russia, would eventually go to war +with and strive to subdue her, and then of course Britain could expect no +help from Russia, her old friend and ally, who, if Britain had not +outraged her, would have assisted her, in any quarrel or danger, with +four or five hundred thousand men. I said that I hoped neither he nor I +should see a French invasion, but I had no doubt one would eventually +take place, and that then Britain must fight stoutly, as she had no one +to expect help from but herself; that I wished she might be able to hold +her own, but— + +“Strange things will happen in Britain, though they will concern me +nothing,” said the old gentleman with a sigh. + +On my expressing a desire to know something of his history, he told me +that he was the son of a small farmer, who resided at some distance from +Llangollen; that he lost his father at an early age, and was obliged to +work hard, even when a child, in order to assist his mother who had some +difficulty, after the death of his father, in keeping things together; +that though he was obliged to work hard he had been fond of study, and +used to pore over Welsh and English books by the glimmering light of the +turf fire at night, for that his mother could not afford to allow him +anything in the shape of a candle to read by; that at his mother’s death +he left rural labour, and coming to Llangollen, commenced business in the +little shop in which he was at present; that he had been married and had +children, but that his wife and family were dead; that the young woman +whom I had seen in the shop, and who took care of his house, was a +relation of his wife; that though he had always been attentive to +business, he had never abandoned study; that he had mastered his own +language, of which he was passionately fond, and had acquired a good +knowledge of English and of some other languages. That his fondness for +literature had shortly after his arrival at Llangollen attracted the +notice of some of the people, who encouraged him in his studies, and +assisted him by giving him books; that the two celebrated ladies of +Llangollen had particularly noticed him; that he held the situation of +church clerk for upwards of forty years, and that it was chiefly owing to +the recommendation of the “great ladies” that he had obtained it. He +then added with a sigh, that about ten years ago he was obliged to give +it up, owing to something the matter with his eyesight, which prevented +him from reading, and that his being obliged to give it up was a source +of bitter grief to him, as he had always considered it a high honour to +be permitted to assist in the service of the Church of England, in the +principles of which he had been bred, and in whose doctrines he firmly +believed. + +Here shaking him by the hand I said that I too had been bred up in the +principles of the Church of England; that I too firmly believed in its +doctrines, and would maintain with my blood, if necessary, that there was +not such another church in the world. + +“So would I,” said the old gentleman; “where is there a church in whose +liturgy there is so much Scripture as in that of the Church of England?” + +“Pity,” said I, “that so many traitors have lately sprung up in its +ministry.” + +“If it be so,” said the old church clerk, “they have not yet shown +themselves in the pulpit at Llangollen. All the clergymen who have held +the living in my time have been excellent. The present incumbent is a +model of a Church-of-England clergyman. O, how I regret that the state +of my eyes prevents me from officiating as clerk beneath him.” + +I told him that I should never from the appearance of his eyes have +imagined that they were not excellent ones. + +“I can see to walk about with them, and to distinguish objects,” said the +old gentleman; “but see to read with them I cannot. Even with the help +of the most powerful glasses I cannot distinguish a letter. I believe I +strained my eyes at a very early age, when striving to read at night by +the glimmer of the turf fire in my poor mother’s chimney corner. O what +an affliction is this state of my eyes! I can’t turn my books to any +account, nor read the newspapers; but I repeat that I chiefly lament it +because it prevents me from officiating as under preacher.” + +He showed me his books. Seeing amongst them _The Fables of Yriarte_ in +Spanish, I asked how they came into his possession. + +“They were presented to me,” said he, “by one of the ladies of +Llangollen, Lady Eleanor Butler.” + +“Have you ever read them?” said I. + +“No,” he replied; “I do not understand a word of Spanish; but I suppose +her ladyship, knowing I was fond of languages, thought that I might one +day set about learning Spanish, and that then they might be useful to +me.” + +He then asked me if I knew Spanish, and on my telling him that I had some +knowledge of that language he asked me to translate some of the fables. +I translated two of them, which pleased him much. + +I then asked if he had ever heard of a collection of Welsh fables +compiled about the year thirteen hundred. He said that he had not, and +inquired whether they had ever been printed. I told him that some had +appeared in the old Welsh magazine called _The Greal_. + +“I wish you would repeat one of them,” said the old clerk. + +“Here is one,” said I, “which particularly struck me:— + +“It is the custom of the eagle, when his young are sufficiently old, to +raise them up above his nest in the direction of the sun; and the bird +which has strength enough of eye to look right in the direction of the +sun, he keeps and nourishes, but the one which has not, he casts down +into the gulf to its destruction. So does the Lord deal with His +children, in the Catholic Church Militant: those whom He sees worthy to +serve Him in godliness and spiritual goodness He keeps with Him and +nourishes, but those who are not worthy from being addicted to earthly +things He casts out into utter darkness, where there is weeping and +gnashing of teeth.” + +The old gentleman after a moment’s reflection said it was a clever fable, +but an unpleasant one. It was hard for poor birds to be flung into a +gulf for not having power of eye sufficient to look full in the face of +the sun, and likewise hard that poor human creatures should be lost for +ever, for not doing that which they had no power to do. + +“Perhaps,” said I, “the eagle does not deal with his chicks, or the Lord +with His creatures as the fable represents.” + +“Let us hope at any rate,” said the old gentleman, “that the Lord does +not.” + +“Have you ever seen this book?” said he, and put Smith’s _Sean Dana_ into +my hand. + +“O yes,” said I, “and have gone through it. It contains poems in the +Gaelic language by Oisin and others, collected in the Highlands. I went +through it a long time ago with great attention. Some of the poems are +wonderfully beautiful.” + +“They are so,” said the old clerk. “I too have gone through the book; it +was presented to me a great many years ago by a lady to whom I gave some +lessons in the Welsh language. I went through it with the assistance of +a Gaelic grammar and dictionary which she also presented to me, and I was +struck with the high tone of the poetry.” + +“This collection is valuable indeed,” said I; “it contains poems, which +not only possess the highest merit, but serve to confirm the authenticity +of the poems of Ossian, published by Macpherson, so often called in +question. All the pieces here attributed to Ossian are written in the +same metre, tone, and spirit as those attributed to him in the other +collection, so if Macpherson’s Ossianic poems, which he said were +collected by him in the Highlands, are forgeries, Smith’s Ossianic poems, +which according to his account, were also collected in the Highlands, +must be also forged, and have been imitated from those published by the +other. Now as it is well known that Smith did not possess sufficient +poetic power to produce any imitation of Macpherson’s Ossian with a tenth +part the merit which the _Sean Dana_ possess, and that even if he had +possessed it his principles would not have allowed him to attempt to +deceive the world by imposing forgeries upon it, as the authentic poems +of another, he being a highly respectable clergyman, the necessary +conclusion is that the Ossianic poems which both published are genuine +and collected in the manner in which both stated they were.” + +After a little more discourse about Ossian the old gentleman asked me if +there was any good modern Gaelic poetry. “None very modern,” said I: +“the last great poets of the Gael were Macintyre and Buchanan, who +flourished about the middle of the last century. The first sang of love +and of Highland scenery; the latter was a religious poet. The best piece +of Macintyre is an ode to Ben Dourain, or the Hill of the Water-dogs—a +mountain in the Highlands. The masterpiece of Buchanan is his La +Breitheanas or Day of Judgment, which is equal in merit, or nearly so, to +the Cywydd y Farn or Judgment Day of your own immortal Gronwy Owen. +Singular that the two best pieces on the Day of Judgment should have been +written in two Celtic dialects, and much about the same time; but such is +the fact.” + +“Really,” said the old church clerk, “you seem to know something of +Celtic literature.” + +“A little,” said I; “I am a bit of a philologist; and when studying +languages dip a little into the literature which they contain.” + +As I had heard him say that he had occasionally given lessons in the +Welsh language, I inquired whether any of his pupils had made much +progress in it. “The generality,” said he, “soon became tired of its +difficulties, and gave it up without making any progress at all. Two or +three got on tolerably well. One however acquired it in a time so short +that it might be deemed marvellous. He was an Oxonian, and came down +with another in the vacation in order to study hard against the yearly +collegiate examination. He and his friend took lodgings at Pengwern +Hall, then a farm-house, and studied and walked about for some time, as +other young men from college, who come down here, are in the habit of +doing. One day he and his friend came to me who was then clerk, and +desired to see the interior of the church. So I took the key and went +with them into the church. When he came to the altar he took up the +large Welsh Common Prayer Book which was lying there and looked into it. + +“‘A curious language this Welsh,’ said he; ‘I should like to learn it.’ + +“‘Many have wished to learn it, without being able,’ said I; ‘it is no +easy language.’ + +“‘I should like to try,’ he replied; ‘I wish I could find some one who +would give me a few lessons.’ + +“‘I have occasionally given instructions in Welsh,’ said I, ‘and shall be +happy to oblige you.’ + +“Well, it was agreed that he should take lessons of me; and to my house +he came every evening, and I gave him what instructions I could. I was +astonished at his progress. He acquired the pronunciation in a lesson, +and within a week was able to construe and converse. By the time he left +Llangollen, and he was not here in all more than two months, he +understood the Welsh Bible as well as I did, and could speak Welsh so +well that the Welsh, who did not know him, took him to be one of +themselves, for he spoke the language with the very tone and manner of a +native. O, he was the cleverest man for language that I ever knew; not a +word that he heard did he ever forget.” + +“Just like Mezzofanti,” said I, “the great cardinal philologist. But +whilst learning Welsh, did he not neglect his collegiate studies?” + +“Well, I was rather apprehensive on that point,” said the old gentleman, +“but mark the event. At the examination he came off most brilliantly in +Latin, Greek, mathematics, and other things too; in fact, a double first +class man, as I think they call it.” + +“I have never heard of so extraordinary an individual,” said I. “I could +no more have done what you say he did, than I could have taken wings and +flown. Pray what was his name?” + +“His name,” said the old gentleman, “was Earl.” + +I was much delighted with my new acquaintance, and paid him frequent +visits; the more I saw him the more he interested me. He was kind and +benevolent, a good old Church of England Christian, was well versed in +several dialects of the Celtic, and possessed an astonishing deal of +Welsh heraldic and antiquarian lore. Often whilst discoursing with him I +almost fancied that I was with Master Salisburie, Vaughan of Hengwrt, or +some other worthy of old, deeply skilled in everything remarkable +connected with wild “Camber’s Lande.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +The Vicar and his Family—Evan Evans—Foaming Ale—Llam y +Lleidyr—Baptism—Joost Van Vondel—Over to Rome—The Miller’s Man—Welsh and +English. + +We had received a call from the Vicar of Llangollen and his lady; we had +returned it, and they had done us the kindness to invite us to take tea +with them. On the appointed evening we went, myself, wife, and +Henrietta, and took tea with the vicar and his wife, their sons and +daughters, all delightful and amiable beings—the eldest son a fine +intelligent young man from Oxford, lately admitted into the Church, and +now assisting his father in his sacred office. A delightful residence +was the vicarage, situated amongst trees in the neighbourhood of the Dee. +A large open window in the room, in which our party sat, afforded us a +view of a green plat on the top of a bank running down to the Dee, part +of the river, the steep farther bank covered with umbrageous trees, and a +high mountain beyond, even that of Pen y Coed clad with wood. During tea +Mr. E. and I had a great deal of discourse. I found him to be a +first-rate Greek and Latin scholar, and also a proficient in the poetical +literature of his own country. In the course of discourse he repeated +some noble lines of Evan Evans, the unfortunate and eccentric Prydydd +Hir, or tall poet, the friend and correspondent of Gray, for whom he made +literal translations from the Welsh, which the great English genius +afterwards wrought into immortal verse. + +“I have a great regard for poor Evan Evans,” said Mr. E., after he had +finished repeating the lines, “for two reasons: first, because he was an +illustrious genius, and second, because he was a South-Wallian like +myself.” + +“And I,” I replied, “because he was a great poet, and like myself fond of +a glass of cwrw da.” + +Some time after tea the younger Mr. E. and myself took a walk in an +eastern direction along a path cut in the bank, just above the stream. +After proceeding a little way amongst most romantic scenery I asked my +companion if he had ever heard of the pool of Catherine Lingo—the deep +pool, as the reader will please to remember, of which John Jones had +spoken. + +“O yes,” said young Mr. E.: “my brothers and myself are in the habit of +bathing there almost every morning. We will go to it if you please.” + +We proceeded, and soon came to the pool. The pool is a beautiful sheet +of water, seemingly about one hundred and fifty yards in length, by about +seventy in width. It is bounded on the east by a low ridge of rocks +forming a weir. The banks on both sides are high and precipitous, and +covered with trees, some of which shoot their arms for some way above the +face of the pool. This is said to be the deepest pool in the whole +course of the Dee, varying in depth from twenty to thirty feet. Enormous +pike, called in Welsh penhwiaid, or ducks’-heads, from the similarity +which the head of a pike bears to that of a duck, are said to be tenants +of this pool. + +We returned to the vicarage and at about ten we all sat down to supper. +On the supper-table was a mighty pitcher full of foaming ale. + +“There,” said my excellent host, as he poured me out a glass, “there is a +glass of cwrw, which Evan Evans himself might have drunk.” + +One evening my wife, Henrietta, and myself, attended by John Jones, went +upon the Berwyn a little to the east of the Geraint or Barber’s Hill to +botanize. Here we found a fern which John Jones called Coed llus y Brân, +or the plant of the Crow’s berry. There was a hard kind of berry upon +it, of which he said the crows were exceedingly fond. We also discovered +two or three other strange plants, the Welsh names of which our guide +told us, and which were curious and descriptive enough. He took us home +by a romantic path which we had never before seen, and on our way pointed +out to us a small house in which he said he was born. + +The day after, finding myself on the banks of the Dee in the upper part +of the valley, I determined to examine the Llam Lleidyr or Robber’s Leap, +which I had heard spoken of on a former occasion. A man passing near me +with a cart, I asked him where the Robber’s Leap was. I spoke in +English, and with a shake of his head he replied, “Dim Saesneg.” On my +putting the question to him in Welsh, however, his countenance brightened +up. + +“Dyna Llam Lleidyr, sir!” said he, pointing to a very narrow part of the +stream a little way down. + +“And did the thief take it from this side?” I demanded. + +“Yes, sir, from this side,” replied the man. + +I thanked him, and passing over the dry part of the river’s bed, came to +the Llam Lleidyr. The whole water of the Dee in the dry season gurgles +here through a passage not more than four feet across, which, however, is +evidently profoundly deep, as the water is as dark as pitch. If the +thief ever took the leap he must have taken it in the dry season, for in +the wet the Dee is a wide and roaring torrent. Yet even in the dry +season it is difficult to conceive how anybody could take this leap, for +on the other side is a rock rising high above the dark gurgling stream. +On observing the opposite side, however, narrowly, I perceived that there +was a small hole a little way up the rock, in which it seemed possible to +rest one’s foot for a moment. So I supposed that if the leap was ever +taken, the individual who took it darted the tip of his foot into the +hole, then springing up seized the top of the rock with his hands, and +scrambled up. From either side the leap must have been a highly +dangerous one—from the farther side the leaper would incur the almost +certain risk of breaking his legs on a ledge of hard rock, from this of +falling back into the deep, horrible stream, which would probably suck +him down in a moment. + +From the Llam y Lleidyr I went to the canal and walked along it till I +came to the house of the old man who sold coals, and who had put me in +mind of Smollett’s Morgan; he was now standing in his little coal yard, +leaning over the pales. I had spoken to him on two or three occasions +subsequent to the one on which I made his acquaintance, and had been +every time more and more struck with the resemblance which his ways and +manners bore to those of Smollett’s character, on which account I shall +call him Morgan, though such was not his name. He now told me that he +expected that I should build a villa and settle down in the +neighbourhood, as I seemed so fond of it. After a little discourse, +induced either by my questions or from a desire to talk about himself, he +related to me his history, which though not one of the most wonderful I +shall repeat. He was born near Aberdarron, in Caernarvonshire, and in +order to make me understand the position of the place, and its bearing +with regard to some other places, he drew marks in the coal-dust on the +earth. His father was a Baptist minister, who when Morgan was about six +years of age went to live at Canol Lyn, a place at some little distance +from Port Heli. With his father he continued till he was old enough to +gain his own maintenance, when he went to serve a farmer in the +neighbourhood. Having saved some money, young Morgan departed to the +foundries at Cefn Mawr, at which he worked thirty years, with an interval +of four, which he had passed partly working in slate quarries, and partly +upon the canal. About four years before the present time he came to +where he now lived, where he commenced selling coals, at first on his own +account, and subsequently for some other person. He concluded his +narration by saying that he was now sixty-two years of age, was afflicted +with various disorders, and believed that he was breaking up. + +Such was Morgan’s history; certainly not a very remarkable one. Yet +Morgan was a most remarkable individual, as I shall presently make +appear. + +Rather affected at the bad account he gave me of his health, I asked him +if he felt easy in his mind. He replied perfectly so, and when I +inquired how he came to feel so comfortable, he said that his feeling so +was owing to his baptism into the faith of Christ Jesus. On my telling +him that I too had been baptized, he asked me if I had been dipped; and +on learning that I had not, but only been sprinkled, according to the +practice of my church, he gave me to understand that my baptism was not +worth three-halfpence. Feeling rather nettled at hearing the baptism of +my church so undervalued, I stood up for it, and we were soon in a +dispute, in which I got rather the worst, for though he spuffled and +sputtered in a most extraordinary manner, and spoke in a dialect which +was neither Welsh, English, nor Cheshire, but a mixture of all three, he +said two or three things rather difficult to be got over. Finding that +he had nearly silenced me, he observed that he did not deny that I had a +good deal of book learning, but that in matters of baptism I was as +ignorant as the rest of the people of the church were, and had always +been. He then said that many church people had entered into argument +with him on the subject of baptism, but that he had got the better of +them all; that Mr. P., the minister of the parish of L., in which we then +were, had frequently entered into argument with him, but quite +unsuccessfully, and had at last given up the matter as a bad job. He +added that a little time before, as Mr. P. was walking close to the canal +with his wife and daughter and a spaniel dog, Mr. P. suddenly took up the +dog and flung it in, giving it a good ducking, whereupon he, Morgan, +cried out: “Dyna y gwir vedydd! That is the right baptism, sir! I +thought I should bring you to it at last!” at which words Mr. P. laughed +heartily, but made no particular reply. + +After a little time he began to talk about the great men who had risen up +amongst the Baptists, and mentioned two or three distinguished +individuals. + +I said that he had not mentioned the greatest man who had been born +amongst the Baptists. + +“What was his name?” said he. + +“His name was Joost Van Vondel,” I replied. + +“I never heard of him before,” said Morgan. + +“Very probably,” said I; “he was born, bred, and died in Holland.” + +“Has he been dead long?” said Morgan. + +“About two hundred years,” said I. + +“That’s a long time,” said Morgan, “and maybe is the reason that I never +heard of him. So he was a great man?” + +“He was indeed,” said I. “He was not only the greatest man that ever +sprang up amongst the Baptists, but the greatest, and by far the +greatest, that Holland ever produced, though Holland has produced a great +many illustrious men.” + +“O, I dare say he was a great man if he was a Baptist,” said Morgan. +“Well, it’s strange I never read of him. I thought I had read the lives +of all the eminent people who lived and died in our communion.” + +“He did not die in the Baptist communion,” said I. + +“Oh, he didn’t die in it,” said Morgan. “What, did he go over to the +Church of England? a pretty fellow!” + +“He did not go over to the Church of England,” said I, “for the Church of +England does not exist in Holland; he went over to the Church of Rome.” + +“Well, that’s not quite so bad,” said Morgan; “however, it’s bad enough. +I dare say he was a pretty blackguard.” + +“No,” said I; “he was a pure, virtuous character, and perhaps the only +pure and virtuous character that ever went over to Rome. The only wonder +is that so good a man could ever have gone over to so detestable a +church; but he appears to have been deluded.” + +“Deluded indeed!” said Morgan. “However, I suppose he went over for +advancement’s sake.” + +“No,” said I; “he lost every prospect of advancement by going over to +Rome: nine-tenths of his countrymen were of the reformed religion, and he +endured much poverty and contempt by the step he took.” + +“How did he support himself?” said Morgan. + +“He obtained a livelihood,” said I, “by writing poems and plays, some of +which are wonderfully fine.” + +“What,” said Morgan, “a writer of Interludes? One of Twm o’r Nant’s +gang! I thought he would turn out a pretty fellow.” I told him that the +person in question certainly did write Interludes, for example Noah, and +Joseph at Goshen, but that he was a highly respectable, nay venerable +character. + +“If he was a writer of Interludes,” said Morgan, “he was a blackguard; +there never yet was a writer of Interludes, or a person who went about +playing them, that was not a scamp. He might be a clever man, I don’t +say he was not. Who was a cleverer man than Twm o’r Nant with his +Pleasure and Care, and Riches and Poverty, but where was there a greater +blackguard? Why, not in all Wales. And if you knew this other +fellow—what’s his name—Fondle’s history, you would find that he was not a +bit more respectable than Twm o’r Nant, and not half so clever. As for +his leaving the Baptists I don’t believe a word of it; he was turned out +of the connection, and then went about the country saying he left it. No +Baptist connection would ever have a writer of Interludes in it, not Twm +o’r Nant himself, unless he left his ales and Interludes and wanton +hussies, for the three things are sure to go together. You say he went +over to the Church of Rome; of course he did, if the Church of England +were not at hand to receive him, where should he go but to Rome? No +respectable church like the Methodist or the Independent would have +received him. There are only two churches in the world that will take in +anybody without asking questions, and will never turn them out however +bad they may behave; the one is the Church of Rome, and the other the +Church of Canterbury; and if you look into the matter you will find that +every rogue, rascal, and hanged person since the world began has belonged +to one or other of those communions.” + +In the evening I took a walk with my wife and daughter past the Plas +Newydd. Coming to the little mill called the Melyn Bac, at the bottom of +the gorge, we went into the yard to observe the water-wheel. We found +that it was turned by a very little water, which was conveyed to it by +artificial means. Seeing the miller’s man, a short dusty figure, +standing in the yard, I entered into conversation with him, and found to +my great surprise that he had a considerable acquaintance with the +ancient language. On my repeating to him verses from Taliesin he +understood them, and to show me that he did translated some of the lines +into English. Two or three respectable-looking lads, probably the +miller’s sons, came out, and listened to us. One of them said we were +both good Welshmen. After a little time the man asked me if I had heard +of Huw Morris. I told him that I was well acquainted with his writings, +and inquired whether the place in which he had lived was not somewhere in +the neighbourhood. He said it was; and that it was over the mountains +not far from Llan Sanfraid. I asked whether it was not called Pont y +Meibion. He answered in the affirmative, and added that he had himself +been there, and had sat in Huw Morris’s stone chair, which was still to +be seen by the road’s side. I told him that I hoped to visit the place +in a few days. He replied that I should be quite right in doing so, and +that no one should come to these parts without visiting Pont y Meibion, +for that Huw Morris was one of the columns of the Cumry. + +“What a difference,” said I to my wife, after we had departed, “between a +Welshman and an Englishman of the lower class. What would a Suffolk +miller’s swain have said if I had repeated to him verses out of Beowulf +or even Chaucer, and had asked him about the residence of Skelton?” + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +Huw Morris—Immortal Elegy—The Valley of Ceiriog—Tangled +Wilderness—Perplexity—Chair of Huw Morris—The Walking-stick—Huw’s +Descendant—Pont y Meibion. + +Two days after the last adventure I set off, over the Berwyn, to visit +the birth-place of Huw Morris under the guidance of John Jones, who was +well acquainted with the spot. + +Huw Morus or Morris, was born in the year 1622 on the banks of the +Ceiriog. His life was a long one, for he died at the age of eighty-four, +after living in six reigns. He was the second son of a farmer, and was +apprenticed to a tanner, with whom, however, he did not stay till the +expiration of the term of his apprenticeship, for not liking the tanning +art, he speedily returned to the house of his father, whom he assisted in +husbandry till death called the old man away. He then assisted his elder +brother, and on his elder brother’s death, lived with his son. He did +not distinguish himself as a husbandman, and appears never to have been +fond of manual labour. At an early period, however, he applied himself +most assiduously to poetry, and before he had attained the age of thirty +was celebrated, throughout Wales, as the best poet of his time. When the +war broke out between Charles and his parliament, Huw espoused the part +of the king, not as a soldier, for he appears to have liked fighting +little better than tanning or husbandry, but as a poet, and probably did +the king more service in that capacity, than he would if he had raised +him a troop of horse, or a regiment of foot, for he wrote songs breathing +loyalty to Charles, and fraught with pungent satire against his foes, +which ran like wild fire through Wales, and had a great influence on the +minds of the people. Even when the royal cause was lost in the field, he +still carried on a poetical war against the successful party, but not so +openly as before, dealing chiefly in allegories, which, however, were +easy to be understood. Strange to say the Independents, when they had +the upper hand, never interfered with him, though they persecuted certain +Royalist poets of far inferior note. On the accession of Charles the +Second he celebrated the event by a most singular piece called the +Lamentation of Oliver’s men, in which he assails the Roundheads with the +most bitter irony. He was loyal to James the Second, till that monarch +attempted to overthrow the Church of England, when Huw, much to his +credit, turned against him, and wrote songs in the interest of the +glorious Prince of Orange. He died in the reign of good Queen Anne. In +his youth his conduct was rather dissolute, but irreproachable and almost +holy in his latter days—a kind of halo surrounded his old brow. It was +the custom in those days in North Wales for the congregation to leave the +church in a row with the clergyman at their head, but so great was the +estimation in which old Huw was universally held, for the purity of his +life and his poetical gift, that the clergyman of the parish abandoning +his claim to precedence, always insisted on the good and inspired old +man’s leading the file, himself following immediately in his rear. Huw +wrote on various subjects, mostly in common and easily understood +measures. He was great in satire, great in humour, but when he pleased +could be greater in pathos than in either; for his best piece is an elegy +on Barbara Middleton, the sweetest song of the kind ever written. From +his being born on the banks of the brook Ceiriog, and from the flowing +melody of his awen or muse, his countrymen were in the habit of calling +him Eos Ceiriog, or the Ceiriog Nightingale. + +So John Jones and myself set off across the Berwyn to visit the +birth-place of the great poet Huw Morris. We ascended the mountain by +Allt Paddy. The morning was lowering, and before we had half got to the +top it began to rain. John Jones was in his usual good spirits. +Suddenly taking me by the arm he told me to look to the right across the +gorge to a white house, which he pointed out. + +“What is there in that house?” said I. + +“An aunt of mine lives there,” said he. + +Having frequently heard him call old women his aunts, I said, “Every poor +old woman in the neighbourhood seems to be your aunt.” + +“This is no poor old woman,” said he, “she is cyfoethawg iawn, and only +last week she sent me and my family a pound of bacon, which would have +cost me sixpence-halfpenny, and about a month ago a measure of wheat.” + +We passed over the top of the mountain, and descending the other side, +reached Llansanfraid, and stopped at the public-house where we had been +before, and called for two glasses of ale. Whilst drinking our ale Jones +asked some questions about Huw Morris of the woman who served us; she +said that he was a famous poet, and that people of his blood were yet +living upon the lands which had belonged to him at Pont y Meibion. Jones +told her that his companion, the gwr boneddig, meaning myself, had come +in order to see the birthplace of Huw Morris, and that I was well +acquainted with his works, having gotten them by heart in Lloegr, when a +boy. The woman said that nothing would give her greater pleasure than to +hear a Sais recite poetry of Huw Morris, whereupon I recited a number of +his lines addressed to the Gôf Du, or blacksmith. The woman held up her +hands, and a carter who was in the kitchen, somewhat the worse for +liquor, shouted applause. After asking a few questions as to the road we +were to take, we left the house, and in a little time entered the valley +of Ceiriog. The valley is very narrow, huge hills overhanging it on both +sides, those on the east side lumpy and bare, those on the west +precipitous, and partially clad with wood; the torrent Ceiriog runs down +it, clinging to the east side; the road is tolerably good, and is to the +west of the stream. Shortly after we had entered the gorge, we passed by +a small farm-house on our right hand, with a hawthorn hedge before it, +upon which seems to stand a peacock, curiously cut out of thorn. Passing +on we came to a place called Pandy uchaf, or the higher Fulling mill. +The place so called is a collection of ruinous houses, which put me in +mind of the Fulling mills mentioned in Don Quixote. It is called the +Pandy because there was formerly a fulling mill here, said to have been +the first established in Wales; which is still to be seen, but which is +no longer worked. Just above the old mill there is a meeting of streams: +the Tarw from the west rolls down a dark valley into the Ceiriog. + +At the entrance of this valley and just before you reach the Pandy, which +it nearly overhangs, is an enormous crag. After I had looked at the +place for some time with considerable interest we proceeded towards the +south, and in about twenty minutes reached a neat kind of house, on our +right hand, which John Jones told me stood on the ground of Huw Morris. +Telling me to wait, he went to the house, and asked some questions. +After a little time I followed him and found him discoursing at the door +with a stout dame about fifty-five years of age, and a stout buxom damsel +of about seventeen, very short of stature. + +“This is the gentleman,” said he, “who wishes to see anything there may +be here connected with Huw Morris.” + +The old dame made me a curtsey and said in very distinct Welsh, “We have +some things in the house which belonged to him, and we will show them to +the gentleman willingly.” + +“We first of all wish to see his chair,” said John Jones. + +“The chair is in a wall in what is called the hen ffordd (old road),” +said the old gentlewoman; “it is cut out of the stone wall; you will have +maybe some difficulty in getting to it, but the girl shall show it to +you.” The girl now motioned to us to follow her, and conducted us across +the road to some stone steps, over a wall to a place which looked like a +plantation. + +“This was the old road,” said Jones; “but the place has been enclosed. +The new road is above us on our right hand beyond the wall.” + +We were in a maze of tangled shrubs, the boughs of which, very wet from +the rain which was still falling, struck our faces, as we attempted to +make our way between them; the girl led the way, bare-headed and +bare-armed, and soon brought us to the wall, the boundary of the new +road. Along this she went with considerable difficulty, owing to the +tangled shrubs, and the nature of the ground, which was very precipitous, +shelving down to the other side of the enclosure. In a little time we +were wet to the skin, and covered with the dirt of birds, which they had +left whilst roosting in the trees; on went the girl, sometimes creeping, +and trying to keep herself from falling by holding against the young +trees; once or twice she fell and we after her, for there was no path, +and the ground, as I have said before, very shelvy; still as she went her +eyes were directed towards the wall, which was not always very easy to be +seen, for thorns, tall nettles, and shrubs were growing up against it. +Here and there she stopped, and said something, which I could not always +make out, for her Welsh was anything but clear; at length I heard her say +that she was afraid we had passed the chair, and indeed presently we came +to a place where the enclosure terminated in a sharp corner. + +“Let us go back,” said I; “we must have passed it.” + +I now went first, breaking down with my weight the shrubs nearest to the +wall. + +“Is not this the place?” said I, pointing to a kind of hollow in the +wall, which looked something like the shape of a chair. + +“Hardly,” said the girl, “for there should be a slab, on the back, with +letters, but there’s neither slab nor letters here.” + +The girl now again went forward, and we retraced our way, doing the best +we could to discover the chair, but all to no purpose; no chair was to be +found. We had now been, as I imagined, half-an-hour in the enclosure, +and had nearly got back to the place from which we had set out, when we +suddenly heard the voice of the old lady exclaiming, “What are ye doing +there?—the chair is on the other side of the field; wait a bit, and I +will come and show it you.” Getting over the stone stile, which led into +the wilderness, she came to us, and we now went along the wall at the +lower end; we had quite as much difficulty here, as on the other side, +and in some places more, for the nettles were higher, the shrubs more +tangled, and the thorns more terrible. The ground, however, was rather +more level. I pitied the poor girl who led the way and whose fat naked +arms were both stung and torn. She at last stopped amidst a huge grove +of nettles, doing the best she could to shelter her arms from the +stinging leaves. + +“I never was in such a wilderness in my life,” said I to John Jones, “is +it possible that the chair of the mighty Huw is in a place like this; +which seems never to have been trodden by human foot. Well does the +Scripture say ‘Dim prophwyd yw yn cael barch yn ei dir ei hunan.’” + +This last sentence tickled the fancy of my worthy friend, the Calvinistic +Methodist; he laughed aloud and repeated it over and over again to the +females with amplifications. + +“Is the chair really here,” said I, “or has it been destroyed? if such a +thing has been done it is a disgrace to Wales.” + +“The chair is really here,” said the old lady, “and though Huw Morus was +no prophet, we love and reverence everything belonging to him. Get on, +Llances, the chair can’t be far off;” the girl moved on, and presently +the old lady exclaimed “There’s the chair, Diolch i Duw!” + +I was the last of the file, but I now rushed past John Jones, who was +before me, and next to the old lady, and sure enough there was the chair, +in the wall, of him who was called in his day, and still is called by the +mountaineers of Wales, though his body has been below the earth in the +quiet church-yard, one hundred and forty years, Eos Ceiriog, the +Nightingale of Ceiriog, the sweet caroller Huw Morus, the enthusiastic +partizan of Charles, and the Church of England, and the never-tiring +lampooner of Oliver and the Independents, there it was, a kind of hollow +in the stone wall, in the hen ffordd, fronting to the west, just above +the gorge at the bottom of which murmurs the brook Ceiriog, there it was, +something like a half-barrel chair in a garden, a mouldering stone slab +forming the seat, and a large slate stone, the back, on which were cut +these letters— + + H. M. B. + +signifying Huw Morus Bard. + +“Sit down in the chair, Gwr Boneddig,” said John Jones, “you have taken +trouble enough to get to it.” + +“Do, gentleman,” said the old lady; “but first let me wipe it with my +apron, for it is very wet and dirty.” + +“Let it be,” said I; then taking off my hat I stood uncovered before the +chair, and said in the best Welsh I could command, “Shade of Huw Morus, +supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when +alive—a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this +place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever +ready to pay. He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the +most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that +he is a grey-haired man he is come to say in this place that they +frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture.” + +I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw +Morris. All which I did in the presence of the stout old lady, the +short, buxom, and bare-armed damsel, and of John Jones, the Calvinistic +weaver of Llangollen, all of whom listened patiently and approvingly +though the rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees +and the tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain +hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at +by the noble, simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may +receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon. + +After some time our party returned to the house—which put me very much in +mind of the farm-houses of the substantial yeomen of Cornwall, +particularly that of my friends at Penquite; a comfortable fire blazed in +the kitchen grate, the floor was composed of large flags of slate. In +the kitchen the old lady pointed to me the ffon, or walking-stick, of Huw +Morris; it was supported against a beam by three hooks. I took it down +and walked about the kitchen with it; it was a thin polished black stick, +with a crome cut in the shape of an eagle’s head; at the end was a brass +fence. The kind creature then produced a sword without a scabbard; this +sword was found by Huw Morris on the mountain—it belonged to one of +Oliver’s officers who was killed there. I took the sword, which was a +thin two-edged one, and seemed to be made of very good steel. It put me +in mind of the blades which I had seen at Toledo—the guard was very +slight like those of all rapiers, and the hilt the common old-fashioned +English officer’s hilt; there was no rust on the blade, and it still +looked a dangerous sword. A man like Thistlewood would have whipped it +through his adversary in a twinkling. I asked the old lady if Huw Morris +was born in this house; she said no, but a little farther on at Pont y +Meibion; she said, however, that the ground had belonged to him, and that +they had some of his blood in their veins. I shook her by the hand, and +gave the chubby bare-armed damsel a shilling, pointing to the marks of +the nettle stings on her fat bacon-like arms; she laughed, made me a +curtsey and said, “Llawer iawn o diolch.” + +John Jones and I then proceeded to the house at Pont y Meibion, where we +saw two men, one turning a grindstone, and the other holding an adze to +it. We asked if we were at the house of Huw Morris, and whether they +could tell us anything about him; they made us no answer but proceeded +with their occupation; John Jones then said that the Gwr Boneddig was +very fond of the verses of Huw Morris, and had come a great way to see +the place where he was born—the wheel now ceased turning, and the man +with the adze turned his face full upon me—he was a stern-looking, dark +man, with black hair, of about forty; after a moment or two he said, that +if I chose to walk into the house, I should be welcome. He then +conducted us into the house, a common-looking stone tenement, and bade us +be seated. I asked him if he was a descendant of Huw Morus; he said he +was; I asked him his name, which he said was Huw —. “Have you any of the +manuscripts of Huw Morus?” said I. + +“None,” said he; “but I have one of the printed copies of his works.” + +He then went to a drawer, and taking out a book, put it into my hand, and +seated himself in a blunt, careless manner. The book was the first +volume of the common Wrexham edition of Huw’s works; it was much +thumbed—I commenced reading aloud a piece which I had much admired in my +boyhood. I went on for some time, my mind quite occupied with my +reading; at last lifting up my eyes, I saw the man standing bolt upright +before me, like a soldier of the days of my childhood, during the time +that the adjutant read prayers; his hat was no longer upon his head, but +on the ground, and his eyes were reverently inclined to the book. After +all, what a beautiful thing it is, not to be, but to have been a genius. +Closing the book, I asked him whether Huw Morris was born in the house +where we were, and received for answer that he was born about where we +stood, but that the old house had been pulled down, and that of all the +premises only a small outhouse was coeval with Huw Morris. I asked him +the name of the house, and he said Pont y Meibion. “But where is the +bridge?” said I. + +“The bridge,” he replied, “is close by, over the Ceiriog. If you wish to +see it, you must go down yon field; the house is called after the +bridge.” + +Bidding him farewell, we crossed the road, and going down the field +speedily arrived at Pont y Meibion. The bridge is a small bridge of one +arch which crosses the brook Ceiriog; it is built of rough moor stone; it +is mossy, broken, and looks almost inconceivably old; there is a little +parapet to it about two feet high. On the right-hand side it is shaded +by an ash. The brook, when we viewed it, though at times a roaring +torrent, was stealing along gently. On both sides it is overgrown with +alders; noble hills rise above it to the east and west; John Jones told +me that it abounded with trout. I asked him why the bridge was called +Pont y Meibion, which signifies the bridge of the children. “It was +built originally by children,” said he, “for the purpose of crossing the +brook.” + +“That bridge,” said I, “was never built by children.” + +“The first bridge,” said he, “was of wood, and was built by the children +of the houses above.” + +Not quite satisfied with his explanation, I asked him to what place the +road across the little bridge led, and was told that he believed it led +to an upland farm. After taking a long and wistful view of the bridge +and the scenery around it, I turned my head in the direction of +Llangollen. The adventures of the day were, however, not finished. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +The Gloomy Valley—The Lonely Cottage—Happy Comparison—Clogs—the Alder +Swamp—The Wooden Leg—The Militiaman—Death-bed Verses. + +On reaching the ruined village where the Pandy stood I stopped, and +looked up the gloomy valley to the west, down which the brook which joins +the Ceiriog at this place descends, whereupon John Jones said, that if I +wished to go up it a little way he should have great pleasure in +attending me, and that he would show me a cottage built in the hen ddull, +or old fashion, to which he frequently went to ask for the rent; he being +employed by various individuals in the capacity of rent-gatherer. I said +that I was afraid that if he was a rent-collector, both he and I should +have a sorry welcome. “No fear,” he replied, “the people are very good +people, and pay their rent very regularly,” and without saying another +word he led the way up the valley. At the end of the village, seeing a +woman standing at the door of one of the ruinous cottages, I asked her +the name of the brook, or torrent, which came down the valley. “The +Tarw,” said she, “and this village is called Pandy Teirw.” + +“Why is the streamlet called the bull?” said I. “Is it because it comes +in winter weather roaring down the glen and butting at the Ceiriog?” + +The woman laughed, and replied that perhaps it was. The valley was wild +and solitary to an extraordinary degree, the brook or torrent running in +the middle of it covered with alder trees. After we had proceeded about +a furlong we reached the house of the old fashion. It was a rude stone +cottage standing a little above the road on a kind of platform on the +right-hand side of the glen; there was a paling before it with a gate, at +which a pig was screaming, as if anxious to get in. “It wants its +dinner,” said John Jones, and opened the gate for me to pass, taking +precautions that the screamer did not enter at the same time. We entered +the cottage, very glad to get into it, a storm of wind and rain having +just come on. Nobody was in the kitchen when we entered. It looked +comfortable enough, however; there was an excellent fire of wood and +coals, and a very snug chimney-corner. John Jones called aloud, but for +some time no one answered; at last a rather good-looking woman, seemingly +about thirty, made her appearance at a door at the farther end of the +kitchen. “Is the mistress at home,” said Jones, “or the master?” + +“They are neither at home,” said the woman; “the master is abroad at his +work, and the mistress is at the farm-house of — three miles off, to pick +feathers (trwsio plu).” She asked us to sit down. + +“And who are you?” said I. + +“I am only a lodger,” said she; “I lodge here with my husband, who is a +clog-maker.” + +“Can you speak English?” said I. + +“O yes,” said she, “I lived eleven years in England, at a place called +Bolton, where I married my husband, who is an Englishman.” + +“Can he speak Welsh?” said I. + +“Not a word,” said she. “We always speak English together.” + +John Jones sat down, and I looked about the room. It exhibited no +appearance of poverty; there was plenty of rude but good furniture in it; +several pewter plates and trenchers in a rack, two or three prints in +frames against the wall, one of which was the likeness of no less a +person than the Rev. Joseph Sanders; on the table was a newspaper. “Is +that in Welsh?” said I. + +“No,” replied the woman, “it is the _Bolton Chronicle_; my husband reads +it.” + +I sat down in the chimney-corner. The wind was now howling abroad, and +the rain was beating against the cottage panes—presently a gust of wind +came down the chimney, scattering sparks all about. “A cataract of +sparks!” said I, using the word Rhaiadr. + +“What is Rhaiadr?” said the woman; “I never heard the word before.” + +“Rhaiadr means water tumbling over a rock,” said John Jones—“did you +never see water tumble over the top of a rock?” + +“Frequently,” said she. + +“Well,” said he, “even as the water with its froth tumbles over the rock, +so did sparks and fire tumble over the front of that grate when the wind +blew down the chimney. It was a happy comparison of the Gwr Boneddig, +and with respect to Rhaiadr it is a good old word, though not a common +one; some of the Saxons who have read the old writings, though they +cannot speak the language as fast as we, understand many words and things +which we do not.” + +“I forgot much of my Welsh, in the land of the Saxons,” said the woman, +“and so have many others; there are plenty of Welsh at Bolton, but their +Welsh is sadly corrupted.” + +She then went out and presently returned with an infant in her arms and +sat down. “Was that child born in Wales?” I demanded. + +“No,” said she, “he was born at Bolton about eighteen months ago—we have +been here only a year.” + +“Do many English,” said I, “marry Welsh wives?” + +“A great many,” said she. “Plenty of Welsh girls are married to +Englishmen at Bolton.” + +“Do the Englishmen make good husbands?” said I. + +The woman smiled and presently sighed. + +“Her husband,” said Jones, “is fond of a glass of ale and is often at the +public-house.” + +“I make no complaint,” said the woman, looking somewhat angrily at John +Jones. + +“Is your husband a tall bulky man?” said I. + +“Just so,” said the woman. + +“The largest of the two men we saw the other night at the public-house at +Llansanfraid,” said I to John Jones. + +“I don’t know him,” said Jones, “though I have heard of him, but I have +no doubt that was he.” + +I asked the woman how her husband could carry on the trade of a +clog-maker in such a remote place—and also whether he hawked his clogs +about the country. + +“We call him a clog-maker,” said the woman, “but the truth is that he +merely cuts down the wood and fashions it into squares; these are taken +by an under-master who sends them to the manufacturer at Bolton, who +employs hands, who make them into clogs.” + +“Some of the English,” said Jones, “are so poor that they cannot afford +to buy shoes; a pair of shoes cost ten or twelve shillings, whereas a +pair of clogs cost only two.” + +“I suppose,” said I, “that what you call clogs are wooden shoes.” + +“Just so,” said Jones—“they are principally used in the neighbourhood of +Manchester.” + +“I have seen them at Huddersfield,” said I, “when I was a boy at school +there; of what wood are they made?” + +“Of the gwern, or alder tree,” said the woman, “of which there is plenty +on both sides of the brook.” + +John Jones now asked her if she could give him a tamaid of bread; she +said she could, “and some butter with it.” + +She then went out, and presently returned with a loaf and some butter. + +“Had you not better wait,” said I, “till we get to the inn at +Llansanfraid?” + +The woman, however, begged him to eat some bread and butter where he was, +and cutting a plateful, placed it before him, having first offered me +some, which I declined. + +“But you have nothing to drink with it,” said I to him. + +“If you please,” said the woman, “I will go for a pint of ale to the +public-house at the Pandy; there is better ale there than at the inn at +Llansanfraid. When my husband goes to Llansanfraid he goes less for the +ale than for the conversation, because there is little English spoken at +the Pandy, however good the ale.” + +John Jones said he wanted no ale—and attacking the bread and butter +speedily made an end of it; by the time he had done the storm was over, +and getting up I gave the child twopence, and left the cottage with +Jones. We proceeded some way farther up the valley, till we came to a +place where the ground descended a little. Here Jones, touching me on +the shoulder, pointed across the stream. Following with my eye the +direction of his finger, I saw two or three small sheds with a number of +small reddish blocks, in regular piles beneath them. Several trees +felled from the side of the torrent were lying near, some of them +stripped of their arms and bark. A small tree formed a bridge across the +brook to the sheds. + +“It is there,” said John Jones, “that the husband of the woman with whom +we have been speaking works, felling trees from the alder swamp and +cutting them up into blocks. I see there is no work going on at present +or we would go over—the woman told me that her husband was at +Llangollen.” + +“What a strange place to come to work at,” said I, “out of crowded +England. Here is nothing to be heard but the murmuring of waters and the +rushing of wind down the gulleys. If the man’s head is not full of +poetical fancies, which I suppose it is not, as in that case he would be +unfit for any useful employment, I don’t wonder at his occasionally going +to the public-house.” + +After going a little farther up the glen and observing nothing more +remarkable than we had seen already, we turned back. Being overtaken by +another violent shower just as we reached the Pandy I thought that we +could do no better than shelter ourselves within the public-house, and +taste the ale, which the wife of the clog-maker had praised. We entered +the little hostelry which was one of two or three shabby-looking houses, +standing in contact, close by the Ceiriog. In a kind of little back +room, lighted by a good fire and a window, which looked up the Ceiriog +valley, we found the landlady, a gentlewoman with a wooden leg, who on +perceiving me got up from a chair, and made me the best curtsey that I +ever saw made by a female with such a substitute for a leg of flesh and +bone. There were three men, sitting with jugs of ale near them on a +table by the fire, two were seated on a bench by the wall, and the other +on a settle with a high back, which ran from the wall just by the door, +and shielded those by the fire from the draughts of the doorway. He of +the settle no sooner beheld me than he sprang up and placing a chair for +me by the fire bade me in English be seated, and then resumed his own +seat. John Jones soon finding a chair came and sat down by me, when I +forthwith called for a quart of cwrw da. The landlady bustled about on +her wooden leg and presently brought us the ale with two glasses, which I +filled, and taking one, drank to the health of the company, who returned +us thanks, the man of the settle in English rather broken. Presently one +of his companions, getting up, paid his reckoning and departed, the other +remained, a stout young fellow dressed something like a stone-mason, +which indeed I soon discovered that he was—he was far advanced towards a +state of intoxication and talked very incoherently about the war, saying +that he hoped it would soon terminate for that if it continued he was +afraid he might stand a chance of being shot, as he was a private in the +Denbighshire Militia. I told him that it was the duty of every gentleman +in the militia, to be willing at all times to lay down his life in the +service of the Queen. The answer which he made I could not exactly +understand, his utterance being very indistinct, and broken; it was, +however, made with some degree of violence, with two or three Myn Diawls, +and a blow on the table with his clenched fist. He then asked me whether +I thought the militia would be again called out. “Nothing more +probable,” said I. + +“And where would they be sent to?” + +“Perhaps to Ireland,” was my answer, whereupon he started up with another +Myn Diawl, expressing the greatest dread of being sent to Iwerddon. + +“You ought to rejoice in your chance of going there,” said I, “Iwerddon +is a beautiful country, and abounds with whiskey.” + +“And the Irish?” said he. + +“Hearty, jolly fellows,” said I, “if you know how to manage them, and all +gentlemen.” + +Here he became very violent, saying that I did not speak truth, for that +he had seen plenty of Irish camping amidst the hills, that the men were +half naked and the women were three parts so, and that they carried their +children on their backs. He then said that he hoped somebody would +speedily kill Nicholas, in order that the war might be at an end and +himself not sent to Iwerddon. He then asked if I thought Cronstadt could +be taken. I said I believed it could, provided the hearts of those who +were sent to take it were in the right place. + +“Where do you think the hearts of those are who are gone against it?” +said he—speaking with great vehemence. + +I made no other answer than by taking my glass and drinking. + +His companion now looking at our habiliments, which were in rather a +dripping condition, asked John Jones if he had come from far. + +“We have been to Pont y Meibion,” said Jones, “to see the chair of Huw +Morris,” adding that the Gwr Boneddig was a great admirer of the songs of +the Eos Ceiriog. + +He had no sooner said these words than the intoxicated militiaman started +up, and striking the table with his fist, said: “I am a poor +stone-cutter—this is a rainy day and I have come here to pass it in the +best way I can. I am somewhat drunk, but though I am a poor stone-mason, +a private in the militia, and not so sober as I should be, I can repeat +more of the songs of the Eos than any man alive, however great a +gentleman, however sober—more than Sir Watkin, more than Colonel Biddulph +himself.” + +He then began to repeat what appeared to be poetry, for I could +distinguish the rhymes occasionally, though owing to his broken utterance +it was impossible for me to make out the sense of the words. Feeling a +great desire to know what verses of Huw Morris the intoxicated youth +would repeat I took out my pocket-book and requested Jones, who was much +better acquainted with Welsh pronunciation, under any circumstances, than +myself, to endeavour to write down from the mouth of the young fellow any +verses uppermost in his mind. Jones took the pocket-book and pencil and +went to the window, followed by the young man scarcely able to support +himself. Here a curious scene took place, the drinker hiccuping up +verses, and Jones dotting them down, in the best manner he could, though +he had evidently great difficulty to distinguish what was said to him. +At last, methought, the young man said—“There they are, the verses of the +Nightingale, on his death-bed.” + +I took the book and read aloud the following lines beautifully +descriptive of the eagerness of a Christian soul to leave its perishing +tabernacle, and get to Paradise and its Creator:— + + “Myn’d i’r wyl ar redeg, + I’r byd a beryi chwaneg, + I Beradwys, y ber wiw deg, + Yn Enw Duw yn union deg.” + +“Do you understand those verses?” said the man on the settle, a dark +swarthy fellow with an oblique kind of vision, and dressed in a +pepper-and-salt coat. + +“I will translate them,” said I; and forthwith put them into +English—first into prose and then into rhyme, the rhymed version running +thus:— + + “‘Now to my rest I hurry away, + To the world which lasts for ever and aye, + To Paradise, the beautiful place, + Trusting alone in the Lord of Grace.’” + +“Well,” said he of the pepper-and-salt, “if that isn’t capital I don’t +know what is.” + +A scene in a public-house, yes! but in a Welsh public-house. Only think +of a Suffolk toper repeating the death-bed verses of a poet; surely there +is a considerable difference between the Celt and the Saxon. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +Llangollen Fair—Buyers and Sellers—The Jockey—The Greek Cap. + +On the twenty-first was held Llangollen Fair. The day was dull with +occasional showers. I went to see the fair about noon. It was held in +and near a little square in the south-east quarter of the town, of which +square the police-station is the principal feature on the side of the +west, and an inn, bearing the sign of the Grapes, on the east. The fair +was a little bustling fair, attended by plenty of people from the +country, and from the English border, and by some who appeared to come +from a greater distance than the border. A dense row of carts extended +from the police-station, half across the space. These carts were filled +with pigs, and had stout cord nettings drawn over them, to prevent the +animals escaping. By the sides of these carts the principal business of +the fair appeared to be going on—there stood the owners male and female, +higgling with Llangollen men and women, who came to buy. The pigs were +all small, and the price given seemed to vary from eighteen to +twenty-five shillings. Those who bought pigs generally carried them away +in their arms; and then there was no little diversion; dire was the +screaming of the porkers, yet the purchaser invariably appeared to know +how to manage his bargain, keeping the left arm round the body of the +swine and with the right hand fast griping the ear—some few were led away +by strings. There were some Welsh cattle, small of course, and the +purchasers of these seemed to be Englishmen, tall burly fellows in +general, far exceeding the Welsh in height and size. + +Much business in the cattle-line did not seem, however, to be going on. +Now and then a big fellow made an offer, and held out his hand for a +little Pictish grazier to give it a slap—a cattle bargain being concluded +by a slap of the hand—but the Welshman generally turned away, with a +half-resentful exclamation. There were a few horses and ponies in a +street leading into the fair from the south. + +I saw none sold, however. A tall athletic figure was striding amongst +them, evidently a jockey and a stranger, looking at them and occasionally +asking a slight question of one or another of their proprietors, but he +did not buy. He might in age be about eight-and-twenty, and about six +feet and three-quarters of an inch in height; in build he was perfection +itself—a better-built man I never saw. He wore a cap and a brown jockey +coat, trowsers, leggings and highlows, and sported a single spur. He had +whiskers—all jockeys should have whiskers—but he had what I did not like, +and what no genuine jockey should have, a moustache, which looks +coxcombical and Frenchified—but most things have terribly changed since I +was young. Three or four hardy-looking fellows, policemen, were gliding +about in their blue coats and leather hats, holding their thin +walking-sticks behind them; conspicuous amongst whom was the leader, a +tall lathy North Briton with a keen eye and hard features. Now if I add +there was much gabbling of Welsh round about, and here and there some +slight sawing of English—that in the street leading from the north there +were some stalls of gingerbread and a table at which a queer-looking +being with a red Greek-looking cap on his head, sold rhubarb, herbs, and +phials containing the Lord knows what, and who spoke a low vulgar English +dialect,—I repeat, if I add this, I think I have said all that is +necessary about Llangollen Fair. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +An Expedition—Pont y Pandy—The Sabbath—Glendower’s Mount—Burial-place of +Old—Corwen—The Deep Glen—The Grandmother—The Roadside Chapel. + +I was now about to leave Llangollen, for a short time, and to set out on +an expedition to Bangor, Snowdon, and one or two places in Anglesea. I +had determined to make the journey on foot, in order that I might have +perfect liberty of action, and enjoy the best opportunities of seeing the +country. My wife and daughter were to meet me at Bangor, to which place +they would repair by the railroad, and from which, after seeing some of +the mountain districts, they would return to Llangollen by the way they +came, where I proposed to rejoin them, returning, however, by a different +way from the one I went, that I might traverse new districts. About +eleven o’clock of a brilliant Sunday morning I left Llangollen, after +reading the morning-service of the Church to my family. I set out on a +Sunday because I was anxious to observe the general demeanour of the +people, in the interior of the country, on the Sabbath. + +I directed my course towards the west, to the head of the valley. My +wife and daughter after walking with me about a mile bade me farewell, +and returned. Quickening my pace I soon left Llangollen valley behind me +and entered another vale, along which the road which I was following, and +which led to Corwen and other places, might be seen extending for miles. +Lumpy hills were close upon my left, the Dee running noisily between +steep banks, fringed with trees, was on my right; beyond it rose hills +which form part of the wall of the vale of Clwyd; their tops bare, but +their sides pleasantly coloured with yellow corn-fields and woods of dark +verdure. About an hour’s walking, from the time when I entered the +valley, brought me to a bridge over a gorge, down which water ran to the +Dee. I stopped and looked over the side of the bridge nearest to the +hill. A huge rock about forty feet long, by twenty broad, occupied the +entire bed of the gorge, just above the bridge, with the exception of a +little gullet to the right, down which between the rock and a high bank, +on which stood a cottage, a run of water purled and brawled. The rock +looked exactly like a huge whale lying on its side, with its back turned +towards the runnel. Above it was a glen with trees. After I had been +gazing a little time a man making his appearance at the door of the +cottage just beyond the bridge, I passed on, and drawing nigh to him, +after a slight salutation, asked him in English the name of the bridge. + +“The name of the bridge, sir,” said the man, in very good English, “is +Pont y Pandy.” + +“Does not that mean the bridge of the fulling mill?” + +“I believe it does, sir,” said the man. + +“Is there a fulling mill near?” + +“No, sir, there was one some time ago, but it is now a sawing mill.” + +Here a woman, coming out, looked at me steadfastly. + +“Is that gentlewoman your wife?” + +“She is no gentlewoman, sir, but she is my wife.” + +“Of what religion are you?” + +“We are Calvinistic Methodists, sir.” + +“Have you been to chapel?” + +“We are just returned, sir.” + +Here the woman said something to her husband, which I did not hear, but +the purport of which I guessed from the following question which he +immediately put. + +“Have you been to chapel, sir?” + +“I do not go to chapel; I belong to the Church.” + +“Have you been to church, sir?” + +“I have not—I said my prayers at home, and then walked out.” + +“It is not right to walk out on the Sabbath day, except to go to church +or chapel.” + +“Who told you so?” + +“The law of God, which says you shall keep holy the Sabbath day.” + +“I am not keeping it unholy.” + +“You are walking about, and in Wales when we see a person walking idly +about, on the Sabbath day, we are in the habit of saying Sabbath breaker; +where are you going?” + +“The Son of Man walked through the fields on the Sabbath day, why should +I not walk along the roads?” + +“He who called Himself the Son of Man was God, and could do what He +pleased, but you are not God.” + +“But He came in the shape of a man to set an example. Had there been +anything wrong in walking about on the Sabbath day, He would not have +done it.” + +Here the wife exclaimed, “How worldly-wise these English are!” + +“You do not like the English,” said I. + +“We do not dislike them,” said the woman; “at present they do us no harm, +whatever they did of old.” + +“But you still consider them,” said I, “the seed of Y Sarfes cadwynog, +the coiling serpent.” + +“I should be loth to call any people the seed of the serpent,” said the +woman. + +“But one of your great bards did,” said I. + +“He must have belonged to the Church, and not to the chapel then,” said +the woman. “No person who went to chapel would have used such bad +words.” + +“He lived,” said I, “before people were separated into those of the +Church, and the chapel; did you ever hear of Taliesin Ben Beirdd?” + +“I never did,” said the woman. + +“But I have,” said the man; “and of Owain Glendower too.” + +“Do people talk much of Owen Glendower in these parts?” said I. + +“Plenty,” said the man, “and no wonder, for when he was alive he was much +about here—some way farther on there is a mount, on the bank of the Dee, +called the mount of Owen Glendower, where it is said he used to stand and +look out after his enemies.” + +“Is it easy to find?” said I. + +“Very easy,” said the man, “it stands right upon the Dee and is covered +with trees; there is no mistaking it.” + +I bade the man and his wife farewell, and proceeded on my way. After +walking about a mile, I perceived a kind of elevation which answered to +the description of Glendower’s mount, which the man by the bridge had +given me. It stood on the right hand, at some distance from the road, +across a field. As I was standing looking at it a man came up from the +direction in which I myself had come. He was a middle-aged man plainly +but decently dressed, and had something of the appearance of a farmer. + +“What hill may that be?” said I in English, pointing to the elevation. + +“Dim Saesneg, sir,” said the man, looking rather sheepish, “Dim gair o +Saesneg.” + +Rather surprised that a person of his appearance should not have a word +of English I repeated my question in Welsh. + +“Ah, you speak Cumraeg, sir,” said the man, evidently surprised that a +person of my English appearance should speak Welsh. “I am glad of it! +What hill is that, you ask—Dyna Mont Owain Glyndwr, sir.” + +“Is it easy to get to?” said I. + +“Quite easy, sir,” said the man. “If you please I will go with you.” + +I thanked him, and opening a gate he conducted me across the field to the +mount of the Welsh hero. + +The mount of Owen Glendower stands close upon the southern bank of the +Dee, and is nearly covered with trees of various kinds. It is about +thirty feet high from the plain, and about the same diameter at the top. +A deep black pool of the river, which here runs far beneath the surface +of the field, purls and twists under the northern side, which is very +steep, though several large oaks spring out of it. The hill is evidently +the work of art, and appeared to me to be some burying-place of old. + +“And this is the hill of Owain Glyndwr?” said I. + +“Dyma Mont Owain Glyndwr, sir, lle yr oedd yn sefyll i edrych am ei +elynion yn dyfod o Gaer Lleon. This is the hill of Owen Glendower, sir, +where he was in the habit of standing to look out for his enemies coming +from Chester.” + +“I suppose it was not covered with trees then?” said I. + +“No, sir; it has not been long planted with trees. They say, however, +that the oaks which hang over the river are very old.” + +“Do they say who raised this hill?” + +“Some say that God raised it, sir; others that Owain Glendower raised it. +Who do you think raised it?” + +“I believe that it was raised by man, but not by Owen Glendower. He may +have stood upon it, to watch for the coming of his enemies, but I believe +it was here long before his time, and that it was raised over some old +dead king by the people whom he had governed.” + +“Do they bury kings by the side of rivers, sir?” + +“In the old time they did, and on the tops of mountains; they burnt their +bodies to ashes, placed them in pots and raised heaps of earth or stones +over them. Heaps like this have frequently been opened, and found to +contain pots with ashes and bones.” + +“I wish all English could speak Welsh, sir.” + +“Why?” + +“Because then we poor Welsh who can speak no English could learn much +which we do not know.” + +Descending the monticle, we walked along the road together. After a +little time I asked my companion of what occupation he was and where he +lived. + +“I am a small farmer, sir,” said he, “and live at Llansanfraid Glyn +Dyfrdwy across the river.” + +“How comes it,” said I, “that you do not know English?” + +“When I was young,” said he, “and could have easily learnt it, I cared +nothing about it, and now that I am old and see its use, it is too late +to acquire it.” + +“Of what religion are you?” said I. + +“I am of the Church,” he replied. + +I was about to ask him if there were many people of his persuasion in +these parts; before, however, I could do so he turned down a road to the +right which led towards a small bridge, and saying that was his way home, +bade me farewell and departed. + +I arrived at Corwen, which is just ten miles from Llangollen and which +stands beneath a vast range of rocks at the head of the valley up which I +had been coming, and which is called Glyndyfrdwy, or the Valley of the +Dee water. It was now about two o’clock, and feeling rather thirsty I +went to an inn very appropriately called the Owen Glendower, being the +principal inn in the principal town of what was once the domain of the +great Owen. Here I stopped for about an hour refreshing myself and +occasionally looking into a newspaper in which was an excellent article +on the case of poor Lieutenant P. I then started for Cerrig y Drudion, +distant about ten miles, where I proposed to pass the night. Directing +my course to the north-west, I crossed a bridge over the Dee water and +then proceeded rapidly along the road, which for some way lay between +cornfields, in many of which sheaves were piled up, showing that the +Welsh harvest was begun. I soon passed over a little stream the name of +which I was told was Alowan. “O, what a blessing it is to be able to +speak Welsh!” said I, finding that not a person to whom I addressed +myself had a word of English to bestow upon me. After walking for about +five miles I came to a beautiful but wild country of mountain and wood +with here and there a few cottages. The road at length making an abrupt +turn to the north I found myself with a low stone wall on my left on the +verge of a profound ravine, and a high bank covered with trees on my +right. Projecting out over the ravine was a kind of looking-place, +protected by a wall, forming a half-circle, doubtless made by the +proprietor of the domain for the use of the admirers of scenery. There I +stationed myself, and for some time enjoyed one of the wildest and most +beautiful scenes imaginable. Below me was the deep narrow glen or ravine +down which a mountain torrent roared and foamed. Beyond it was a +mountain rising steeply, its nearer side, which was in deep shade, the +sun having long sunk below its top, hirsute with all kinds of trees, from +the highest pinnacle down to the torrent’s brink. Cut on the top surface +of the wall, which was of slate and therefore easily impressible by the +knife, were several names, doubtless those of tourists, who had gazed +from the look-out on the prospect, amongst which I observed in remarkably +bold letters that of T. . . . + +“Eager for immortality, Mr. T.,” said I; “but you are no H. M., no Huw +Morris.” + +Leaving the looking-place I proceeded, and after one or two turnings, +came to another, which afforded a view if possible yet more grand, +beautiful and wild, the most prominent objects of which were a kind of +devil’s bridge flung over the deep glen and its foaming water, and a +strange-looking hill beyond it, below which, with a wood on either side, +stood a white farmhouse—sending from a tall chimney a thin misty reek up +to the sky. I crossed the bridge, which however diabolically fantastical +it looked at a distance, seemed when one was upon it capable of bearing +any weight, and soon found myself by the farm-house past which the way +led. An aged woman sat on a stool by the door. + +“A fine evening,” said I in English. “Dim Saesneg,” said the aged woman. + +“O, the blessing of being able to speak Welsh,” said I; and then repeated +in that language what I had said to her in the other tongue. + +“I dare say,” said the aged woman, “to those who can see.” + +“Can you not see?” + +“Very little. I am almost blind.” + +“Can you not see me?” + +“I can see something tall and dark before me; that is all.” + +“Can you tell me the name of the bridge?” + +“Pont y Glyn blin—the bridge of the glen of trouble.” + +“And what is the name of this place?” + +“Pen y bont—the head of the bridge.” + +“What is your own name?” + +“Catherine Hughes.” + +“How old are you?” + +“Fifteen after three twenties.” + +“I have a mother three after four twenties; that is eight years older +than yourself.” + +“Can she see?” + +“Better than I—she can read the smallest letters.” + +“May she long be a comfort to you!” + +“Thank you—are you the mistress of the house?” + +“I am the grandmother.” + +“Are the people in the house?” + +“They are not—they are at the chapel.” + +“And they left you alone?” + +“They left me with my God.” + +“Is the chapel far from here?” + +“About a mile.” + +“On the road to Cerrig y Drudion?” + +“On the road to Cerrig y Drudion.” + +I bade her farewell and pushed on—the road was good, with high rocky +banks on each side. After walking about the distance indicated by the +old lady, I reached a building, which stood on the right-hand side of the +road, and which I had no doubt was the chapel from a half-groaning, +half-singing noise, which proceeded from it. The door being open I +entered, and stood just within it, bare-headed. A rather singular scene +presented itself. Within a large dimly-lighted room a number of people +were assembled, partly seated in rude pews, and partly on benches. +Beneath a kind of altar, a few yards from the door, stood three men—the +middlemost was praying in Welsh in a singular kind of chant, with his +arms stretched out. I could distinguish the words, “Jesus descend among +us! sweet Jesus descend among us—quickly.” He spoke very slowly, and +towards the end of every sentence dropped his voice, so that what he said +was anything but distinct. As I stood within the door a man dressed in +coarse garments came up to me from the interior of the building, and +courteously and in excellent Welsh asked me to come with him and take a +seat. With equal courtesy but far inferior Welsh, I assured him that I +meant no harm, but wished to be permitted to remain near the door, +whereupon with a low bow he left me. When the man had concluded his +prayer the whole of the congregation began singing a hymn; many of the +voices were gruff and discordant, two or three, however, were of great +power, and some of the female ones of surprising sweetness—at the +conclusion of the hymn another of the three men by the altar began to +pray, just in the same manner as his comrade had done, and seemingly +using much the same words. When he had done there was another hymn, +after which seeing that the congregation was about to break up I bowed my +head towards the interior of the building, and departed. + +Emerging from the hollow way I found myself on a moor over which the road +lay in the direction of the north. Towards the west at an immense +distance rose a range of stupendous hills, which I subsequently learned +were those of Snowdon—about ten minutes’ walking brought me to Cerrig y +Drudion, a small village near a rocky elevation, from which, no doubt, +the place takes its name, which interpreted, is the Rock of Heroes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +Cerrig y Drudion—The Landlady—Doctor Jones—“Coll Gwynfa”—The Italian—Men +of Como—Disappointment—Weather-Glasses—Filicaia. + +The inn at Cerrig y Drudion was called the Lion—whether the white, black, +red or green Lion I do not know, though I am certain that it was a lion +of some colour or other. It seemed as decent and respectable a hostelry +as any traveller could wish to refresh and repose himself in, after a +walk of twenty miles. I entered a well-lighted passage and from thence a +well-lighted bar room, on the right hand, in which sat a stout, comely, +elderly lady dressed in silks and satins, with a cambric coif on her +head, in company with a thin, elderly man with a hat on his head, dressed +in a rather prim and precise manner. “Madam!” said I, bowing to the +lady, “as I suppose you are the mistress of this establishment, I beg +leave to inform you that I am an Englishman walking through these regions +in order fully to enjoy their beauties and wonders. I have this day come +from Llangollen, and being somewhat hungry and fatigued hope I can be +accommodated, here with a dinner and a bed.” + +“Sir!” said the lady, getting up and making me a profound curtsey, “I am +as you suppose the mistress of this establishment, and am happy to say +that I shall be able to accommodate you—pray sit down, sir;” she, +continued handing me a chair, “you must indeed be tired, for Llangollen +is a great way from here.” + +I took the seat with thanks, and she resumed her own. + +“Rather hot weather for walking, sir!” said the precise-looking +gentleman. + +“It is,” said I; “but as I can’t observe the country well without walking +through it I put up with the heat.” + +“You exhibit a philosophic mind, sir,” said the precise-looking +gentleman—“and a philosophic mind I hold in reverence.” + +“Pray, sir,” said I, “have I the honour of addressing a member of the +medical profession?” + +“Sir,” said the precise-looking gentleman, getting up and making me a +bow, “your question does honour to your powers of discrimination—a member +of the medical profession I am, though an unworthy one.” + +“Nay, nay, doctor,” said the landlady briskly; “say not so—every one +knows that you are a credit to your profession—well would it be if there +were many in it like you—unworthy? marry come up! I won’t hear such an +expression.” + +“I see,” said I, “that I have not only the honour of addressing a medical +gentleman, but a doctor of medicine—however, I might have known as much +by your language and deportment.” + +With a yet lower bow than, before he replied, with something of a sigh, +“No, sir, no, our kind landlady and the neighbourhood are in the habit of +placing doctor before my name, but I have no title to it—I am not Doctor +Jones, sir, but plain Geffery Jones at your service,” and thereupon with +another bow he sat down. + +“Do you reside here?” said I. + +“Yes, sir, I reside here in the place of my birth—I have not always +resided here—and I did not always expect to spend my latter days in a +place of such obscurity, but, sir, misfortunes—misfortunes . . .” + +“Ah,” said I, “misfortunes! they pursue every one, more especially those +whose virtues should exempt them from them. Well, sir, the consciousness +of not having deserved them should be your consolation.” + +“Sir,” said the doctor, taking off his hat, “you are infinitely kind.” + +“You call this an obscure place,” said I—“can that be an obscure place +that has produced a poet? I have long had a respect for Cerrig y Drudion +because it gave birth to, and was the residence of a poet of considerable +merit.” + +“I was not aware of that fact,” said the doctor, “pray what was his +name?” + +“Peter Lewis,” said I; “he was a clergyman of Cerrig y Drudion about the +middle of the last century, and amongst other things wrote a beautiful +song called ‘Cathl y Gair Mwys,’ or the melody of the ambiguous word.” + +“Surely you do not understand Welsh?” said the doctor. + +“I understand a little of it,” I replied. + +“Will you allow me to speak to you in Welsh?” said the doctor. + +“Certainly,” said I. + +He spoke to me in Welsh and I replied. + +“Ha, ha,” said the landlady in English; “only think, doctor, of the +gentleman understanding Welsh—we must mind what we say before him.” + +“And are you an Englishman?” said the doctor. + +“I am,” I replied. + +“And how came you to learn it?” + +“I am fond of languages,” said I, “and studied Welsh at an early period.” + +“And you read Welsh poetry?” + +“O yes.” + +“How were you enabled to master its difficulties?” + +“Chiefly by going through Owen Pugh’s version of ‘Paradise Lost’ twice, +with the original by my side. He has introduced into that translation so +many of the poetic terms of the old bards that after twice going through +it; there was little in Welsh poetry that I could not make out with a +little pondering.” + +“You pursued a very excellent plan,” said the doctor, “a very excellent +plan indeed. Owen Pugh!” + +“Owen Pugh! The last of your very great men,” said I. + +“You say right, sir,” said the doctor. “He was indeed our last great +man—Ultimus Romanorum. I have myself read his work, which he called +‘Coll Gwynfa,’ the ‘Loss of the Place of Bliss’—an admirable translation, +sir; highly poetical, and at the same time correct.” + +“Did you know him?” said I. + +“I had not the honour of his acquaintance,” said the doctor—“but, sir, I +am happy to say that I have made yours.” + +The landlady now began to talk to me about dinner, and presently went out +to make preparations for that very important meal. I had a great, deal +of conversation with the doctor, whom I found a person of great and +varied information, and one who had seen a vast deal of the world. He +was giving me an account of an island in the West Indies, which he had +visited, when a boy coming in whispered into his ear; whereupon, getting +up he said: “Sir, I am called away. I am a country surgeon, and of +course an accoucheur. There is a lady who lives at some distance, +requiring my assistance. It is with grief I leave you so abruptly, but I +hope that some time or other we shall meet again.” Then making me an +exceedingly profound bow, he left the room, followed by the boy. + +I dined upstairs in a very handsome drawing-room communicating with a +sleeping apartment. During dinner I was waited upon by the daughter of +the landlady, a good-looking merry girl of twenty. After dinner I sat +for some time thinking over the adventures of the day, then feeling +rather lonely and not inclined to retire to rest, I went down to the bar, +where I found the landlady seated with her daughter. I sat down with +them and we were soon in conversation. We spoke of Doctor Jones—the +landlady said that he had his little eccentricities, but was an excellent +and learned man. Speaking of herself, she said that she had three +daughters, that the youngest was with her and that the two eldest kept +the principal inn at Ruthyn. We occasionally spoke a little Welsh. At +length the landlady said, “There is an Italian in the kitchen who can +speak Welsh too. It’s odd the only two people not Welshmen I have ever +known who could speak Welsh, for such you and he are, should be in my +house at the same time.” + +“Dear me,” said I, “I should like to see him.” + +“That you can easily do,” said the girl; “I dare say he will be glad +enough to come in if you invite him.” + +“Pray take my compliments to him,” said I, “and tell him that I shall be +glad of his company.” + +The girl went out and presently returned with the Italian. He was a +short, thick, strongly-built fellow of about thirty-seven, with a swarthy +face, raven-black hair, high forehead, and dark deep eyes, full of +intelligence and great determination. He was dressed in a velveteen +coat, with broad lappets, red waistcoat, velveteen breeches, buttoning a +little way below the knee; white stockings, apparently of lamb’s-wool, +and highlows. + +“Buona sera?” said I. + +“Buona sera, signore!” said the Italian. + +“Will you have a glass of brandy and water?” said I in English. + +“I never refuse a good offer,” said the Italian. + +He sat down, and I ordered a glass of brandy and water for him and +another for myself. + +“Pray speak a little Italian to him,” said the good landlady to me. “I +have heard a great deal about the beauty of that language, and should +like to hear it spoken.” + +“From the Lago di Como?” said I, trying to speak Italian. + +“Si, signore! but how came you to think that I was from the Lake of +Como?” + +“Because,” said I, “when I was a ragazzo I knew many from the Lake of +Como, who dressed much like yourself. They wandered about the country +with boxes on their backs and weather-glasses in their hands, but had +their head-quarters at N. where I lived.” + +“Do you remember any of their names?” said the Italian. + +“Giovanni Gestra and Luigi Pozzi,” I replied. + +“I have seen Giovanni Gestra myself,” said the Italian, “and I have heard +of Luigi Pozzi. Giovanni Gestra returned to the Lago—but no one knows +what is become of Luigi Pozzi.” + +“The last time I saw him,” said I, “was about eighteen years ago at +Coruña, in Spain; he was then in a sad drooping condition, and said he +bitterly repented ever quitting N.” + +“E con ragione,” said the Italian, “for there is no place like N. for +doing business in the whole world. I myself have sold seventy pounds’ +worth of weather-glasses at N. in one day. One of our people is living +there now, who has done bene, molto bene.” + +“That’s Rossi,” said I, “how is it that I did not mention him first? He +is my excellent friend, and a finer cleverer fellow never lived, nor a +more honourable man. You may well say he has done well, for he is now +the first jeweller in the place. The last time I was there I bought a +diamond of him for my daughter Henrietta. Let us drink his health!” + +“Willingly!” said the Italian. “He is the prince of the Milanese of +England—the most successful of all, but I acknowledge the most deserving. +Che viva.” + +“I wish he would write his life,” said I; “a singular life it would be—he +has been something besides a travelling merchant, and a jeweller. He was +one of Buonaparte’s soldiers and served in Spain, under Soult, along with +John Gestra. He once told me that Soult was an old rascal, and stole all +the fine pictures from the convents, at Salamanca. I believe he spoke +with some degree of envy, for he is himself fond of pictures, and has +dealt in them, and made hundreds by them. I question whether if in +Soult’s place he would not have done the same. Well, however that may +be, che viva.” + +Here the landlady interposed, observing that she wished we would now +speak English, for that she had quite enough of Italian, which she did +not find near so pretty a language as she had expected. + +“You must not judge of the sound of Italian from what proceeds from my +mouth,” said I. “It is not my native language. I have had little +practice in it, and only speak it very imperfectly.” + +“Nor must you judge of Italian from what you have heard me speak,” said +the man of Como; “I am not good at Italian, for the Milanese speak +amongst themselves a kind of jargon composed of many languages, and can +only express themselves with difficulty in Italian. I have been doing my +best to speak Italian but should be glad now to speak English, which +comes to me much more glibly.” + +“Are there any books in your dialect, or jergo, as I believe you call +it?” said I. + +“I believe there are a few,” said the Italian. + +“Do you know the word slandra?” said I. + +“Who taught you that word?” said the Italian. + +“Giovanni Gestra,” said I—“he was always using it.” + +“Giovanni Gestra was a vulgar illiterate man,” said the Italian; “had he +not been so he would not have used it. It is a vulgar word; Rossi would +not have used it.” + +“What is the meaning of it?” said the landlady eagerly. + +“To roam about in a dissipated manner,” said I. + +“Something more,” said the Italian. “It is considered a vulgar word even +in jergo.” + +“You speak English remarkably well,” said I; “have you been long in +Britain?” + +“I came over about four years ago,” said the Italian. + +“On your own account?” said I. + +“Not exactly, signore; my brother, who was in business in Liverpool, +wrote to me to come over and assist him. I did so, but soon left him, +and took a shop for myself at Denbigh, where, however, I did not stay +long. At present I travel for an Italian house in London, spending the +summer in Wales and the winter in England.” + +“And what do you sell?” said I. + +“Weather-glasses, signore—pictures and little trinkets, such as the +country people like.” + +“Do you sell many weather-glasses in Wales?” said I. + +“I do not, signore. The Welsh care not for weather-glasses; my principal +customers for weather-glasses are the farmers of England.” + +“I am told that you can speak Welsh,” said I; “is that true?” + +“I have picked up a little of it, signore.” + +“He can speak it very well,” said the landlady; “and glad should I be, +sir, to hear you and him speak Welsh together.” + +“So should I,” said the daughter, who was seated nigh us; “nothing would +give me greater pleasure than to hear two who are not Welshmen speaking +Welsh together.” + +“I would rather speak English,” said the Italian; “I speak a little +Welsh, when my business leads me amongst people who speak no other +language; but I see no necessity for speaking Welsh here.” + +“It is a pity,” said I, “that so beautiful a country as Italy should not +be better governed.” + +“It is, signore,” said the Italian; “but let us hope that a time will +speedily come when she will be so.” + +“I don’t see any chance of it,” said I. “How will you proceed in order +to bring about so desirable a result as the good government of Italy?” + +“Why, signore, in the first place we must get rid of the Austrians.” + +“You will not find it an easy matter,” said I, “to get rid of the +Austrians: you tried to do so a little time ago, but miserably failed.” + +“True, signore; but the next time we try perhaps the French will help +us.” + +“If the French help you to drive the Austrians from Italy,” said I, “you +must become their servants. It is true you had better be the servants of +the polished and chivalrous French, than of the brutal and barbarous +Germans, but it is not pleasant to be a servant to anybody. However, I +do not believe that you will ever get rid of the Austrians, even if the +French assist you. The Pope for certain reasons of his own favours the +Austrians, and will exert all the powers of priestcraft to keep them in +Italy. Alas, alas, there is no hope for Italy! Italy, the most +beautiful country in the world, the birthplace of the cleverest people, +whose very pedlars can learn to speak Welsh, is not only enslaved, but +destined always to remain enslaved.” + +“Do not say so, signore,” said the Italian, with a kind of groan. + +“But I do say so,” said I, “and what is more, one whose shoe-strings, +were he alive, I should not be worthy to untie, one of your mighty ones, +has said so. Did you ever hear of Vincenzio Filicaia?” + +“I believe I have, signore; did he not write a sonnet on Italy?” + +“He did,” said I; “would you like to hear it?” + +“Very much, signore.” + +I repeated Filicaia’s glorious sonnet on Italy, and then asked him if he +understood it. + +“Only in part, signore; for it is composed in old Tuscan, in which I am +not much versed. I believe I should comprehend it better if you were to +say it in English.” + +“Do say it in English,” said the landlady and her daughter; “we should so +like to hear it in English.” + +“I will repeat a translation,” said I, “which I made when a boy, which +though far from good, has, I believe, in it something of the spirit of +the original:— + + “‘O Italy! on whom dark Destiny + The dangerous gift of beauty did bestow, + From whence thou hast that ample dower of wo, + Which on thy front thou bear’st so visibly. + Would thou hadst beauty less or strength more high, + That more of fear, and less of love might show, + He who now blasts him in thy beauty’s glow, + Or woos thee with a zeal that makes thee die; + Then down from Alp no more would torrents rage + Of armed men, nor Gallic coursers hot + In Po’s ensanguin’d tide their thirst assuage; + Nor girt with iron, not thine own, I wot, + Wouldst thou the fight by hands of strangers wage, + Victress or vanquish’d slavery still thy lot.’” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +Lacing up Highlows—The Native Village—Game Leg—“Croppies Lie +Down”—Keeping Faith—Processions—“Croppies Get Up”—Daniel O’Connell. + +I slept in the chamber communicating with the room in which I had dined. +The chamber was spacious and airy, the bed first-rate, and myself rather +tired, so that no one will be surprised when I say that I had excellent +rest. I got up, and after dressing myself went down. The morning was +exceedingly brilliant. Going out I saw the Italian lacing up his +highlows against a step. I saluted him, and asked him if he was about to +depart. + +“Yes, signore; I shall presently start for Denbigh.” + +“After breakfast I shall start for Bangor,” said I. + +“Do you propose to reach Bangor to-night, signore?” + +“Yes,” said I. + +“Walking, signore?” + +“Yes,” said I; “I always walk in Wales.” + +“Then you will have rather a long walk, signore, for Bangor is +thirty-four miles from here.” + +I asked him if he was married. + +“No, signore; but my brother in Liverpool is.” + +“To an Italian?” + +“No, signore; to a Welsh girl.” + +“And I suppose,” said I, “you will follow his example by marrying one; +perhaps that good-looking girl the landlady’s daughter we were seated +with last night?” + +“No, signore; I shall not follow my brother’s example. If ever I take a +wife she shall be of my own village, in Como, whither I hope to return, +as soon as I have picked up a few more pounds.” + +“Whether the Austrians are driven away or not?” said I. + +“Whether the Austrians are driven away or not—for to my mind there is no +country like Como, signore.” + +I ordered breakfast; whilst taking it in the room above I saw through the +open window the Italian trudging forth on his journey, a huge box on his +back, and a weather-glass in his hand—looking the exact image of one of +those men his country people, whom forty years before I had known at N. +I thought of the course of time, sighed and felt a tear gather in my eye. + +My breakfast concluded, I paid my bill, and after inquiring the way to +Bangor, and bidding adieu to the kind landlady and her daughter, set out +from Cerrig y Drudion. My course lay west, across a flat country, +bounded in the far distance by the mighty hills I had seen on the +preceding evening. After walking about a mile I overtook a man with a +game leg, that is a leg, which either by nature or accident not being so +long as its brother leg, had a patten attached to it, about five inches +high, to enable it to do duty with the other—he was a fellow with red +shock hair and very red features, and was dressed in ragged coat and +breeches, and a hat which had lost part of its crown, and all its rim, so +that even without a game leg he would have looked rather a queer figure. +In his hand he carried a fiddle. + +“Good morning to you,” said I. + +“A good marning to your hanner, a merry afternoon and a roaring joyous +evening—that is the worst luck I wish to ye.” + +“Are you a native of these parts?” said I. + +“Not exactly, your hanner—I am a native of the city of Dublin, or, what’s +all the same thing, of the village of Donnybrook which is close by it.” + +“A celebrated place,” said I. + +“Your hanner may say that; all the world has heard of Donnybrook, owing +to the humours of its fair. Many is the merry tune I have played to the +boys at that fair.” + +“You are a professor of music, I suppose?” + +“And not a very bad one as your hanner will say if you will allow me to +play you a tune.” + +“Can you play ‘Croppies Lie Down’?” + +“I cannot, your hanner; my fingers never learnt to play such a blackguard +tune; but if ye wish to hear ‘Croppies Get Up’ I can oblige ye.” + +“You are a Roman Catholic, I suppose?” + +“I am nat, your hanner—I am a Catholic to the backbone, just like my +father before me. Come, your hanner, shall I play ye ‘Croppies Get Up’?” + +“No,” said I; “It’s a tune that doesn’t please my ears. If, however, you +choose to play ‘Croppies Lie Down,’ I’ll give you a shilling.” + +“Your hanner will give me a shilling?” + +“Yes,” said I, “if you play ‘Croppies Lie Down’: but you know you cannot +play it, your fingers never learned the tune.” + +“They never did, your hanner; but they have heard it played of ould by +the blackguard Orange fiddlers of Dublin on the first of July, when the +Protestant boys used to walk round Willie’s statue on College Green—so if +your hanner gives me the shilling they may perhaps bring out something +like it.” + +“Very good,” said I; “begin!” + +“But, your hanner, what shall we do for the words? Though my fingers may +remember the tune, my tongue does not remember the words—that is unless . . .” + +“I give another shilling,” said I; “but never mind you the words; I know +the words, and will repeat them.” + +“And your hanner will give me a shilling?” + +“If you play the tune,” said I. + +“Hanner bright, your hanner?” + +“Honour bright,” said I. + +Thereupon the fiddler, taking his bow and shouldering his fiddle, struck +up in first-rate style the glorious tune, which I had so often heard with +rapture in the days of my boyhood in the barrack yard of Clonmel; whilst +I, walking by his side as he stumped along, caused the welkin to resound +with the words, which were the delight of the young gentlemen of the +Protestant academy of that beautiful old town. + +“I never heard those words before,” said the fiddler, after I had +finished the first stanza. + +“Get on with you,” said I. + +“Regular Orange words!” said the fiddler, on my finishing the second +stanza. + +“Do you choose to get on?” said I. + +“More blackguard Orange words I never heard!” cried the fiddler, on my +coming to the conclusion of the third stanza. “Divil a bit farther will +I play; at any rate till I get the shilling.” + +“Here it is for you,” said I; “the song is ended and of course the tune.” + +“Thank your hanner,” said the fiddler, taking the money; “your hanner has +kept your word with me, which is more than I thought your hanner would. +And now, your hanner, let me ask you why did your hanner wish for that +tune, which is not only a blackguard one, but quite out of date; and +where did your hanner get the words?” + +“I used to hear the tune in my boyish days,” said I, “and wished to hear +it again, for though you call it a blackguard tune, it is the sweetest +and most noble air that Ireland, the land of music, has ever produced. +As for the words, never mind where I got them; they are violent enough, +but not half so violent as the words of some of the songs made against +the Irish Protestants by the priests.” + +“Your hanner is an Orange man, I see. Well, your hanner, the Orange is +now in the kennel, and the Croppies have it all their own way.” + +“And perhaps,” said I, “before I die, the Orange will be out of the +kennel and the Croppies in, even as they were in my young days.” + +“Who knows, your hanner? and who knows that I may not play the ould tune +round Willie’s image in College Green, even as I used some twenty-seven +years ago?” + +“O then you have been an Orange fiddler?” + +“I have, your hanner. And now as your hanner has behaved like a +gentleman to me I will tell ye all my history. I was born in the city of +Dublin, that is in the village of Donnybrook, as I tould your hanner +before. It was to the trade of bricklaying I was bred, and bricklaying I +followed till at last, getting my leg smashed, not by falling off the +ladder, but by a row in the fair, I was obliged to give it up, for how +could I run up the ladder with a patten on my foot, which they put on to +make my broken leg as long as the other. Well, your hanner; being +obliged to give up my bricklaying, I took to fiddling, to which I had +always a natural inclination, and played about the streets, and at fairs, +and wakes, and weddings. At length some Orange men getting acquainted +with me, and liking my style of playing, invited me to their lodge, where +they gave me to drink, and tould me that if I would change my religion +and join them, and play their tunes, they would make it answer my +purpose. Well, your hanner, without much stickling I gave up my Popery, +joined the Orange lodge, learned the Orange tunes, and became a regular +Protestant boy, and truly the Orange men kept their word, and made it +answer my purpose. O the meat and drink I got, and the money I made by +playing at the Orange lodges and before the processions when the Orange +men paraded the streets with their Orange colours. And O, what a day for +me was the glorious first of July when with my whole body covered with +Orange ribbons I fiddled ‘Croppies Lie Down’—‘Boyne Water,’ and the +‘Protestant Boys’ before the procession which walked round Willie’s +figure on horseback in College Green, the man and horse all ablaze with +Orange colours. But nothing lasts under the sun, as your hanner knows; +Orangeism began to go down; the Government scowled at it, and at last +passed a law preventing the Protestant boys dressing up the figure on the +first of July, and walking round it. That was the death-blow of the +Orange party, your hanner; they never recovered it, but began to despond +and dwindle, and I with them, for there was scarcely any demand for +Orange tunes. Then Dan O’Connell arose with his emancipation and repale +cries, and then instead of Orange processions and walkings, there were +Papist processions and mobs, which made me afraid to stir out, lest +knowing me for an Orange fiddler, they should break my head, as the boys +broke my leg at Donnybrook fair. At length some of the repalers and +emancipators knowing that I was a first-rate hand at fiddling came to me, +and tould me, that if I would give over playing ‘Croppies Lie Down’ and +other Orange tunes, and would play ‘Croppies Get Up,’ and what not, and +become a Catholic and a repaler, and an emancipator, they would make a +man of me—so as my Orange trade was gone, and I was half-starved, I +consinted, not however till they had introduced me to Daniel O’Connell, +who called me a credit to my country, and the Irish Horpheus, and +promised me a sovereign if I would consint to join the cause, as he +called it. Well, your hanner, I joined with the cause and became a +Papist, I mane a Catholic once more, and went at the head of processions, +covered all over with green ribbons, playing ‘Croppies Get Up,’ ‘Granny +Whale,’ and the like. But, your hanner; though I went the whole hog with +the repalers and emancipators, they did not make their words good by +making a man of me. Scant and sparing were they in the mate and drink, +and yet more sparing in the money, and Daniel O’Connell never gave me the +sovereign which he promised me. No, your hanner, though I played +‘Croppies Get Up,’ till my fingers ached, as I stumped before him and his +mobs and processions, he never gave me the sovereign: unlike your hanner +who gave me the shilling ye promised me for playing ‘Croppies Lie Down,’ +Daniel O’Connell never gave me the sovereign he promised me for playing +‘Croppies Get Up.’ Och, your hanner, I often wished the ould Orange days +were back again. However as I could do no better I continued going the +whole hog with the emancipators and repalers and Dan O’Connell; I went +the whole animal with them till they had got emancipation; and I went the +whole animal with them till they nearly got repale—when all of a sudden +they let the whole thing drop—Dan and his party having frighted the +Government out of its seven senses, and gotten all they thought they +could get, in money and places, which was all they wanted, let the whole +hullabaloo drop, and of course myself, who formed part of it. I went to +those who had persuaded me to give up my Orange tunes, and to play Papist +ones, begging them to give me work; but they tould me very civilly that +they had no farther occasion for my services. I went to Daniel O’Connell +reminding him of the sovereign he had promised me, and offering if he +gave it me to play ‘Croppies Get Up’ under the nose of the +lord-lieutenant himself; but he tould me that he had not time to attend +to me, and when I persisted, bade me go to the Divil and shake myself. +Well, your hanner, seeing no prospect for myself in my own country, and +having incurred some little debts, for which I feared to be arrested, I +came over to England and Wales, where with little content and +satisfaction I have passed seven years.” + +“Well,” said I, “thank you for your history—farewell.” + +“Stap, your hanner; does your hanner think that the Orange will ever be +out of the kennel, and that the Orange boys will ever walk round the +brass man and horse in College Green as they did of ould?” + +“Who knows?” said I. “But suppose all that were to happen, what would it +signify to you?” + +“Why then Divil be in my patten if I would not go back to Donnybrook and +Dublin, hoist the Orange cockade, and become as good an Orange boy as +ever.” + +“What,” said I, “and give up Popery for the second time?” + +“I would, your hanner; and why not? for in spite of what I have heard +Father Toban say, I am by no means certain that all Protestants will be +damned.” + +“Farewell,” said I. + +“Farewell, your hanner, and long life and prosperity to you! God bless +your hanner and your Orange face. Ah, the Orange boys are the boys for +keeping faith. They never served me as Dan O’Connell and his dirty gang +of repalers and emancipators did. Farewell, your hanner, once more; and +here’s another scratch of the illigant tune your hanner is so fond of, to +cheer up your hanner’s ears upon your way.” + +And long after I had left him I could hear him playing on his fiddle in +first-rate style the beautiful tune of “Down, down, Croppies Lie Down.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +Ceiniog Mawr—Pentre Voelas—The Old Conway—Stupendous Pass—The Gwedir +Family—Capel Curig—The Two Children—Bread—Wonderful Echo—Tremendous +Walker. + +I walked on briskly over a flat uninteresting country, and in about an +hour’s time came in front of a large stone house. It stood near the +road, on the left-hand side, with a pond and pleasant trees before it, +and a number of corn-stacks behind. It had something the appearance of +an inn, but displayed no sign. As I was standing looking at it, a man +with the look of a labourer, and with a dog by his side, came out of the +house and advanced towards me. + +“What is the name of this place?” said I to him in English as he drew +nigh. + +“Sir,” said the man, “the name of the house is Ceiniog Mawr.” + +“Is it an inn?” said I. + +“Not now, sir; but some years ago it was an inn, and a very large one at +which coaches used to stop; at present, it is occupied by an +amaethwr—that is a farmer, sir.” + +“Ceiniog Mawr means a great penny,” said I, “why is it called by that +name?” + +“I have heard, sir, that before it was an inn it was a very considerable +place, namely, a royal mint at which pennies were made, and on that +account it was called Ceiniog Mawr.” + +I was subsequently told that the name of this place was Cernioge Mawr. +If such be the real name the legend about the mint falls to the ground, +Cernioge having nothing to do with pence. Cern in Welsh means a jaw. +Perhaps the true name of the house is Corniawg, which interpreted is a +place with plenty of turrets or chimneys. A mile or two further the +ground began to rise, and I came to a small village at the entrance of +which was a water-wheel—near the village was a gentleman’s seat almost +surrounded by groves. After I had passed through the village, seeing a +woman seated by the roadside knitting, I asked her in English its name. +Finding she had no Saesneg I repeated the question in Welsh, whereupon +she told me that it was called Pentre Voelas. + +“And whom does the ‘Plas’ belong to yonder amongst the groves?” said I. + +“It belongs to Mr. Wynn, sir, and so does the village and a great deal of +the land about here. A very good gentleman is Mr. Wynn, sir; he is very +kind to his tenants and a very good lady is Mrs. Wynn, sir; in the winter +she gives much soup to the poor.” + +After leaving the village of Pentre Voelas I soon found myself in a wild +hilly region. I crossed a bridge over a river which brawling and +tumbling amidst rocks shaped its course to the north-east. As I +proceeded the country became more and more wild; there were dingles and +hollows in abundance, and fantastic-looking hills some of which were bare +and others clad with trees of various kinds. Came to a little well in a +cavity dug in a high bank on the left-hand side of the road, and fenced +by rude stone work on either side; the well was about ten inches in +diameter, and as many deep. Water oozing from the bank upon a slanting +tile fastened into the earth fell into it. After damming up the end of +the tile with my hand and drinking some delicious water I passed on and +presently arrived at a cottage just inside the door of which sat a +good-looking middle-aged woman engaged in knitting, the general +occupation of Welsh females. + +“Good-day,” said I to her in Welsh. “Fine weather.” + +“In truth, sir, it is fine weather for the harvest.” + +“Are you alone in the house?” + +“I am, sir, my husband has gone to his labour.” + +“Have you any children?” + +“Two, sir; but they are out at service.” + +“What is the name of this place?” + +“Pant Paddock, sir.” + +“Do you get your water from the little well yonder?” + +“We do, sir, and good water it is.” + +“I have drunk of it.” + +“Much good may what you have drunk do you, sir!” + +“What is the name of the river near here?” + +“It is called the Conway, sir.” + +“Dear me; is that river the Conway?” + +“You have heard of it, sir?” + +“Heard of it! it is one of the famous rivers of the world. The poets are +very fond of it—one of the great poets of my country calls it the old +Conway.” + +“Is one river older than another, sir?” + +“That’s a shrewd question. Can you read?” + +“I can, sir.” + +“Have you any books?” + +“I have the Bible, sir.” + +“Will you show it me?” + +“Willingly, sir.” + +Then getting up she took a book from a shelf and handed it to me at the +same time begging me to enter the house and sit down. I declined and she +again took her seat and resumed her occupation. On opening the book the +first words which met my eye were “Gad i mi fyned trwy dy dir!” Let me +go through your country. Numbers XX. 22. + +“I may say these words,” said I, pointing to the passage, “Let me go +through your country.” + +“No one will hinder you, sir, for you seem a civil gentleman.” + +“No one has hindered me hitherto. Wherever I have been in Wales I have +experienced nothing but kindness and hospitality, and when I return to my +own country I will say so.” + +“What country is yours, sir?” + +“England. Did you not know that by my tongue?” + +“I did not, sir. I knew by your tongue that you were not from our +parts—but I did not know that you were an Englishman. I took you for a +Cumro of the south country.” + +Returning the kind woman her book, and bidding her farewell I departed, +and proceeded some miles through a truly magnificent country of wood, +rock, and mountain. At length I came down to a steep mountain gorge down +which the road ran nearly due north, the Conway to the left running with +great noise parallel with the road, amongst broken rocks, which chafed it +into foam. I was now amidst stupendous hills, whose paps, peaks, and +pinnacles seemed to rise to the very heaven. An immense mountain on the +right side of the road particularly struck my attention, and on inquiring +of a man breaking stones by the roadside I learned that it was called +Dinas Mawr or the large citadel, perhaps from a fort having been built +upon it to defend the pass in the old British times. Coming to the +bottom of the pass I crossed over by an ancient bridge and passing +through a small town found myself in a beautiful valley with majestic +hills, on either side. This was the Dyffryn Conway, the celebrated Vale +of Conway, to which in the summer time fashionable gentry from all parts +of Britain resort for shade and relaxation. When about midway down the +valley I turned to the west up one of the grandest passes in the world, +having two immense door-posts of rock at the entrance, the northern one +probably rising to the altitude of nine hundred feet. On the southern +side of this pass near the entrance were neat dwellings for the +accommodation of visitors with cool apartments on the ground-floor with +large windows, looking towards the precipitous side of the mighty +northern hill; within them I observed tables, and books, and young men, +probably English collegians, seated at study. + +After I had proceeded some way up the pass down which a small river ran, +a woman who was standing on the right-hand side of the way, seemingly on +the look-out, begged me in broken English to step aside and look at the +fall. + +“You mean a waterfall, I suppose?” said I. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And how do you call it?” said I. + +“The Fall of the Swallow, sir.” + +“And in Welsh?” said I. + +“Rhaiadr y Wennol, sir.” + +“And what is the name of the river?” said I. + +“We call the river the Lygwy, sir.” + +I told the woman I would go, whereupon she conducted me through a gate on +the right-hand side and down a path, overhung with trees to a rock +projecting into the river. The Fall of the Swallow is not a majestic +single fall, but a succession of small ones. First there are a number of +little foaming torrents, bursting through rocks about twenty yards above +the promontory, on which I stood. Then come two beautiful rows of white +water, dashing into a pool a little way above the promontory; then there +is a swirl of water round its corner into a pool below on its right, +black as death and seemingly of great depth; then a rush through a very +narrow outlet into another pool, from which the water clamours away down +the glen. Such is the Rhaiadr y Wennol, or Swallow Fall; called so from +the rapidity with which the waters rush and skip along. + +On asking the woman on whose property the fall was, she informed me that +it was on the property of the Gwedir family. The name of Gwedir brought +to my mind the _History of the Gwedir Family_, a rare and curious book +which I had read in my boyhood and which was written by the +representative of that family, a certain Sir John Wynne, about the +beginning of the seventeenth century. It gives an account of the +fortunes of the family from its earliest rise: but more particularly +after it had emigrated, in order to avoid bad neighbours, from a fair and +fertile district into rugged Snowdonia, where it found anything but the +repose it came in quest of. The book which is written in bold graphic +English flings considerable light on the state of society in Wales, in +the time of the Tudors, a truly deplorable state, as the book is full of +accounts of feuds, petty but desperate skirmishes, and revengeful +murders. To many of the domestic sagas, or histories of ancient +Icelandic families, from the character of the events which it describes +and also from the manner in which it describes them, the _History of the +Gwedir Family_, by Sir John Wynne, bears a striking resemblance. + +After giving the woman sixpence I left the fall, and proceeded on my way. +I presently crossed a bridge under which ran the river of the fall, and +was soon in a wide valley on each side of which were lofty hills dotted +with wood, and at the top of which stood a mighty mountain, bare and +precipitous with two paps like those of Pindus opposite Janina, but +somewhat sharper. It was a region of fairy beauty and of wild grandeur. +Meeting an old bleared-eyed farmer I inquired the name of the mountain +and learned that it was called Moel Siabod or Shabod. Shortly after +leaving him, I turned from the road to inspect a monticle which appeared +to me to have something of the appearance of a burial heap. It stood in +a green meadow by the river which ran down the valley on the left. +Whether it was a grave hill or a natural monticle, I will not say; but +standing in the fair meadow, the rivulet murmuring beside it, and the old +mountain looking down upon it, I thought it looked a very meet +resting-place for an old Celtic king. + +Turning round the northern side of the mighty Siabod I soon reached the +village of Capel Curig, standing in a valley between two hills, the +easternmost of which is the aforesaid Moel Siabod. Having walked now +twenty miles in a broiling day I thought it high time to take some +refreshment, and inquired the way to the inn. The inn, or rather the +hotel, for it was a very magnificent edifice, stood at the entrance of a +pass leading to Snowdon, on the southern side of the valley in a totally +different direction from the road leading to Bangor, to which place I was +bound. There I dined in a grand saloon amidst a great deal of +fashionable company, who, probably conceiving from my heated and dusty +appearance that I was some poor fellow travelling on foot from motives of +economy, surveyed me with looks of the most supercilious disdain, which, +however, neither deprived me of my appetite nor operated uncomfortably on +my feelings. + +My dinner finished, I paid my bill and having sauntered a little about +the hotel garden, which is situated on the border of a small lake and +from which through the vista of the pass Snowdon may be seen towering in +majesty at the distance of about six miles, I started for Bangor, which +is fourteen miles from Capel Curig. + +The road to Bangor from Capel Curig is almost due west. An hour’s +walking brought me to a bleak moor, extending for a long way amidst wild +sterile hills. + +The first of a chain on the left was a huge lumpy hill with a precipice +towards the road probably three hundred feet high. When I had come +nearly parallel with the commencement of this precipice, I saw on the +left-hand side of the road two children looking over a low wall behind +which at a little distance stood a wretched hovel. On coming up I +stopped and looked at them: they were a boy and a girl; the first about +twelve, the latter a year or two younger; both wretchedly dressed and +looking very sickly. + +“Have you any English?” said I, addressing the boy in Welsh. + +“Dim gair,” said the boy; “not a word; there is no Saesneg near here.” + +“What is the name of this place?” + +“The name of our house is Helyg.” + +“And what is the name of that hill?” said I, pointing to the hill of the +precipice. + +“Allt y Gôg—the high place of the cuckoo.” + +“Have you a father and mother?” + +“We have.” + +“Are they in the house?” + +“They have gone to Capel Curig.” + +“And they left you alone?” + +“They did. With the cat and the trin-wire.” + +“Do your father and mother make wire-work?” + +“They do. They live by making it.” + +“What is the wire-work for?” + +“It is for hedges to fence the fields with.” + +“Do you help your father and mother?” + +“We do; as far as we can.” + +“You both look unwell.” + +“We have lately had the cryd” (ague). + +“Is there much cryd about here?” + +“Plenty.” + +“Do you live well?” + +“When we have bread we live well.” + +“If I give you a penny will you bring me some water?” + +“We will; whether you give us the penny or not. Come, sister, let us go +and fetch the gentleman water.” + +They ran into the house and presently returned, the girl bearing a pan of +water. After I had drunk I gave each of the children a penny, and +received in return from each a diolch or thanks. + +“Can either of you read?” + +“Neither one nor the other.” + +“Can your father and mother read?” + +“My father cannot, my mother can a little.” + +“Are there any books in the house?” + +“There are not.” + +“No Bible?” + +“There is no book at all.” + +“Do you go to church?” + +“We do not.” + +“To chapel?” + +“In fine weather.” + +“Are you happy?” + +“When there is bread in the house and no cryd we are all happy.” + +“Farewell to you, children.” + +“Farewell to you, gentleman!” exclaimed both. + +“I have learnt something,” said I, “of Welsh cottage life and feeling +from that poor sickly child.” + +I had passed the first and second of the hills which stood on the left, +and a huge long mountain on the right which confronted both when a young +man came down from a gulley on my left hand, and proceeded in the same +direction as myself. He was dressed in a blue coat and corduroy trowsers +and appeared to be of a condition a little above that of a labourer. He +shook his head and scowled when I spoke to him in English, but smiled on +my speaking Welsh and said: “Ah, you speak Cumraeg: I thought no Sais +could speak Cumraeg.” I asked him if he was going far. + +“About four miles,” he replied. + +“On the Bangor road?” + +“Yes,” said he; “down the Bangor road.” + +I learned that he was a carpenter, and that he had been up the gully to +see an acquaintance—perhaps a sweetheart. We passed a lake on our right +which he told me was called Llyn Ogwen, and that it abounded with fish. +He was very amusing and expressed great delight at having found an +Englishman who could speak Welsh. “It will be a thing to talk of,” said +he, “for the rest of my life.” He entered two or three cottages by the +side of the road, and each time he came out I heard him say: “I am with a +Sais, who can speak Cumraeg.” At length we came to a gloomy-looking +valley trending due north; down this valley the road ran having an +enormous wall of rocks on its right and a precipitous hollow on the left, +beyond which was a wall equally high as the other one. When we had +proceeded some way down the road my guide said: “You shall now hear a +wonderful echo,” and shouting, “taw, taw,” the rocks replied in a manner +something like the baying of hounds. “Hark to the dogs!” exclaimed my +companion. “This pass is called Nant yr ieuanc gwn, the pass of the +young dogs, because when one shouts it answers with a noise resembling +the crying of hounds.” + +The sun was setting when we came to a small village at the bottom of the +pass. I asked my companion its name. “Ty yn y maes,” he replied, adding +as he stopped before a small cottage that he was going no farther, as he +dwelt there. + +“Is there a public-house here?” said I. + +“There is,” he replied, “you will find one a little farther up on the +right hand.” + +“Come, and take some ale,” said I. + +“No,” said he. + +“Why not?” I demanded. + +“I am a teetotaller,” he replied. + +“Indeed,” said I, and having shaken him by the hand, thanked him for his +company, and bidding him farewell, went on. He was the first person I +had ever met of the fraternity to which he belonged, who did not +endeavour to make a parade of his abstinence and self-denial. + +After drinking some tolerably good ale in the public-house I again +started. As I left the village a clock struck eight. The evening was +delightfully cool; but it soon became nearly dark. I passed under high +rocks, by houses and by groves, in which nightingales were singing, to +listen to whose entrancing melody I more than once stopped. On coming to +a town, lighted up and thronged with people, I asked one of a group of +young fellows its name. + +“Bethesda,” he replied. + +“A scriptural name,” said I. + +“Is it?” said he; “well, if its name is scriptural the manners of its +people are by no means so.” + +A little way beyond the town a man came out of a cottage and walked +beside me. He had a basket in his hand. I quickened my pace; but he was +a tremendous walker, and kept up with me. On we went side by side for +more than a mile without speaking a word. At length, putting out my legs +in genuine Barclay fashion, I got before him about ten yards, then +turning round laughed and spoke to him in English. He too laughed and +spoke, but in Welsh. We now went on like brothers, conversing, but +always walking at great speed. I learned from him that he was a market +gardener living at Bangor, and that Bangor, was three miles off. On the +stars shining out we began to talk about them. + +Pointing to Charles’s wain I said, “A good star for travellers.” + +Whereupon pointing to the North star, he said: + +“I forwyr da iawn—a good star for mariners.” + +We passed a large house on our left. + +“Who lives there?” said I. + +“Mr. Smith,” he replied. “It is called Plas Newydd; milltir genom +etto—we have yet another mile.” + +In ten minutes we were at Bangor. I asked him where the Albion Hotel +was. + +“I will show it you,” said he, and so he did. + +As we came under it I heard the voice of my wife, for she, standing on a +balcony and distinguishing me by the lamplight, called out. I shook +hands with the kind six-mile-an-hour market gardener, and going into the +inn found my wife and daughter, who rejoiced to see me. We presently had +tea. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +Bangor—Edmund Price—The Bridges—Bookselling—Future Pope—Wild +Irish—Southey. + +Bangor is seated on the spurs of certain high hills near the Menai, a +strait separating Mona or Anglesey from Caernarvonshire. It was once a +place of Druidical worship, of which fact, even without the testimony of +history and tradition, the name which signifies “upper circle” would be +sufficient evidence. On the decay of Druidism a town sprang up on the +site and in the neighbourhood of the “upper circle,” in which in the +sixth century a convent or university was founded by Deiniol, who +eventually became Bishop of Bangor. This Deiniol was the son of Deiniol +Vawr, a zealous Christian prince who founded the convent of Bangor Is +Coed, or Bangor beneath the wood, in Flintshire, which was destroyed and +its inmates almost to a man put to the sword by Ethelbert a Saxon king, +and his barbarian followers at the instigation of the monk Austin, who +hated the brethren because they refused to acknowledge the authority of +the Pope, whose delegate he was in Britain. There were in all three +Bangors; the one at Is Coed, another in Powis, and this Caernarvonshire +Bangor, which was generally termed Bangor Vawr or Bangor the great. The +two first Bangors have fallen into utter decay, but Bangor Vawr is still +a bishop’s see, boasts of a small but venerable cathedral, and contains a +population of above eight thousand souls. + +Two very remarkable men have at different periods conferred a kind of +lustre upon Bangor by residing in it, Taliesin in the old, and Edmund +Price in comparatively modern time. Both of them were poets. Taliesin +flourished about the end of the fifth century, and for the sublimity of +his verses was for many centuries called by his countrymen the Bardic +King. Amongst his pieces is one generally termed “The Prophecy of +Taliesin,” which announced long before it happened the entire subjugation +of Britain by the Saxons, and which is perhaps one of the most stirring +pieces of poetry ever produced. Edmund Price flourished during the time +of Elizabeth. He was archdeacon of Merionethshire, but occasionally +resided at Bangor for the benefit of his health. Besides being one of +the best Welsh poets of his age he was a man of extraordinary learning, +possessing a thorough knowledge of no less than eight languages. + +The greater part of his compositions, however clever and elegant, are, it +must be confessed, such as do little credit to the pen of an +ecclesiastic, being bitter poignant satires, which were the cause of much +pain and misery to individuals; one of his works, however, is not only of +a kind quite consistent with his sacred calling, but has been a source of +considerable blessing. To him the Cambrian Church is indebted for the +version of the Psalms, which for the last two centuries it has been in +the habit of using. Previous to the version of the Archdeacon a +translation of the Psalms had been made into Welsh by William Middleton, +an officer in the naval service of Queen Elizabeth, in the +four-and-twenty alliterative measures of the ancient bards. It was +elegant and even faithful, but far beyond the comprehension of people in +general, and consequently by no means fitted for the use of churches, +though intended for that purpose by the author, a sincere Christian, +though a warrior. Avoiding the error into which his predecessor had +fallen, the Archdeacon made use of a measure intelligible to people of +every degree, in which alliteration is not observed, and which is called +by the Welsh y mesur cyffredin, or the common measure. His opinion of +the four-and-twenty measures the Archdeacon has given to the world in +four cowydd lines to the following effect: + + “I’ve read the master-pieces great + Of languages no less than eight, + But ne’er have found a woof of song + So strict as that of Cambria’s tongue.” + +After breakfast on the morning subsequent to my arrival, Henrietta and I +roamed about the town, and then proceeded to view the bridges which lead +over the strait to Anglesey. One, for common traffic, is a most +beautiful suspension bridge completed in 1820, the result of the mental +and manual labours of the ingenious Telford; the other is a tubular +railroad bridge, a wonderful structure, no doubt, but anything but +graceful. We remained for some time on the first bridge, admiring the +scenery, and were not a little delighted, as we stood leaning over the +principal arch, to see a proud vessel pass beneath us at full sail. + +Satiated with gazing we passed into Anglesey, and making our way to the +tubular bridge, which is to the west of the suspension one, entered one +of its passages and returned to the mainland. + +The air was exceedingly hot and sultry, and on coming to a stone bench, +beneath a shady wall, we both sat down, panting, on one end of it; as we +were resting ourselves, a shabby-looking man with a bundle of books came +and seated himself at the other end, placing his bundle beside him; then +taking out from his pocket a dirty red handkerchief, he wiped his face, +which was bathed in perspiration, and ejaculated: “By Jasus, it is +blazing hot!” + +“Very hot, my friend,” said I; “have you travelled far to-day?” + +“I have not, your hanner; I have been just walking about the dirty town +trying to sell my books.” + +“Have you been successful?” + +“I have not, your hanner; only three pence have I taken this blessed +day.” + +“What do your books treat of?” + +“Why that is more than I can tell your hanner; my trade is to sell the +books not to read them. Would your hanner like to look at them?” + +“O dear no,” said I; “I have long been tired of books; I have had enough +of them.” + +“I dare say, your hanner; from the state of your hanner’s eyes I should +say as much; they look so weak—picking up learning has ruined your +hanner’s sight.” + +“May I ask,” said I, “from what country you are?” + +“Sure your hanner may; and it is a civil answer you will get from Michael +Sullivan. It is from ould Ireland I am, from Castlebar in the county +Mayo.” + +“And how came you into Wales?” + +“From the hope of bettering my condition, your hanner, and a foolish hope +it was.” + +“You have not bettered your condition, then?” + +“I have not, your hanner; for I suffer quite as much hunger and thirst as +ever I did in ould Ireland.” + +“Did you sell books in Ireland?” + +“I did nat, your hanner; I made buttons and clothes—that is I pieced +them. I was several trades in ould Ireland, your hanner; but none of +them answering, I came over here.” + +“Where you commenced bookselling?” said I. + +“I did nat; your hanner. I first sold laces, and then I sold loocifers, +and then something else; I have followed several trades in Wales, your +hanner; at last I got into the bookselling trade, in which I now am.” + +“And it answers, I suppose, as badly as the others?” + +“Just as badly, your hanner; divil a bit better.” + +“I suppose you never beg?” + +“Your hanner may say that; I was always too proud to beg. It is begging +I laves to the wife I have.” + +“Then you have a wife?” + +“I have, your hanner; and a daughter, too; and a good wife and daughter +they are. What would become of me without them I do not know.” + +“Have you been long in Wales?” + +“Not very long, your hanner; only about twenty years.” + +“Do you travel much about?” + +“All over North Wales, your hanner; to say nothing of the southern +country.” + +“I suppose you speak Welsh?” + +“Not a word, your hanner. The Welsh speak their language so fast, that +divil a word could I ever contrive to pick up.” + +“Do you speak Irish?” + +“I do, your hanner; that is when people spake to me in it.” + +I spoke to him in Irish; after a little discourse he said in English: + +“I see your hanner is a Munster man. Ah! all the learned men comes from +Munster. Father Toban comes from Munster.” + +“I have heard of him once or twice before,” said I. + +“I dare say your hanner has. Everyone has heard of Father Toban; the +greatest scholar in the world, who they say stands a better chance of +being made Pope, some day or other, than any saggart in Ireland.” + +“Will you take sixpence?” + +“I will, your hanner; if your hanner offers it; but I never beg; I leave +that kind of work to my wife and daughter, as I said before.” + +After giving him the sixpence, which he received with a lazy “thank your +hanner,” I got up, and followed by my daughter returned to the town. + +Henrietta went to the inn, and I again strolled about the town. As I was +standing in the middle of one of the busiest streets I suddenly heard a +loud and dissonant gabbling, and glancing around beheld a number of +wild-looking people, male and female. Wild looked the men, yet wilder +the women. The men were very lightly clad, and were all barefooted and +bareheaded; they carried stout sticks in their hands. The women were +barefooted too, but had for the most part headdresses; their garments +consisted of blue cloaks and striped gingham gowns. All the females had +common tin articles in their hands which they offered for sale with +violent gestures to the people in the streets, as they walked along, +occasionally darting into the shops, from which, however, they were +almost invariably speedily ejected by the startled proprietors, with +looks of disgust and almost horror. Two ragged, red-haired lads led a +gaunt pony, drawing a creaking cart, stored with the same kind of +articles of tin, which the women bore. Poorly clad, dusty and soiled as +they were, they all walked with a free, independent, and almost graceful +carriage. + +“Are those people from Ireland?” said I to a decent-looking man, +seemingly a mechanic, who stood near me, and was also looking at them, +but with anything but admiration. + +“I am sorry to say they are, sir,” said the man, who from his accent was +evidently an Irishman, “for they are a disgrace to their country.” + +I did not exactly think so. I thought that in many respects they were +fine specimens of humanity. + +“Every one of those wild fellows,” said I to myself, “is worth a dozen of +the poor mean-spirited book-tramper I have lately been discoursing with.” + +In the afternoon I again passed over into Anglesey, but this time not by +the bridge but by the ferry on the north-east of Bangor, intending to go +to Beaumaris, about two or three miles distant: an excellent road, on the +left side of which is a high bank fringed with dwarf oaks, and on the +right the Menai strait, leads to it. Beaumaris is at present a +watering-place. On one side of it, close upon the sea stands the ruins +of an immense castle, once a Norman stronghold, but built on the site of +a palace belonging to the ancient kings of North Wales, and a favourite +residence of the celebrated Owain Gwynedd, the father of the yet more +celebrated Madoc, the original discoverer of America. I proceeded at +once to the castle, and clambering to the top of one of the turrets, +looked upon Beaumaris Bay, and the noble rocky coast of the mainland to +the south-east beyond it, the most remarkable object of which is the +gigantic Penman Mawr, which interpreted is “the great head-stone,” the +termination of a range of craggy hills descending from the Snowdon +mountains. + +“What a bay!” said I, “for beauty it is superior to the far-famed one of +Naples. A proper place for the keels to start from, which unguided by +the compass found their way over the mighty and mysterious Western +Ocean.” + +I repeated all the Bardic lines I could remember connected with Madoc’s +expedition, and likewise many from the Madoc of Southey, not the least of +Britain’s four great latter poets, decidedly her best prose writer, and +probably the purest and most noble character to which she has ever given +birth; and then, after a long, lingering look, descended from my +altitude, and returned, not by the ferry, but by the suspension bridge to +the mainland. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +Robert Lleiaf—Prophetic Englyn—The Second Sight—Duncan Campbell—Nial’s +Saga—Family of Nial—Gunnar—The Avenger. + + “Av i dir Môn, cr dwr Menai, + Tros y traeth, ond aros trai.” + + “I will go to the land of Mona, notwithstanding the water of the + Menai, across the sand, without waiting for the ebb.” + +So sang a bard about two hundred and forty years ago, who styled himself +Robert Lleiaf, or the least of the Roberts. The meaning of the couplet +has always been considered to be and doubtless is, that a time would come +when a bridge would be built across the Menai, over which one might pass +with safety and comfort, without waiting till the ebb was sufficiently +low to permit people to pass over the traeth, or sand, which, from ages +the most remote, had been used as the means of communication between the +mainland and the Isle of Mona or Anglesey. Grounding their hopes upon +that couplet, people were continually expecting to see a bridge across +the Menai: more than two hundred years, however, elapsed before the +expectation was fulfilled by the mighty Telford flinging over the strait +an iron suspension bridge, which, for grace and beauty, has perhaps no +rival in Europe. + +The couplet is a remarkable one. In the time of its author there was +nobody in Britain capable of building a bridge, which could have stood +against the tremendous surges which occasionally vex the Menai; yet the +couplet gives intimation that a bridge over the Menai there would be, +which clearly argues a remarkable foresight in the author, a feeling that +a time would at length arrive when the power of science would be so far +advanced, that men would be able to bridge over the terrible strait. The +length of time which intervened between the composition of the couplet +and the fulfilment of the promise, shows that a bridge over the Menai was +no pont y meibion, no children’s bridge, nor a work for common men. O, +surely Lleiaf was a man of great foresight! + +A man of great foresight, but nothing more; he foretold a bridge over the +Menai, when no one could have built one, a bridge over which people could +pass, aye, and carts and horses; we will allow him the credit of +foretelling such a bridge; and when Telford’s bridge was flung over the +Menai, Lleiaf’s couplet was verified. But since Telford’s another bridge +has been built over the Menai, which enables things to pass which the +bard certainly never dreamt of. He never hinted at a bridge over which +thundering trains would dash, if required, at the rate of fifty miles an +hour; he never hinted at steam travelling, or a railroad bridge, and the +second bridge over the Menai is one. + +That Lleiaf was a man of remarkable foresight cannot be denied, but there +are no grounds which entitle him to be considered a possessor of the +second sight. He foretold a bridge, but not a railroad bridge; had he +foretold a railroad bridge, or hinted at the marvels of steam, his claim +to the second sight would have been incontestable. + +What a triumph for Wales; what a triumph for bardism, if Lleiaf had ever +written an englyn, or couplet, in which not a bridge for common traffic, +but a railroad bridge over the Menai was hinted at, and steam travelling +distinctly foretold! Well, though Lleiaf did not write it, there exists +in the Welsh language an englyn, almost as old as Lleiaf’s time, in which +steam travelling in Wales and Anglesey is foretold, and in which, though +the railroad bridge over the Menai is not exactly mentioned, it may be +considered to be included; so that Wales and bardism have equal reason to +be proud. This is the englyn alluded to:— + + “Codais, ymolchais yn Môn, cyn naw awr + Ciniewa ’n Nghaer Lleon, + Pryd gosber yn y Werddon, + Prydnawn wrth dan mawn yn Môn.” + +The above englyn was printed in the _Greal_, 1792, p. 316; the language +shows it to be a production of about the middle of the seventeenth +century. The following is nearly a literal translation:— + + “I got up in Mona as soon as ’twas light, + At nine in old Chester my breakfast I took; + In Ireland I dined, and in Mona, ere night, + By the turf fire sat, in my own ingle nook.” + +Now, as sure as the couplet by Robert Lleiaf foretells that a bridge +would eventually be built over the strait, by which people would pass, +and traffic be carried on, so surely does the above englyn foreshadow the +speed by which people would travel by steam, a speed by which distance is +already all but annihilated. At present it is easy enough to get up at +dawn at Holyhead, the point of Anglesey the most distant from Chester, +and to breakfast at that old town by nine; and though the feat has never +yet been accomplished, it would be quite possible, provided proper +preparations were made, to start from Holyhead at daybreak, breakfast at +Chester at nine, or before, dine in Ireland at two, and get back again to +Holyhead ere the sun of the longest day has set. And as surely as the +couplet about the bridge argues great foresight in the man that wrote it, +so surely does the englyn prove that its author must have been possessed +of the faculty of second sight, as nobody without it could, in the middle +of the seventeenth century, when the powers of steam were unknown, have +written anything in which travelling by steam is so distinctly alluded +to. + +Truly some old bard of the seventeenth century must in a vision of the +second sight have seen the railroad bridge across the Menai, the Chester +train dashing across it at high railroad speed, and a figure exactly like +his own seated comfortably in a third-class carriage. + +And now a few words on the second sight; a few calm, quiet words, in +which there is not the slightest wish to display either eccentricity or +book-learning. + +The second sight is a power of seeing events before they happen, or of +seeing events which are happening far beyond the reach of the common +sight, or between which and the common sight barriers intervene, which it +cannot pierce. The number of those who possess this gift or power is +limited, and perhaps no person ever possessed it in a perfect degree: +some more frequently see coming events, or what is happening at a +distance, than others; some see things dimly, others with great +distinctness. The events seen are sometimes of great importance, +sometimes highly nonsensical and trivial; sometimes they relate to the +person who sees them, sometimes to other people. This is all that can be +said with anything like certainty with respect to the nature of the +second sight, a faculty for which there is no accounting, which, were it +better developed, might be termed the sixth sense. + +The second sight is confined to no particular country, and has at all +times existed. Particular nations have obtained a celebrity for it for a +time, which they have afterwards lost, the celebrity being transferred to +other nations, who were previously not noted for the faculty. The Jews +were at one time particularly celebrated for the possession of the second +sight; they are no longer so. The power was at one time very common +amongst the Icelanders and the inhabitants of the Hebrides, but it is so +no longer. Many and extraordinary instances of the second sight have +lately occurred in that part of England generally termed East Anglia, +where in former times the power of the second sight seldom manifested +itself. + +There are various books in existence in which the second sight is treated +of or mentioned. Amongst others there is one called Martin’s _Visit to +the Hebrides_, published in the year 1700, which is indeed the book from +which most writers in English, who have treated of the second sight, have +derived their information. The author gives various anecdotes of the +second sight, which he had picked up during his visits to those remote +islands, which until the publication of his tour were almost unknown to +the world. It will not be amiss to observe here that the term second +sight is of Lowland Scotch origin, and first made its appearance in print +in Martin’s book. The Gaelic term for the faculty is taibhsearachd, the +literal meaning of which is what is connected with a spectral appearance, +the root of the word being taibhse, a spectral appearance or vision. + +Then there is the history of Duncan Campbell. The father of this person +was a native of Shetland, who being shipwrecked on the coast of Swedish +Lapland, and hospitably received by the natives, married a woman of the +country, by whom he had Duncan, who was born deaf and dumb. On the death +of his mother the child was removed by his father to Scotland, where he +was educated and taught the use of the finger alphabet, by means of which +people are enabled to hold discourse with each other, without moving the +lips or tongue. The alphabet was originally invented in Scotland, and at +the present day is much in use there, not only amongst dumb people, but +many others, who employ it as a silent means of communication. Nothing +is more usual than to see passengers in a common conveyance in Scotland +discoursing with their fingers. Duncan at an early period gave +indications of possessing the second sight. After various adventures he +came to London, where for many years he practised as a fortune-teller, +pretending to answer all questions, whether relating to the past or the +future, by means of the second sight. There can be no doubt that this +man was to a certain extent an impostor; no person exists having a +thorough knowledge either of the past or future by means of the second +sight, which only visits particular people by fits and starts, and which +is quite independent of individual will; but it is equally certain that +he disclosed things which no person could have been acquainted with +without visitations of the second sight. His papers fell into the hands +of Defoe, who wrought them up in his own peculiar manner, and gave them +to the world under the title of the _Life of Mr. Duncan Campbell_, the +deaf and dumb gentleman; with an appendix containing many anecdotes of +the second sight from Martin’s tour. + +But by far the most remarkable book in existence, connected with the +second sight, is one in the ancient Norse language entitled _Nial’s +Saga_. {169} It was written in Iceland about the year 1200, and contains +the history of a certain Nial and his family, and likewise notices of +various other people. This Nial was what was called a spámadr, that is, +a spaeman or a person capable of foretelling events. He was originally a +heathen—when, however, Christianity was introduced into Iceland, he was +amongst the first to embrace it, and persuaded his family and various +people of his acquaintance to do the same, declaring that a new faith was +necessary, the old religion of Odin, Thor and Frey being quite unsuited +to the times. The book is no romance, but a domestic history compiled +from tradition about two hundred years after the events which it narrates +had taken place. Of its style, which is wonderfully terse, the following +translated account of Nial and his family will perhaps convey some idea:— + + “There was a man called Nial who was the son of Thorgeir Gelling, the + son of Thorolf. The mother of Nial was called Asgerdr; she was the + daughter of Ar, the Silent, the Lord of a district in Norway. She + had come over to Iceland and settled down on land to the west of + Markarfliot, between Oldustein and Selialandsmul. Holtathorir was + her son, father of Thorleif Krak, from whom the Skogverjars are come, + and likewise of Thorgrim the big and Skorargeir. Nial dwelt at + Bergthorshvâl in Landey, but had another house at Thorolfell. Nial + was very rich in property and handsome to look at, but had no beard. + He was so great a lawyer that it was impossible to find his equal; he + was very wise, and had the gift of foretelling events; he was good at + counsel, and of a good disposition, and whatever counsel he gave + people was for their best; he was gentle and humane, and got every + man out of trouble who came to him in his need. His wife was called + Bergthora; she was the daughter of Skarphethin. She was a + bold-spirited woman who feared nobody, and was rather rough of + temper. They had six children, three daughters and three sons, all + of whom will be frequently mentioned in this saga.” + +In the history many instances are given of Nial’s skill in giving good +advice and his power of seeing events before they happened. Nial lived +in Iceland during most singular times, in which though there were laws +provided for every possible case, no man could have redress for any +injury unless he took it himself or his friends took it for him, simply +because there were no ministers of justice supported by the State, +authorized and empowered to carry the sentence of the law into effect. +For example, if a man were slain his death would remain unpunished unless +he had a son or a brother, or some other relation to slay the slayer, or +to force him to pay “bod,” that is, amends in money, to be determined by +the position of the man who was slain. Provided the man who was slain +had relations, his death was generally avenged, as it was considered the +height of infamy in Iceland to permit one’s relations to be murdered, +without slaying their murderers, or obtaining bod from them. The right, +however, permitted to relations of taking with their own hands the lives +of those who had slain their friends, produced incalculable mischiefs; +for if the original slayer had friends, they, in the event of his being +slain in retaliation for what he had done, made it a point of honour to +avenge his death, so that by the lex talionis feuds were perpetuated. +Nial was a great benefactor to his countrymen, by arranging matters +between people at variance, in which he was much helped by his knowledge +of the law, and by giving wholesome advice to people in precarious +situations, in which he was frequently helped by the power which he +possessed of the second sight. On several occasions, he settled the +disputes, in which his friend Gunnar was involved, a noble, generous +character, and the champion of Iceland, but who had a host of foes, +envious of his renown; and it was not his fault if Gunnar was eventually +slain, for if the advice which he gave had been followed the champion +would have died an old man; and if his own sons had followed his advice, +and not been over fond of taking vengeance on people who had wronged +them, they would have escaped a horrible death in which he himself was +involved, as he had always foreseen he should be. + +“Dost thou know by what death thou thyself will die?” said Gunnar to +Nial, after the latter had been warning him that if he followed a certain +course he would die by a violent death. + +“I do,” said Nial. + +“What is it?” said Gunnar. + +“What people would think the least probable,” replied Nial. + +He meant that he should die by fire. The kind generous Nial, who tried +to get everybody out of difficulty, perished by fire. His sons by their +violent conduct had incensed numerous people against them. The house in +which they lived with their father was beset at night by an armed party, +who, unable to break into it owing to the desperate resistance which they +met with from the sons of Nial, Skarphethin, Helgi and Grimmr and a +comrade of theirs called Kari, {172a} set it in a blaze, in which +perished Nial the lawyer and man of the second sight, his wife, +Bergthora, and two of their sons, the third, Helgi, having been +previously slain, and Kari, who was destined to be the avenger of the +ill-fated family, having made his escape, after performing deeds of +heroism, which for centuries after were the themes of song and tale in +the ice-bound isle. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + + +Snowdon—Caernarvon—Maxen Wledig—Moel y Cynghorion—The Wyddfa—Snow of +Snowdon—Rare Plant. + +On the third morning after our arrival at Bangor we set out for Snowdon. + +Snowdon or Eryri is no single hill, but a mountainous region, the +loftiest part of which, called Y Wyddfa, nearly four thousand feet above +the level of the sea, is generally considered to be the highest point of +Southern Britain. The name Snowdon was bestowed upon this region by the +early English on account of its snowy appearance in winter; Eryri by the +Britons, because in the old time it abounded with eagles, Eryri {172b} in +the ancient British language signifying an eyrie or breeding place of +eagles. + +Snowdon is interesting on various accounts. It is interesting for its +picturesque beauty. Perhaps in the whole world there is no region more +picturesquely beautiful than Snowdon, a region of mountains, lakes, +cataracts, and groves, in which Nature shows herself in her most grand +and beautiful forms. + +It is interesting from its connection with history: it was to Snowdon +that Vortigern retired from the fury of his own subjects, caused by the +favour which he showed to the detested Saxons. It was there that he +called to his counsels Merlin, said to be begotten on a hag by an +incubus, but who was in reality the son of a Roman consul by a British +woman. It was in Snowdon that he built the castle, which he fondly +deemed would prove impregnable, but which his enemies destroyed by +flinging wildfire over its walls; and it was in a wind-beaten valley of +Snowdon, near the sea, that his dead body decked in green armour had a +mound of earth and stones raised over it. It was on the heights of +Snowdon that the brave but unfortunate Llywelin ap Griffith made his last +stand for Cambrian independence; and it was to Snowdon that that very +remarkable man, Owen Glendower, retired with his irregular bands before +Harry the Fourth and his numerous and disciplined armies, soon, however, +to emerge from its defiles and follow the foe, retreating less from the +Welsh arrows from the crags, than from the cold, rain, and starvation of +the Welsh hills. + +But it is from its connection with romance that Snowdon derives its chief +interest. Who when he thinks of Snowdon does not associate it with the +heroes of romance, Arthur and his knights? whose fictitious adventures, +the splendid dreams of Welsh and Breton minstrels, many of the scenes of +which are the valleys and passes of Snowdon, are the origin of romance, +before which what is classic has for more than half a century been +waning, and is perhaps eventually destined to disappear. Yes, to romance +Snowdon is indebted for its interest and consequently for its celebrity; +but for romance Snowdon would assuredly not be what it at present is, one +of the very celebrated hills of the world, and to the poets of modern +Europe almost what Parnassus was to those of old. + +To the Welsh, besides being the hill of the Awen or Muse, it has always +been the hill of hills, the loftiest of all mountains, the one whose snow +is the coldest, to climb to whose peak is the most difficult of all +feats, and the one whose fall will be the most astounding catastrophe of +the last day. + +To view this mountain I and my little family set off in a calèche on the +third morning after our arrival at Bangor. + +Our first stage was to Caernarvon. As I subsequently made a journey to +Caernarvon on foot, I shall say nothing about the road till I give an +account of that expedition, save that it lies for the most part in the +neighbourhood of the sea. We reached Caernarvon, which is distant ten +miles from Bangor, about eleven o’clock, and put up at an inn to refresh +ourselves and the horses. It is a beautiful little town situated on the +southern side of the Menai Strait at nearly its western extremity. It is +called Caernarvon, because it is opposite Mona or Anglesey: Caernarvon +signifying the town or castle opposite Mona. Its principal feature is +its grand old castle, fronting the north, and partly surrounded by the +sea. This castle was built by Edward the First after the fall of his +brave adversary Llewelyn, and in it was born his son Edward whom, when an +infant, he induced the Welsh chieftains to accept as their prince without +seeing, by saying that the person whom he proposed to be their sovereign +was one who was not only born in Wales, but could not speak a word of the +English language. The town of Caernarvon, however, existed long before +Edward’s time, and was probably originally a Roman station. According to +Welsh tradition it was built by Maxen Wledig or Maxentius, in honour of +his wife Ellen, who was born in the neighbourhood. Maxentius, who was a +Briton by birth, and partly by origin, contested unsuccessfully the +purple with Gratian and Valentinian, and to support his claim led over to +the Continent an immense army of Britons, who never returned, but on the +fall of their leader settled down in that part of Gaul generally termed +Armorica, which means a maritime region, but which the Welsh call Llydaw, +or Lithuania, which was the name, or something like the name, which the +region bore when Maxen’s army took possession of it, owing, doubtless, to +its having been the quarters of a legion composed of barbarians from the +country of Leth or Lithuania. + +After staying about an hour at Caernarvon we started for Llanberis, a few +miles to the east. Llanberis is a small village situated in a valley, +and takes its name from Peris, a British saint of the sixth century, son +of Helig ab Glanog. The valley extends from west to east, having the +great mountain of Snowdon on its south, and a range of immense hills on +its northern, side. We entered this valley by a pass called Nant y Glo +or the ravine of the coal, and passing a lake on our left, on which I +observed a solitary coracle, with a fisherman in it, were presently at +the village. Here we got down at a small inn, and having engaged a young +lad to serve as guide, I set out with Henrietta to ascend the hill, my +wife remaining behind, not deeming herself sufficiently strong to +encounter the fatigue of the expedition. + +Pointing with my finger to the head of Snowdon towering a long way from +us in the direction of the east, I said to Henrietta:— + +“Dacw Eryri, yonder is Snowdon. Let us try to get to the top. The Welsh +have a proverb: ‘It is easy to say yonder is Snowdon; but not so easy to +ascend it.’ Therefore I would advise you to brace up your nerves and +sinews for the attempt.” + +We then commenced the ascent, arm in arm, followed by the lad, I singing +at the stretch of my voice a celebrated Welsh stanza, in which the +proverb about Snowdon is given, embellished with a fine moral, and which +may thus be rendered:— + + “Easy to say, ‘Behold Eryri,’ + But difficult to reach its head; + Easy for him whose hopes are cheery + To bid the wretch be comforted.” + +We were far from being the only visitors to the hill this day; groups of +people, or single individuals, might be seen going up or descending the +path as far as the eye could reach. The path was remarkably good, and +for some way the ascent was anything but steep. On our left was the vale +of Llanberis, and on our other side a broad hollow, or valley of Snowdon, +beyond which were two huge hills forming part of the body of the grand +mountain, the lowermost of which our guide told me was called Moel Elia, +and the uppermost Moel y Cynghorion. On we went until we had passed both +these hills, and come to the neighbourhood of a great wall of rocks +constituting the upper region of Snowdon, and where the real difficulty +of the ascent commences. Feeling now rather out of breath we sat down on +a little knoll with our faces to the south, having a small lake near us, +on our left hand, which lay dark and deep, just under the great wall. + +Here we sat for some time resting and surveying the scene which presented +itself to us, the principal object of which was the north-eastern side of +the mighty Moel y Cynghorion, across the wide hollow or valley, which it +overhangs in the shape of a sheer precipice some five hundred feet in +depth. Struck by the name of Moel y Cynghorion, which in English +signifies the hill of the counsellors, I inquired of our guide why the +hill was so called, but as he could afford me no information on the point +I presumed that it was either called the hill of the counsellors from the +Druids having held high consultation on its top, in time of old, or from +the unfortunate Llewelyn having consulted there with his chieftains, +whilst his army lay encamped in the vale below. + +Getting up we set about surmounting what remained of the ascent. The +path was now winding and much more steep than it had hitherto been. I +was at one time apprehensive that my gentle companion would be obliged to +give over the attempt; the gallant girl, however, persevered, and in +little more than twenty minutes from the time when we arose from our +resting-place under the crags, we stood, safe and sound, though panting, +upon the very top of Snowdon—the far-famed Wyddfa. + +The Wyddfa is about thirty feet in diameter and is surrounded on three +sides by a low wall. In the middle of it is a rude cabin, in which +refreshments are sold, and in which a person resides throughout the year, +though there are few or no visitors to the hill’s top, except during the +months of summer. Below on all sides are frightful precipices except on +the side of the west. Towards the east it looks perpendicularly into the +dyffrin or vale, nearly a mile below, from which to the gazer it is at +all times an object of admiration, of wonder, and almost of fear. + +There we stood on the Wyddfa, in a cold bracing atmosphere, though the +day was almost stiflingly hot in the regions from which we had ascended. +There we stood enjoying a scene inexpressibly grand, comprehending a +considerable part of the mainland of Wales, the whole of Anglesey, a +faint glimpse of part of Cumberland; the Irish Channel, and what might be +either a misty creation or the shadowy outlines of the hills of Ireland. +Peaks and pinnacles and huge moels stood up here and there, about us and +below us, partly in glorious light, partly in deep shade. Manifold were +the objects which we saw from the brow of Snowdon, but of all the objects +which we saw, those which filled us with most delight and admiration, +were numerous lakes and lagoons, which, like sheets of ice or polished +silver, lay reflecting the rays of the sun in the deep valleys at his +feet. + +“Here,” said I to Henrietta, “you are on the top crag of Snowdon, which +the Welsh consider, and perhaps with justice to be the most remarkable +crag in the world; which is mentioned in many of their old wild romantic +tales, and some of the noblest of their poems, amongst others in the ‘Day +of Judgment,’ by the illustrious Goronwy Owen, where it is brought +forward in the following manner: + + ‘Ail i’r ar ael Eryri, + Cyfartal hoewal a hi.’ + + ‘The brow of Snowdon shall be levelled with the ground, and the + eddying waters shall murmur round it.’ + +“You are now on the top crag of Snowdon, generally termed Y Wyddfa, {177} +which means a conspicuous place or tumulus, and which is generally in +winter covered with snow; about which snow there are in the Welsh +language two curious englynion or stanzas consisting entirely of vowels +with the exception of one consonant namely the letter R. + + “‘Oer yw’r Eira ar Eryri,—o’ryw + Ar awyr i rewi; + Oer yw’r ia ar riw ’r ri, + A’r Eira oer yw ’Ryri. + + “‘O Ri y’Ryri yw’r oera,—o’r âr, + Ar oror wir arwa; + O’r awyr a yr Eira, + O’i ryw i roi rew a’r ia. + + “‘Cold is the snow on Snowdon’s brow, + It makes the air so chill; + For cold, I trow, there is no snow + Like that of Snowdon’s hill. + + “‘A hill most chill is Snowdon’s hill, + And wintry is his brow; + From Snowdon’s hill the breezes chill + Can freeze the very snow.’” + +Such was the harangue which I uttered on the top of Snowdon; to which +Henrietta listened with attention; three or four English, who stood nigh, +with grinning scorn, and a Welsh gentleman with considerable interest. +The latter coming forward shook me by the hand exclaiming: + +“Wyt ti Lydaueg?” + +“I am not a Llydauan,” said I; “I wish I was, or anything but what I am, +one of a nation amongst whom any knowledge save what relates to +money-making and over-reaching is looked upon as a disgrace. I am +ashamed to say that I am an Englishman.” + +I then returned his shake of the hand; and bidding Henrietta and the +guide follow me went into the cabin, where Henrietta had some excellent +coffee and myself and the guide a bottle of tolerable ale; very much +refreshed we set out on our return. + +A little way from the top, on the right-hand side as you descend, there +is a very steep path running down in a zigzag manner to the pass which +leads to Capel Curig. Up this path it is indeed a task of difficulty to +ascend to the Wyddfa, the one by which we mounted being comparatively +easy. On Henrietta’s pointing out to me a plant, which grew on a crag by +the side of this path some way down, I was about to descend in order to +procure it for her, when our guide springing forward darted down the path +with the agility of a young goat, and in less than a minute returned with +it in his hand and presented it gracefully to the dear girl, who on +examining it said it belonged to a species of which she had long been +desirous of possessing a specimen. Nothing material occurred in our +descent to Llanberis, where my wife was anxiously awaiting us. The +ascent and descent occupied four hours. About ten o’clock at night we +again found ourselves at Bangor. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + + +Gronwy Owen—Struggles of Genius—The Stipend. + +The day after our expedition to Snowdon I and my family parted; they +returning by railroad to Chester and Llangollen whilst I took a trip into +Anglesey to visit the birthplace of the great poet Goronwy Owen, whose +works I had read with enthusiasm in my early years. + +Goronwy or Gronwy Owen, was born in the year 1722, at a place called +Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf in Anglesey. He was the eldest of three +children. His parents were peasants and so exceedingly poor that they +were unable to send him to school. Even, however, when an unlettered +child he gave indications that he was visited by the awen or muse. At +length the celebrated Lewis Morris chancing to be at Llanfair, became +acquainted with the boy, and struck with his natural talents, determined +that he should have all the benefit which education could bestow. He +accordingly, at his own expense, sent him to school at Beaumaris, where +he displayed a remarkable aptitude for the acquisition of learning. He +subsequently sent him to Jesus College, Oxford, and supported him there +whilst studying for the Church. Whilst at Jesus, Gronwy distinguished +himself as a Greek and Latin scholar, and gave such proofs of poetical +talent in his native language, that he was looked upon by his countrymen +of that Welsh college as the rising Bard of the age. After completing +his collegiate course he returned to Wales, where he was ordained a +minister of the Church in the year 1745. The next seven years of his +life were a series of cruel disappointments and pecuniary embarrassments. +The grand wish of his heart was to obtain a curacy and to settle down in +Wales. Certainly a very reasonable wish. To say nothing of his being a +great genius, he was eloquent, highly learned, modest, meek and of +irreproachable morals, yet Gronwy Owen could obtain no Welsh curacy, nor +could his friend Lewis Morris, though he exerted himself to the utmost, +procure one for him. It is true that he was told that he might go to +Llanfair, his native place, and officiate there at a time when the curacy +happened to be vacant, and thither he went, glad at heart to get back +amongst his old friends, who enthusiastically welcomed him; yet scarcely +had he been there three weeks when he received notice from the Chaplain +of the Bishop of Bangor that he must vacate Llanfair in order to make +room for a Mr. John Ellis, a young clergyman of large independent +fortune, who was wishing for a curacy under the Bishop of Bangor, Doctor +Hutton—so poor Gronwy the eloquent, the learned, the meek was obliged to +vacate the pulpit of his native place to make room for the rich young +clergyman, who wished to be within dining distance of the palace of +Bangor. Truly in this world the full shall be crammed, and those who +have little, shall have the little which they have taken away from them. +Unable to obtain employment in Wales, Gronwy sought for it in England, +and after some time procured the curacy of Oswestry in Shropshire, where +he married a respectable young woman, who eventually brought him two sons +and a daughter. + +From Oswestry he went to Donnington, near Shrewsbury, where under a +certain Scotchman named Douglas, who was an absentee, and who died Bishop +of Salisbury, he officiated as curate and master of a grammar school for +a stipend—always grudgingly and contumeliously paid—of three-and-twenty +pounds a year. From Donnington he removed to Walton in Cheshire, where +he lost his daughter, who was carried off by a fever. His next removal +was to Northolt, a pleasant village in the neighbourhood of London. + +He held none of his curacies long, either losing them from the caprice of +his principals, or being compelled to resign them from the parsimony +which they practised towards him. In the year 1756 he was living in a +garret in London vainly soliciting employment in his sacred calling, and +undergoing with his family the greatest privations. At length his friend +Lewis Morris, who had always assisted him to the utmost of his ability, +procured him the mastership of a government school at New Brunswick in +North America with a salary of three hundred pounds a year. Thither he +went with his wife and family, and there he died sometime about the year +1780. + +He was the last of the great poets of Cambria, and with the exception of +Ab Gwilym, the greatest which she has produced. His poems which for a +long time had circulated through Wales in manuscript were first printed +in the year 1819. They are composed in the ancient Bardic measures, and +were with one exception, namely an elegy on the death of his benefactor +Lewis Morris, which was transmitted from the New World, written before he +had attained the age of thirty-five. All his pieces are excellent, but +his masterwork is decidedly the “Cywydd y Farn” or “Day of Judgment.” +This poem which is generally considered by the Welsh as the brightest +ornament of their ancient language, was composed at Donnington, a small +hamlet in Shropshire on the north-west spur of the Wrekin, at which +place, as has been already said, Gronwy toiled as schoolmaster and curate +under Douglas the Scot, for a stipend of three-and-twenty pounds a year. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + + +Start for Anglesey—The Post Master—Asking Questions—Mynydd Lydiart—Mr. +Pritchard—Way to Llanfair. + +When I started from Bangor, to visit the birthplace of Gronwy Owen, I by +no means saw my way clearly before me. I knew that he was born in +Anglesey in a parish called Llanfair Mathafarn eithaf, that is St. Mary’s +of farther Mathafarn—but as to where this Mathafarn lay, north or south, +near or far, I knew positively nothing. Passing through the northern +suburb of Bangor I saw a small house in front of which was written +“post-office” in white letters; before this house underneath a shrub in a +little garden sat an old man reading. Thinking that from this person, +whom I judged to be the post-master, I was as likely to obtain +information with respect to the place of my destination as from any one, +I stopped and taking off my hat for a moment, inquired whether he could +tell me anything about the direction of a place called Llanfair Mathafarn +eithaf. He did not seem to understand my question, for getting up he +came towards me and asked what I wanted: I repeated what I had said, +whereupon his face became animated. + +“Llanfair Mathafarn eithaf!” said he. “Yes, I can tell you about it, and +with good reason for it lies not far from the place where I was born.” + +The above was the substance of what he said, and nothing more, for he +spoke in English somewhat broken. + +“And how far is Llanfair from here?” said I. + +“About ten miles,” he replied. + +“That’s nothing,” said I; “I was afraid it was much farther.” + +“Do you call ten miles nothing,” said he, “in a burning day like this? I +think you will be both tired and thirsty before you get to Llanfair, +supposing you go there on foot. But what may your business be at +Llanfair?” said he looking at me inquisitively. “It is a strange place +to go to, unless you go to buy hogs or cattle.” + +“I go to buy neither hogs nor cattle,” said I, “though I am somewhat of a +judge of both; I go on a more important errand, namely to see the +birth-place of the great Gronwy Owen.” + +“Are you any relation of Gronwy Owen?” said the old man, looking at me +more inquisitively than before, through a large pair of spectacles, which +he wore. + +“None whatever,” said I. + +“Then why do you go to see his parish? It is a very poor one.” + +“From respect to his genius,” said I; “I read his works long ago, and was +delighted with them.” + +“Are you a Welshman?” said the old man. + +“No,” said I, “I am no Welshman.” + +“Can you speak Welsh?” said he, addressing me in that language. + +“A little,” said I; “but not so well as I can read it.” + +“Well,” said the old man, “I have lived here a great many years, but +never before did a Saxon call upon me, asking questions about Gronwy +Owen, or his birth-place. Immortality to his memory! I owe much to him, +for reading his writings taught me to be a poet!” + +“Dear me!” said I, “are you a poet?” + +“I trust I am,” said he; “though the humblest of Ynys Fon.” + +A flash of proud fire, methought, illumined his features as he pronounced +these last words. + +“I am most happy to have met you,” said I; “but tell me how am I to get +to Llanfair?” + +“You must go first,” said he, “to Traeth Coch, which in Saxon is called +the ‘Red Sand.’ In the village called the Pentraeth which lies above the +sand, I was born; through the village and over the bridge you must pass, +and after walking four miles due north you will find yourself in Llanfair +eithaf, at the northern extremity of Mon. Farewell! That ever Saxon +should ask me about Gronwy Owen, and his birth-place! I scarcely believe +you to be a Saxon, but whether you be or not, I repeat farewell.” + +Coming to the Menai Bridge I asked the man who took the penny toll at the +entrance, the way to Pentraeth Coch. + +“You see that white house by the wood,” said he, pointing some distance +into Anglesey; “you must make towards it till you come to a place where +there are four cross roads and then you must take the road to the right.” + +Passing over the bridge I made my way towards the house by the wood which +stood on the hill till I came where the four roads met, when I turned to +the right as directed. + +The country through which I passed seemed tolerably well cultivated, the +hedge-rows were very high, seeming to spring out of low stone walls. I +met two or three gangs of reapers proceeding to their work with scythes +in their hands. + +In about half-an-hour I passed by a farm-house partly surrounded with +walnut trees. Still the same high hedges on both sides of the road: are +these relics of the sacrificial groves of Mona? thought I to myself. +Then I came to a wretched village through which I hurried at the rate of +six miles an hour. I then saw a long lofty craggy hill on my right hand +towards the east. + +“What mountain is that?” said I to an urchin playing in the hot dust of +the road. + +“Mynydd Lidiart!” said the urchin, tossing up a handful of the hot dust +into the air, part of which in descending fell into my eyes. + +I shortly afterwards passed by a handsome lodge. I then saw groves, +mountain Lidiart forming a noble background. + +“Who owns this wood?” said I in Welsh to two men who were limbing a +felled tree by the roadside. + +“Lord Vivian,” answered one, touching his hat. + +“The gentleman is our countryman,” said he to the other after I had +passed. + +I was now descending the side of a pretty valley, and soon found myself +at Pentraeth Coch. The part of the Pentraeth where I now was consisted +of a few houses and a church, or something which I judged to be a church, +for there was no steeple; the houses and church stood about a little open +spot or square, the church on the east, and on the west a neat little inn +or public-house over the door of which was written “The White Horse. +Hugh Pritchard.” By this time I had verified in part the prediction of +the old Welsh poet of the post-office. Though I was not arrived at +Llanfair I was, if not tired, very thirsty, owing to the burning heat of +the weather, so I determined to go in and have some ale. On entering the +house I was greeted in English by Mr. Hugh Pritchard himself, a tall +bulky man with a weather-beaten countenance, dressed in a brown jerkin +and corduroy trowsers, with a broad low-crowned buff-coloured hat on his +head, and what might be called half shoes, and half high-lows on his +feet. He had a short pipe in his mouth which when he greeted me he took +out, but replaced as soon as the greeting was over, which consisted of +“Good day, sir,” delivered in a frank hearty tone. I looked Mr. Hugh +Pritchard in the face and thought I had never seen a more honest +countenance. On my telling Mr. Pritchard that I wanted a pint of ale a +buxom damsel came forward and led me into a nice cool parlour on the +right-hand side of the door and then went to fetch the ale. + +Mr. Pritchard meanwhile went into a kind of taproom, fronting the +parlour, where I heard him talking in Welsh about pigs and cattle to some +of his customers. I observed that he spoke with some hesitation; which +circumstance I mention as rather curious, he being the only Welshman I +have ever known who, when speaking his native language, appeared to be at +a loss for words. The damsel presently brought me the ale, which I +tasted and found excellent; she was going away when I asked her whether +Mr. Pritchard was her father; on her replying in the affirmative I +inquired whether she was born in that house. + +“No!” said she; “I was born in Liverpool; my father was born in this +house, which belonged to his fathers before him, but he left it at an +early age and married my mother in Liverpool, who was an Anglesey woman, +and so I was born in Liverpool.” + +“And what did you do in Liverpool?” said I. + +“My mother kept a little shop,” said the girl, “whilst my father followed +various occupations.” + +“And how long have you been here?” said I. + +“Since the death of my grandfather,” said the girl, “which happened about +a year ago. When he died my father came here and took possession of his +birthright.” + +“You speak very good English,” said I; “have you any Welsh?” + +“O yes, plenty,” said the girl; “we always speak Welsh together, but +being born at Liverpool, I of course have plenty of English.” + +“And which language do you prefer?” said I. + +“I think I like English best,” said the girl, “it is the most useful +language.” + +“Not in Anglesey,” said I. + +“Well,” said the girl, “it is the most genteel.” + +“Gentility,” said I, “will be the ruin of Welsh, as it has been of many +other things—what have I to pay for the ale?” + +“Threepence,” said she. + +I paid the money, and the girl went out. I finished my ale, and getting +up made for the door; at the door I was met by Mr. Hugh Pritchard, who +came out of the tap-room to thank me for my custom, and to bid me +farewell. I asked him whether I should have any difficulty in finding +the way to Llanfair. + +“None whatever,” said he; “you have only to pass over the bridge of the +traeth, and to go due north for about four miles, and you will find +yourself in Llanfair.” + +“What kind of place is it?” said I. + +“A poor straggling village,” said Mr. Pritchard. + +“Shall I be able to obtain a lodging there for the night?” said I. + +“Scarcely one such as you would like,” said Hugh. + +“And where had I best pass the night?” I demanded. + +“We can accommodate you comfortably here,” said Mr. Pritchard, “provided +you have no objection to come back.” + +I told him that I should be only too happy, and forthwith departed, glad +at heart that I had secured a comfortable lodging for the night. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + + +Leave Pentraeth—Tranquil Scene—the Knoll—The Miller and his Wife—Poetry +of Gronwy—Kind Offer—Church of Llanfair—No English—Confusion of Ideas—Tŷ +Gronwy—Notable Little Girl—The Sycamore Leaf—Home from California. + +The village of Pentraeth Coch occupies two sides of a romantic dell—that +part of it which stands on the southern side, and which comprises the +church and the little inn, is by far the prettiest, that which occupies +the northern, is a poor assemblage of huts, a brook rolls at the bottom +of the dell over which there is a little bridge: coming to the bridge I +stopped, and looked over the side into the water running briskly below, +an aged man who looked like a beggar, but who did not beg of me, stood +by. + +“To what place does this water run?” said I in English. + +“I know no Saxon,” said he in trembling accents. + +I repeated my question in Welsh. + +“To the sea,” he said, “which is not far off; indeed it is so near, that +when there are high tides the salt water comes up to this bridge.” + +“You seem feeble?” said I. + +“I am so,” said he, “for I am old.” + +“How old are you?” said I. + +“Sixteen after sixty,” said the old man with a sigh; “and I have nearly +lost my sight and my hearing.” + +“Are you poor?” said I. + +“Very,” said the old man. + +I gave him a trifle which he accepted with thanks. + +“Why is this sand called the red sand?” said I. + +“I cannot tell you,” said the old man; “I wish I could, for you have been +kind to me.” + +Bidding him farewell I passed through the northern part of the village to +the top of the hill. I walked a little way forward and then stopped, as +I had done at the bridge in the dale, and looked to the east, over a low +stone wall. + +Before me lay the sea or rather the northern entrance of the Menai +Straits. To my right was mountain Lidiart projecting some way into the +sea, to my left, that is to the north, was a high hill, with a few white +houses near its base, forming a small village, which a woman who passed +by knitting told me was called Llan Peder Goch or the Church of Red Saint +Peter. Mountain Lidiart and the Northern Hill formed the headlands of a +beautiful bay into which the waters of the traeth dell, from which I had +come, were discharged. A sandbank, probably covered with the sea at high +tide, seemed to stretch from mountain Lidiart a considerable way towards +the northern hill. Mountain, bay, and sandbank were bathed in sunshine; +the water was perfectly calm; nothing was moving upon it, nor upon the +shore, and I thought I had never beheld a more beautiful and tranquil +scene. + +I went on. The country which had hitherto been very beautiful, abounding +with yellow corn-fields, became sterile and rocky; there were stone +walls, but no hedges. I passed by a moor on my left, then a moory +hillock on my right; the way was broken and stony, all traces of the good +roads of Wales had disappeared; the habitations which I saw by the way +were miserable hovels into and out of which large sows were stalking, +attended by their farrows. + +“Am I far from Llanfair?” said I to a child. + +“You are in Llanfair, gentleman,” said the child. + +A desolate place was Llanfair. The sea in the neighbourhood to the +south, limekilns with their stifling smoke not far from me. I sat down +on a little green knoll on the right-hand side of the road; a small house +was near me, and a desolate-looking mill at about a furlong’s distance, +to the south. Hogs came about me grunting and sniffing. I felt quite +melancholy. + +“Is this the neighbourhood of the birth-place of Gronwy Owen?” said I to +myself. “No wonder that he was unfortunate through life, springing from +such a region of wretchedness.” + +Wretched as the region seemed, however, I soon found there were kindly +hearts close by me. + +As I sat on the knoll I heard some one slightly cough very near me, and +looking to the left saw a man dressed like a miller looking at me from +the garden of the little house, which I have already mentioned. + +I got up and gave him the sele of the day in English. He was a man about +thirty, rather tall than otherwise, with a very prepossessing +countenance. He shook his head at my English. + +“What,” said I, addressing him in the language of the country, “have you +no English? Perhaps you have Welsh?” + +“Plenty,” said he, laughing; “there is no lack of Welsh amongst any of us +here. Are you a Welshman?” + +“No,” said I, “an Englishman from the far east of Lloegr.” + +“And what brings you here?” said the man. + +“A strange errand,” I replied, “to look at the birthplace of a man who +has long been dead.” + +“Do you come to seek for an inheritance?” said the man. + +“No,” said I. “Besides the man whose birth-place I came to see died +poor, leaving nothing behind him but immortality.” + +“Who was he?” said the miller. + +“Did you ever hear a sound of Gronwy Owen?” said I. + +“Frequently,” said the miller; “I have frequently heard a sound of him. +He was born close by in a house yonder,” pointing to the south. + +“O yes, gentleman,” said a nice-looking woman, who holding a little child +by the hand was come to the house-door, and was eagerly listening, “we +have frequently heard speak of Gronwy Owen; there is much talk of him in +these parts.” + +“I am glad to hear it,” said I, “for I half feared that his name would +not be known here.” + +“Pray, gentleman, walk in!” said the miller; “we are going to have our +afternoon’s meal, and shall be rejoiced if you will join us.” + +“Yes, do, gentleman,” said the miller’s wife, for such the good woman +was; “and many a welcome shall you have.” + +I hesitated, and was about to excuse myself. + +“Don’t refuse, gentleman!” said both, “surely you are not too proud to +sit down with us?” + +“I am afraid I shall only cause you trouble,” said I. + +“Dim blinder, no trouble,” exclaimed both at once; “pray do walk in!” + +I entered the house, and the kitchen, parlour, or whatever it was, a nice +little room with a slate floor. They made me sit down at a table by the +window, which was already laid for a meal. There was a clean cloth upon +it, a tea-pot, cups and saucers, a large plate of bread-and-butter, and a +plate, on which were a few very thin slices of brown, watery cheese. + +My good friends took their seats, the wife poured out tea for the +stranger and her husband, helped us both to bread-and-butter and the +watery cheese, then took care of herself. Before, however, I could taste +the tea, the wife, seeming to recollect herself, started up, and hurrying +to a cupboard, produced a basin full of snow-white lump sugar, and taking +the spoon out of my hand, placed two of the largest lumps in my cup, +though she helped neither her husband nor herself; the sugar-basin being +probably only kept for grand occasions. + +My eyes filled with tears; for in the whole course of my life I had never +experienced so much genuine hospitality. Honour to the miller of Mona +and his wife; and honour to the kind hospitable Celts in general! How +different is the reception of this despised race of the wandering +stranger from that of —. However, I am a Saxon myself, and the Saxons +have no doubt their virtues; a pity that they should be all uncouth and +ungracious ones! + +I asked my kind host his name. + +“John Jones,” he replied, “Melinydd of Llanfair.” + +“Is the mill which you work your own property?” I inquired. + +“No,” he answered, “I rent it of a person who lives close by.” + +“And how happens it,” said I, “that you speak no English?” + +“How should it happen,” said he, “that I should speak any? I have never +been far from here; my wife who has lived at service at Liverpool can +speak some.” + +“Can you read poetry?” said I. + +“I can read the psalms and hymns, that they sing at our chapel,” he +replied. + +“Then you are not of the Church?” said I. + +“I am not,” said the miller; “I am a Methodist.” + +“Can you read the poetry of Gronwy Owen?” said I. + +“I cannot,” said the miller, “that is with any comfort; his poetry is in +the ancient Welsh measures, which make poetry so difficult, that few can +understand it.” + +“I can understand poetry in those measures,” said I. + +“And how much time did you spend,” said the miller, “before you could +understand the poetry of the measures?” + +“Three years,” said I. + +The miller laughed. + +“I could not have afforded all that time,” said he, “to study the songs +of Gronwy. However, it is well that some people should have time to +study them. He was a great poet as I have been told, and is the glory of +our land—but he was unfortunate; I have read his life in Welsh and part +of his letters; and in doing so have shed tears.” + +“Has his house any particular name?” said I. + +“It is called sometimes Tŷ Gronwy,” said the miller; “but more frequently +Tafarn Goch.” + +“The Red Tavern?” said I. “How is it that so many of your places are +called Goch? there is Pentraeth Goch; there is Saint Pedair Goch, and +here at Llanfair is Tafarn Goch.” + +The miller laughed. + +“It will take a wiser man than I,” said he, “to answer that question.” + +The repast over I rose up, gave my host thanks, and said “I will now +leave you, and hunt up things connected with Gronwy.” + +“And where will you find a lletty for night, gentleman?” said the +miller’s wife. “This is a poor place, but if you will make use of our +home you are welcome.” + +“I need not trouble you,” said I, “I return this night to Pentraeth Goch +where I shall sleep.” + +“Well,” said the miller, “whilst you are at Llanfair I will accompany you +about. Where shall we go to first?” + +“Where is the church?” said I. “I should like to see the church where +Gronwy worshipped God as a boy.” + +“The church is at some distance,” said the man; “it is past my mill, and +as I want to go to the mill for a moment, it will be perhaps well to go +and see the church, before we go to the house of Gronwy.” + +I shook the miller’s wife by the hand, patted a little yellow-haired girl +of about two years old on the head who during the whole time of the meal +had sat on the slate floor looking up into my face, and left the house +with honest Jones. + +We directed our course to the mill, which lay some way down a declivity +towards the sea. Near the mill was a comfortable-looking house, which my +friend told me belonged to the proprietor of the mill. + +A rustic-looking man stood in the millyard, who he said was the +proprietor—the honest miller went into the mill, and the rustic-looking +proprietor greeted me in Welsh, and asked me if I was come to buy hogs. + +“No,” said I; “I am come to see the birth-place of Gronwy Owen;” he +stared at me for a moment, then seemed to muse, and at last walked away +saying “Ah! a great man.” + +The miller presently joined me, and we proceeded farther down the hill. +Our way lay between stone walls, and sometimes over them. The land was +moory and rocky, with nothing grand about it, and the miller described it +well when he said it was tîr gwael—mean land. In about a quarter of an +hour we came to the churchyard into which we got, the gate being locked, +by clambering over the wall. + +The church stands low down the descent, not far distant from the sea. A +little brook, called in the language of the country a frwd, washes its +yard-wall on the south. It is a small edifice with no spire, but to the +south-west there is a little stone erection rising from the roof, in +which hangs a bell—there is a small porch looking to the south. With +respect to its interior I can say nothing, the door being locked. It is +probably like the outside, simple enough. It seemed to be about two +hundred and fifty years old, and to be kept in tolerable repair. Simple +as the edifice was, I looked with great emotion upon it; and could I do +else, when I reflected that the greatest British poet of the last century +had worshipped God within it, with his poor father and mother, when a +boy? + +I asked the miller whether he could point out to me any tombs or +grave-stones of Gronwy’s family, but he told me that he was not aware of +any. On looking about I found the name of Owen in the inscription on the +slate slab of a respectable-looking modern tomb, on the north-east side +of the church. The inscription was as follows: + + Er cof am Jane Owen + Gwraig Edward Owen, + Monachlog Llanfair Mathafarn eithaf, + A fu farw Chwefror 28 1842 + Yn 51 Oed. + +_i.e._ “To the memory of Jane Owen wife of Edward Owen, of the monastery +of St. Mary of farther Mathafarn, who died February 28, 1842, aged +fifty-one.” + +Whether the Edward Owen mentioned here was any relation to the great +Gronwy, I had no opportunity of learning. I asked the miller what was +meant by the monastery, and he told me that it was the name of a building +to the north-east near the sea, which had once been a monastery, but had +been converted into a farmhouse, though it still retained its original +name. “May all monasteries be converted into farm-houses,” said I, “and +may they still retain their original names in mockery of popery!” + +Having seen all I could well see of the church and its precincts I +departed with my kind guide. After we had retraced our steps some way, +we came to some stepping-stones on the side of a wall, and the miller +pointing to them said: + +“The nearest way to the house of Gronwy will be over the llamfa.” + +I was now become ashamed of keeping the worthy fellow from his business +and begged him to return to his mill. He refused to leave me, at first, +but on my pressing him to do so, and on my telling him that I could find +the way to the house of Gronwy very well by myself, he consented. We +shook hands, the miller wished me luck, and betook himself to his mill, +whilst I crossed the llamfa. I soon, however, repented having left the +path by which I had come. I was presently in a maze of little fields +with stone walls over which I had to clamber. At last I got into a lane +with a stone wall on each side. A man came towards me and was about to +pass me—his look was averted, and he was evidently one of those who have +“no English.” A Welshman of his description always averts his look when +he sees a stranger who he thinks has “no Welsh,” lest the stranger should +ask him a question and he be obliged to confess that he has “no English.” + +“Is this the way to Llanfair?” said I to the man. The man made a kind of +rush in order to get past me. + +“Have you any Welsh?” I shouted as loud as I could bawl. + +The man stopped, and turning a dark sullen countenance half upon me said, +“Yes, I have Welsh.” + +“Which is the way to Llanfair?” said I. + +“Llanfair, Llanfair?” said the man, “what do you mean?” + +“I want to get there,” said I. + +“Are you not there already?” said the fellow stamping on the ground, “are +you not in Llanfair?” + +“Yes, but I want to get to the town.” + +“Town, town! Oh, I have no English,” said the man; and off he started +like a frightened bullock. The poor fellow was probably at first +terrified at seeing an Englishman, then confused at hearing an Englishman +speak Welsh, a language which the Welsh in general imagine no Englishman +can speak, the tongue of an Englishman as they say not being long enough +to pronounce Welsh; and lastly utterly deprived of what reasoning +faculties he had still remaining by my asking him for the town of +Llanfair, there being properly no town. + +I went on and at last getting out of the lane, found myself upon the +road, along which I had come about two hours before; the house of the +miller was at some distance on my right. Near me were two or three +houses and part of the skeleton of one, on which some men, in the dress +of masons, seemed to be occupied. Going up to these men I said in Welsh +to one, whom I judged to be the principal, and who was rather a tall +fine-looking fellow: + +“Have you heard a sound of Gronwy Owain?” + +Here occurred another instance of the strange things people do when their +ideas are confused. The man stood for a moment or two, as if transfixed, +a trowel motionless in one of his hands, and a brick in the other; at +last giving a kind of gasp, he answered in very tolerable Spanish: + +“Si, señor! he oido.” + +“Is his house far from here?” said I in Welsh. + +“No, señor!” said the man, “no esta muy lejos.” + +“I am a stranger here, friend, can anybody show me the way?” + +“Si Señor! este mozo luego acompañara usted.” + +Then turning to a lad of about eighteen, also dressed as a mason, he said +in Welsh: + +“Show this gentleman instantly the way to Tafarn Goch.” + +The lad flinging a hod down, which he had on his shoulder, instantly set +off, making me a motion with his head to follow him. I did so, wondering +what the man could mean by speaking to me in Spanish. The lad walked by +my side in silence for about two furlongs till we came to a range of +trees, seemingly sycamores, behind which was a little garden, in which +stood a long low house with three chimneys. The lad stopping flung open +a gate which led into the garden, then crying to a child which he saw +within: “Gad roi tro”—let the man take a turn; he was about to leave me, +when I stopped him to put sixpence into his hand. He received the money +with a gruff “Diolch!” and instantly set off at a quick pace. Passing +the child who stared at me, I walked to the back part of the house, which +seemed to be a long mud cottage. After examining the back part I went in +front, where I saw an aged woman with several children, one of whom was +the child I had first seen; she smiled and asked me what I wanted. + +I said that I had come to see the house of Gronwy. She did not +understand me, for shaking her head she said that she had no English, and +was rather deaf. Raising my voice to a very high tone I said: + +“Tŷ Gronwy!” + +A gleam of intelligence flashed now in her eyes. + +“Tŷ Gronwy,” she said, “ah! I understand. Come in, sir.” + +There were three doors to the house; she led me in by the midmost into a +common cottage room, with no other ceiling, seemingly, than the roof. +She bade me sit down by the window by a little table, and asked me +whether I would have a cup of milk and some bread-and-butter; I declined +both, but said I should be thankful for a little water. + +This she presently brought me in a teacup. I drank it, the children +amounting to five standing a little way from me staring at me. I asked +her if this was the house in which Gronwy was born. She said it was, but +that it had been altered very much since his time—that three families had +lived in it, but that she believed he was born about where we were now. + +A man now coming in who lived at the next door, she said, I had better +speak to him and tell him what I wanted to know, which he could then +communicate to her, as she could understand his way of speaking much +better than mine. Through the man I asked her whether there was any one +of the blood of Gronwy Owen living in the house. She pointed to the +children and said they had all some of his blood. I asked in what +relationship they stood to Gronwy. She said she could hardly tell, that +tri priodas three marriages stood between, and that the relationship was +on the mother’s side. I gathered from her that the children had lost +their mother, that their name was Jones, and that their father was her +son. I asked if the house in which they lived was their own; she said +no, that it belonged to a man who lived at some distance. I asked if the +children were poor. + +“Very,” said she. + +I gave them each a trifle, and the poor old lady thanked me with tears in +her eyes. + +I asked whether the children could read; she said they all could, with +the exception of the two youngest. The eldest she said could read +anything, whether Welsh or English; she then took from the window-sill a +book, which she put into my hand, saying the child could read it and +understand it. I opened the book; it was an English school book treating +on all the sciences. + +“Can you write?” said I to the child, a little stubby girl of about +eight, with a broad flat red face and grey eyes, dressed in a chintz +gown, a little bonnet on her head, and looking the image of notableness. + +The little maiden, who had never taken her eyes off me for a moment +during the whole time I had been in the room, at first made no answer; +being, however, bid by her grandmother to speak, she at length answered +in a soft voice, “Medraf, I can.” + +“Then write your name in this book,” said I, taking out a pocket-book and +a pencil, “and write likewise that you are related to Gronwy Owen—and be +sure you write in Welsh.” + +The little maiden very demurely took the book and pencil, and placing the +former on the table wrote as follows: + +“Ellen Jones yn perthyn o bell i gronow owen.” + +That is “Ellen Jones belonging from afar to Gronwy Owen.” + +When I saw the name of Ellen I had no doubt that the children were +related to the illustrious Gronwy. Ellen is a very uncommon Welsh name, +but it seems to have been a family name of the Owens; it was borne by an +infant daughter of the poet whom he tenderly loved, and who died whilst +he was toiling at Walton in Cheshire,— + + “Ellen, my darling, + Who liest in the churchyard of Walton,” + +says poor Gronwy in one of the most affecting elegies ever written. + +After a little farther conversation I bade the family farewell and left +the house. After going down the road a hundred yards I turned back in +order to ask permission to gather a leaf from one of the sycamores. +Seeing the man who had helped me in my conversation with the old woman +standing at the gate, I told him what I wanted, whereupon he instantly +tore down a handful of leaves and gave them to me—thrusting them into my +coat-pocket I thanked him kindly and departed. + +Coming to the half-erected house, I again saw the man to whom I had +addressed myself for information. I stopped, and speaking Spanish to +him, asked how he had acquired the Spanish language. + +“I have been in Chili, sir,” said he in the same tongue, “and in +California, and in those places I learned Spanish.” + +“What did you go to Chili for?” said I; “I need not ask you on what +account you went to California.” + +“I went there as a mariner,” said the man; “I sailed out of Liverpool for +Chili.” + +“And how is it,” said I, “that being a mariner and sailing in a Liverpool +ship you do not speak English?” + +“I speak English, señor,” said the man, “perfectly well.” + +“Then how in the name of wonder,” said I, speaking English, “came you to +answer me in Spanish? I am an Englishman thorough bred.” + +“I can scarcely tell you how it was, sir,” said the man scratching his +head, “but I thought I would speak to you in Spanish.” + +“And why not English?” said I. + +“Why, I heard you speaking Welsh,” said the man, “and as for an +Englishman speaking Welsh—” + +“But why not answer me in Welsh?” said I. + +“Why, I saw it was not your language, sir,” said the man, “and as I had +picked up some Spanish I thought it would be but fair to answer you in +it.” + +“But how did you know that I could speak Spanish?” said I. + +“I don’t know indeed, sir,” said the man; “but I looked at you, and +something seemed to tell me that you could speak Spanish. I can’t tell +you how it was, sir,” said he, looking me very innocently in the face, +“but I was forced to speak Spanish to you. I was indeed!” + +“The long and short of it was,” said I, “that you took me for a +foreigner, and thought that it would be but polite to answer me in a +foreign language.” + +“I dare say it was so, sir,” said the man. “I dare say it was just as +you say.” + +“How did you fare in California?” said I. + +“Very fairly indeed, sir,” said the man. “I made some money there, and +brought it home, and with part of it I am building this house.” + +“I am very happy to hear it,” said I, “you are really a remarkable +man—few return from California speaking Spanish as you do, and still +fewer with money in their pockets.” + +The poor fellow looked pleased at what I said, more especially at that +part of the sentence which touched upon his speaking Spanish well. +Wishing him many years of health and happiness in the house he was +building, I left him, and proceeded on my path towards Pentraeth Coch. + +After walking some way, I turned round in order to take a last look of a +place which had so much interest for me. The mill may be seen from a +considerable distance; so may some of the scattered houses, and also the +wood which surrounds the house of the illustrious Gronwy. Prosperity to +Llanfair! and may many a pilgrimage be made to it of the same character +as my own. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + + +Boxing Harry—Mr. Bos—Black Robin—Drovers—Commercial Travellers. + +I arrived at the hostelry of Mr. Pritchard without meeting any adventure +worthy of being marked down. I went into the little parlour, and, +ringing the bell, was presently waited upon by Mrs. Pritchard, a nice +matronly woman, whom I had not before seen, of whom I inquired what I +could have for dinner. + +“This is no great place for meat,” said Mrs. Pritchard, “that is fresh +meat, for sometimes a fortnight passes without anything being killed in +the neighbourhood. I am afraid at present there is not a bit of fresh +meat to be had. What we can get you for dinner I do not know, unless you +are willing to make shift with bacon and eggs.” + +“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said I, “I will have the bacon and eggs +with tea and bread-and-butter, not forgetting a pint of ale—in a word, I +will box Harry.” + +“I suppose you are a commercial gent,” said Mrs. Pritchard. + +“Why do you suppose me a commercial gent?” said I. “Do I look one?” + +“Can’t say you do much,” said Mrs. Pritchard; “you have no rings on your +fingers, nor a gilt chain at your waistcoat-pocket, but when you said +‘box Harry,’ I naturally took you to be one of the commercial gents, for +when I was at Liverpool I was told that that was a word of theirs.” + +“I believe the word properly belongs to them,” said I. “I am not one of +them; but I learnt it from them, a great many years ago, when I was much +amongst them. Those whose employers were in a small way of business, or +allowed them insufficient salaries, frequently used to ‘box Harry,’ that +is have a beef-steak, or mutton-chop, or perhaps bacon and eggs, as I am +going to have, along with tea and ale instead of the regular dinner of a +commercial gentleman, namely, fish, hot joint and fowl, pint of sherry, +tart, ale and cheese, and bottle of old port, at the end of all.” + +Having made arrangements for “boxing Harry” I went into the tap-room, +from which I had heard the voice of Mr. Pritchard proceeding during the +whole of my conversation with his wife. Here I found the worthy landlord +seated with a single customer; both were smoking. The customer instantly +arrested my attention. He was a man seemingly about forty years of age +with a broad red face, with certain somethings, looking very much like +incipient carbuncles, here and there upon it. His eyes were grey and +looked rather as if they squinted; his mouth was very wide, and when it +opened displayed a set of strong white, uneven teeth. He was dressed in +a pepper-and-salt coat of the Newmarket cut, breeches of corduroy and +brown top boots, and had on his head a broad, black, coarse, low-crowned +hat. In his left hand he held a heavy white whale-bone whip with a brass +head. I sat down on a bench nearly opposite to him and the landlord. + +“Well,” said Mr. Pritchard; “did you find your way to Llanfair?” + +“Yes,” said I. + +“And did you execute the business satisfactorily which led you there?” +said Mr. Pritchard. + +“Perfectly,” said I. + +“Well, what did you give a stone for your live pork?” said his companion +glancing up at me, and speaking in a gruff voice. + +“I did not buy any live pork,” said I; “do you take me for a pig-jobber?” + +“Of course,” said the man in pepper-and-salt; “who but a pig-jobber could +have business at Llanfair?” + +“Does Llanfair produce nothing but pigs?” said I. + +“Nothing at all,” said the man in the pepper-and-salt; “that is nothing +worth mentioning. You wouldn’t go there for runts, that is if you were +in your right senses; if you were in want of runts you would have gone to +my parish and have applied to me Mr. Bos; that is if you were in your +senses. Wouldn’t he, John Pritchard?” + +Mr. Pritchard thus appealed to took the pipe out of his mouth, and with +some hesitation said that he believed the gentleman neither went to +Llanfair for pigs nor black cattle but upon some particular business. + +“Well,” said Mr. Bos, “it may be so, but I can’t conceive how any person, +either gentle or simple, could have any business in Anglesey save that +business was pigs or cattle.” + +“The truth is,” said I, “I went to Llanfair to see the birth-place of a +great man—the cleverest Anglesey ever produced.” + +“Then you went wrong,” said Mr. Bos, “you went to the wrong parish, you +should have gone to Penmynnydd; the clebber man of Anglesey was born and +buried at Penmynnydd; you may see his tomb in the church.” + +“You are alluding to Black Robin,” said I, “who wrote the ode in praise +of Anglesey—yes, he was a very clever young fellow, but excuse me, he was +not half such a poet as Gronwy Owen.” + +“Black Robin,” said Mr. Bos, “and Gronow Owen, who the Devil were they? +I never heard of either. I wasn’t talking of them, but of the clebberest +man the world ever saw. Did you never hear of Owen Tiddir? If you +didn’t, where did you get your education?” + +“I have heard of Owen Tudor,” said I, “but never understood that he was +particularly clever; handsome he undoubtedly was—but clever—” + +“How not clebber?” interrupted Mr. Bos. “If he wasn’t clebber, who was +clebber? Didn’t he marry a great queen, and was not Harry the Eighth his +great grandson?” + +“Really,” said I, “you know a great deal of history.” + +“I should hope I do,” said Mr. Bos. “O, I wasn’t at school at Blewmaris +for six months for nothing; and I haven’t been in Northampton, and in +every town in England without learning something of history. With regard +to history I may say that few—. Won’t you drink?” said he, +patronizingly, as he pushed a jug of ale which stood before him on a +little table towards me. + +Begging politely to be excused on the plea that I was just about to take +tea, I asked him in what capacity he had travelled all over England. + +“As a drover, to be sure,” said Mr. Bos, “and I may say that there are +not many in Anglesey better known in England than myself—at any rate I +may say that there is not a public-house between here and Worcester at +which I am not known.” + +“Pray excuse me,” said I, “but is not droving rather a low-lifed +occupation?” + +“Not half so much as pig-jobbing,” said Bos, “and that that’s your trade +I am certain, or you would never have gone to Llanfair.” + +“I am no pig-jobber,” said I, “and when I asked you that question about +droving, I merely did so because one Ellis Wynn, in a book he wrote, +gives the drovers a very bad character, and puts them in Hell for their +mal-practices.” + +“O, he does,” said Mr. Bos, “well the next time I meet him at Corwen I’ll +crack his head for saying so. Mal-practices—he had better look at his +own, for he is a pig-jobber too. Written a book has he? then I suppose +he has been left a legacy, and gone to school after middle-age, for when +I last saw him, which is four years ago, he could neither read nor +write.” + +I was about to tell Mr. Bos that the Ellis Wynn that I meant was no more +a pig-jobber than myself, but a respectable clergyman, who had been dead +considerably upwards of a hundred years, and that also, notwithstanding +my respect for Mr. Bos’s knowledge of history, I did not believe that +Owen Tudor was buried at Penmynnydd, when I was prevented by the entrance +of Mrs. Pritchard, who came to inform me that my repast was ready in the +other room, whereupon I got up and went into the parlour to “box Harry.” + +Having despatched my bacon and eggs, tea and ale, I fell into deep +meditation. My mind reverted to a long past period of my life, when I +was to a certain extent mixed up with commercial travellers, and had +plenty of opportunities of observing their habits, and the terms employed +by them in conversation. I called up several individuals of the two +classes into which they used to be divided, for commercial travellers in +my time were divided into two classes, those who ate dinners and drank +their bottle of port, and those who “boxed Harry.” What glorious fellows +the first seemed! What airs they gave themselves! What oaths they +swore! and what influence they had with hostlers and chambermaids! and +what a sneaking-looking set the others were! shabby in their apparel; no +fine ferocity in their countenances; no oaths in their mouths, except +such a trumpery apology for an oath as an occasional “confounded hard”; +with little or no influence at inns, scowled at by hostlers, and never +smiled at by chambermaids—and then I remembered how often I had bothered +my head in vain to account for the origin of the term “box Harry,” and +how often I had in vain applied both to those who did box and to those +who did not “box Harry,” for a clear and satisfactory elucidation of the +expression—and at last found myself again bothering my head as of old in +a vain attempt to account for the origin of the term “boxing Harry.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + + +Northampton—Horse-Breaking—Snoring. + +Tired at length with my vain efforts to account for the term which in my +time was so much in vogue amongst commercial gentlemen I left the little +parlour, and repaired to the common room. Mr. Pritchard and Mr. Bos were +still there smoking and drinking, but there was now a candle on the table +before them, for night was fast coming on. Mr. Bos was giving an account +of his travels in England, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in English, to +which Mr. Pritchard was listening with the greatest attention, +occasionally putting in a “see there now,” and “what a fine thing it is +to have gone about.” After some time Mr. Bos exclaimed: + +“I think, upon the whole, of all the places I have seen in England I like +Northampton best.” + +“I suppose,” said I, “you found the men of Northampton good-tempered, +jovial fellows?” + +“Can’t say I did,” said Mr. Bos; “they are all shoemakers, and of course +quarrelsome and contradictory, for where was there ever a shoemaker who +was not conceited and easily riled? No, I have little to say in favour +of Northampton, as far as the men are concerned. It’s not the men but +the women that make me speak in praise of Northampton. The men are all +ill-tempered, but the women quite the contrary. I never saw such a place +for merched anladd as Northampton. I was a great favourite with them, +and could tell you such tales.” + +And then Mr. Bos putting his hat rather on one side of his head told us +two or three tales of his adventures with the merched anladd of +Northampton, which brought powerfully to mind part of what Ellis Wynn had +said with respect to the practices of drovers in his day, detestation for +which had induced him to put the whole tribe into Hell. + +All of a sudden I heard a galloping down the road, and presently a mighty +plunging, seemingly of a horse, before the door of the inn. I rushed out +followed by my companions, and lo, on the open space before the inn was a +fine young horse, rearing and kicking, with a young man on his back. The +horse had neither bridle nor saddle, and the young fellow merely rode him +with a rope, passed about his head—presently the horse became tolerably +quiet, and his rider jumping off led him into the stable, where he made +him fast to the rack and then came and joined us, whereupon we all went +into the room from which I and the others had come on hearing the noise +of the struggle. + +“How came you on the colt’s back, Jenkins?” said Mr. Pritchard, after we +had all sat down and Jenkins had called for some cwrw. “I did not know +that he was broke in.” + +“I am breaking him in myself,” said Jenkins, speaking Welsh. “I began +with him to-night.” + +“Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you have begun breaking him in by +mounting his back?” + +“I do,” said the other. + +“Then depend upon it,” said I, “that it will not be long before he will +either break his neck or knees or he will break your neck or crown. You +are not going the right way to work.” + +“O, myn Diawl!” said Jenkins, “I know better. In a day or two I shall +have made him quite tame, and have got him into excellent paces, and +shall have saved the money I must have paid away, had I put him into a +jockey’s hands.” + +Time passed, night came on, and other guests came in. There was much +talking of first-rate Welsh and very indifferent English, Mr. Bos being +the principal speaker in both languages; his discourse was chiefly on the +comparative merits of Anglesey runts and Scotch bullocks, and those of +the merched anladd of Northampton and the lasses of Wrexham. He +preferred his own country runts to the Scotch kine, but said upon the +whole, though a Welshman, he must give a preference to the merched of +Northampton over those of Wrexham, for free-and-easy demeanour, +notwithstanding that in that point which he said was the most desirable +point in females, the lasses of Wrexham were generally considered +out-and-outers. + +Fond as I am of listening to public-house conversation, from which I +generally contrive to extract both amusement and edification, I became +rather tired of this, and getting up, strolled about the little village +by moonlight till I felt disposed to retire to rest, when returning to +the inn, I begged to be shown the room in which I was to sleep. Mrs. +Pritchard forthwith taking a candle conducted me to a small room +upstairs. There were two beds in it. The good lady pointed to one, next +the window, in which there were nice clean sheets, told me that was the +one which I was to occupy, and bidding me good-night, and leaving the +candle, departed. Putting out the light I got into bed, but instantly +found that the bed was not long enough by at least a foot. “I shall pass +an uncomfortable night,” said I, “for I never yet could sleep comfortably +in a bed too short. However, as I am on my travels, I must endeavour to +accommodate myself to circumstances.” So I endeavoured to compose myself +to sleep; before, however, I could succeed, I heard the sound of stumping +steps coming upstairs; and perceived a beam of light through the crevices +of the door, and in a moment more the door opened and in came two loutish +farming lads whom I had observed below, one of them bearing a rushlight +stuck in an old blacking-bottle. Without saying a word they flung off +part of their clothes, and one of them having blown out the rushlight, +they both tumbled into bed, and in a moment were snoring most sonorously. +“I am in a short bed,” said I, “and have snorers close by me; I fear I +shall have a sorry night of it.” I determined, however, to adhere to my +resolution of making the best of circumstances, and lay perfectly quiet, +listening to the snorings as they rose and fell; at last they became more +gentle and I fell asleep, notwithstanding my feet were projecting some +way from the bed. I might have lain ten minutes or a quarter of an hour +when I suddenly started up in the bed broad awake. There was a great +noise below the window of plunging and struggling interspersed with Welsh +oaths. Then there was a sound as if of a heavy fall, and presently a +groan. “I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if that fellow with the horse has +verified my words, and has either broken his horse’s neck or his own. +However, if he has, he has no one to blame but himself. I gave him fair +warning, and shall give myself no further trouble about the matter, but +go to sleep,” and so I did. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + + +Brilliant Morning—Travelling with Edification—A Good Clergyman—Gybi. + +I awoke about six o’clock in the morning, having passed the night much +better than I anticipated. The sun was shining bright and gloriously +into the apartment. On looking into the other bed I found that my chums, +the young farm-labourers, had deserted it. They were probably already in +the field busy at labour. After lying a little time longer I arose, +dressed myself and went down. I found my friend honest Pritchard smoking +his morning pipe at the front door, and after giving him the sele of the +day, I inquired of him the cause of the disturbance beneath my window the +night before, and learned that the man of the horse had been thrown by +the animal off its back, that the horse almost immediately after had +slipped down, and both had been led home very much hurt. We then talked +about farming and the crops, and at length got into a discourse about +Liverpool. I asked him how he liked that mighty seaport; he said very +well, but that he did not know much about it—for though he had a house +there where his family had resided, he had not lived much at Liverpool +himself his absences from that place having been many and long. + +“Have you travelled then much about England?” said I. + +“No,” he replied. “When I have travelled it has chiefly been across the +sea to foreign places.” + +“But what foreign places have you visited?” said I. + +“I have visited,” said Pritchard, “Constantinople, Alexandria, and some +other cities in the south latitudes.” + +“Dear me,” said I, “you have seen some of the most celebrated places in +the world—and yet you were silent, and said nothing about your travels +whilst that fellow Bos was pluming himself at having been at such places +as Northampton and Worcester, the haunts of shoemakers and pig-jobbers.” + +“Ah,” said Pritchard, “but Mr. Bos has travelled with edification; it is +a fine thing to have travelled when one has done so with edification, but +I have not. There is a vast deal of difference between me and him—he is +considered the ’cutest man in these parts, and is much looked up to.” + +“You are really,” said I, “the most modest person I have ever known and +the least addicted to envy. Let me see whether you have travelled +without edification.” + +I then questioned him about the places which he had mentioned, and found +he knew a great deal about them, amongst other things he described +Cleopatra’s needle, and the At Maidan at Constantinople with surprising +exactness. + +“You put me out,” said I; “you consider yourself inferior to that droving +fellow Bos and to have travelled without edification, whereas you know a +thousand times more than he, and indeed much more than many a person who +makes his five hundred a year by going about lecturing on foreign places, +but as I am no flatterer I will tell you that you have a fault which will +always prevent your rising in this world, you have modesty; those who +have modesty shall have no advancement, whilst those who can blow their +own horn lustily shall be made governors. But allow me to ask you in +what capacity you went abroad?” + +“As engineer to various steamships,” said Pritchard. + +“A director of the power of steam,” said I, “and an explorer of the +wonders of Iscander’s city willing to hold the candle to Mr. Bos. I will +tell you what, you are too good for this world, let us hope you will have +your reward in the next.” + +I breakfasted and asked for my bill; the bill amounted to little or +nothing—half-a-crown I think for tea-dinner, sundry jugs of ale, bed and +breakfast. I defrayed it, and then inquired whether it would be possible +for me to see the inside of the church. + +“O yes,” said Pritchard. “I can let you in, for I am churchwarden and +have the key.” + +The church was a little edifice of some antiquity, with a little wing and +without a spire; it was situated amidst a grove of trees. As we stood +with our hats off in the sacred edifice, I asked Pritchard if there were +many Methodists in those parts. + +“Not so many as there were,” said Pritchard, “they are rapidly +decreasing, and indeed Dissenters in general. The cause of their +decrease is that a good clergyman has lately come here, who visits the +sick and preaches Christ, and in fact does his duty. If all our +clergymen were like him there would not be many Dissenters in Ynis Fon.” + +Outside the church, in the wall, I observed a tablet with the following +inscription in English: + + Here lieth interred the body of Ann, wife of Robert Paston, who + deceased the sixth day of October, Anno Domini + + 1671. + R. P. A. + +“You seem struck with that writing?” said Pritchard, observing that I +stood motionless, staring at the tablet. + +“The name of Paston,” said I, “struck me; it is the name of a village in +my own native district, from which an old family, now almost extinct, +derived its name. How came a Paston into Ynis Fon? Are there any people +bearing that name at present in these parts?” + +“Not that I am aware,” said Pritchard. + +“I wonder who his wife Ann was?” said I, “from the style of that tablet +she must have been a considerable person.” + +“Perhaps she was the daughter of the Lewis family of Llan Dyfnant,” said +Pritchard; “that’s an old family and a rich one. Perhaps he came from a +distance and saw and married a daughter of the Lewis of Dyfnant—more than +one stranger has done so. Lord Vivian came from a distance and saw and +married a daughter of the rich Lewis of Dyfnant.” + +I shook honest Pritchard by the hand, thanked him for his kindness and +wished him farewell, whereupon he gave mine a hearty squeeze, thanking me +for my custom. + +“Which is my way,” said I, “to Pen Caer Gybi?” + +“You must go about a mile on the Bangor road, and then turning to the +right pass through Penmynnydd, but what takes you to Holyhead?” + +“I wish to see,” said I, “the place where Cybi the tawny saint preached +and worshipped. He was called tawny because from his frequent walks in +the blaze of the sun his face had become much sun-burnt. This is a +furiously hot day, and perhaps by the time I get to Holyhead, I may be so +sun-burnt as to be able to pass for Cybi himself.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + + +Moelfre—Owain Gwynedd—Church of Penmynnydd—The Rose of Mona. + +Leaving Pentraeth Coch I retraced my way along the Bangor road till I +came to the turning on the right. Here I diverged from the aforesaid +road, and proceeded along one which led nearly due west; after travelling +about a mile I stopped, on the top of a little hill; cornfields were on +either side, and in one an aged man was reaping close to the road; I +looked south, west, north and east; to the south was the Snowdon range +far away, with the Wyddfa just discernible; to the west and north was +nothing very remarkable, but to the east or rather north-east, was +mountain Lidiart and the tall hill confronting it across the bay. + +“Can you tell me,” said I to the old reaper, “the name of that bald hill, +which looks towards Lidiart?” + +“We call that hill Moelfre,” said the old man desisting from his labour, +and touching his hat. + +“Dear me,” said I; “Moelfre, Moelfre!” + +“Is there anything wonderful in the name, sir?” said the old man, +smiling. + +“There is nothing wonderful in the name,” said I, “which merely means the +bald hill, but it brings wonderful recollections to my mind. I little +thought when I was looking from the road near Pentraeth Coch yesterday on +that hill, and the bay and strand below it, and admiring the tranquillity +which reigned over all, that I was gazing upon the scene of one of the +most tremendous conflicts recorded in history or poetry.” + +“Dear me,” said the old reaper; “and whom may it have been between? the +French and English, I suppose.” + +“No,” said I; “it was fought between one of your Welsh kings, the great +Owain Gwynedd, and certain northern and Irish enemies of his.” + +“Only think,” said the old man, “and it was a fierce battle, sir?” + +“It was, indeed,” said I; “according to the words of a poet, who +described it, the Menai could not ebb on account of the torrent of blood +which flowed into it, slaughter was heaped upon slaughter, shout followed +shout, and around Moelfre a thousand war flags waved.” + +“Well, sir,” said the old man, “I never before heard anything about it, +indeed I don’t trouble my head with histories, unless they be Bible +histories.” + +“Are you a Churchman?” said I. + +“No,” said the old man, shortly; “I am a Methodist.” + +“I belong to the Church,” said I. + +“So I should have guessed, sir, by your being so well acquainted with +pennillion and histories. Ah, the Church. . . .” + +“This is dreadfully hot weather,” said I, “and I should like to offer you +sixpence for ale, but as I am a Churchman I suppose you would not accept +it from my hands.” + +“The Lord forbid, sir,” said the old man, “that I should be so +uncharitable! If your honour chooses to give me sixpence, I will receive +it willingly. Thank your honour! Well, I have often said there is a +great deal of good in the Church of England.” + +I once more looked at the hill which overlooked the scene of Owen +Gwynedd’s triumph over the united forces of the Irish Lochlanders and +Normans, and then after inquiring of the old man whether I was in the +right direction for Penmynnydd, and finding that I was, I set off at a +great pace, singing occasionally snatches of Black Robin’s ode in praise +of Anglesey, amongst others the following stanza:— + + “Bread of the wholesomest is found + In my mother-land of Anglesey; + Friendly bounteous men abound + In Penmynnydd of Anglesey.” + +I reached Penmynnydd, a small village consisting of a few white houses +and a mill. The meaning of Penmynnydd is literally the top of a hill. +The village does not stand on a hill, but the church, which is at some +distance, stands on one, or rather on a hillock. And it is probable from +the circumstance of the church standing on a hillock, that the parish +derives its name. Towards the church, after a slight glance at the +village, I proceeded with hasty steps, and was soon at the foot of the +hillock. A house, that of the clergyman, stands near the church, on the +top of the hill. I opened a gate, and entered a lane which seemed to +lead up to the church. + +As I was passing some low buildings, probably offices pertaining to the +house, a head was thrust from a doorway, which stared at me. It was a +strange hirsute head, and probably looked more strange and hirsute than +it naturally was, owing to its having a hairy cap upon it. + +“Good day,” said I. + +“Good days, sar,” said the head, and in a moment more a man of middle +stature, about fifty, in hairy cap, shirt-sleeves, and green apron round +his waist, stood before me. He looked the beau-ideal of a servant of all +work. + +“Can I see the church?” said I. + +“Ah, you want to see the church,” said honest Scrub. “Yes sar! you shall +see the church. You go up road there past church—come to house, knock at +door—say what you want—and nice little girl show you church. Ah, you +quite right to come and see church—fine tomb there and clebber man +sleeping in it with his wife, clebber man that—Owen Tiddir; married great +queen—dyn clebber iawn.” + +Following the suggestions of the man of the hairy cap, I went round the +church and knocked at the door of the house, a handsome parsonage. A +nice little servant-girl presently made her appearance at the door, of +whom I inquired whether I could see the church. + +“Certainly, sir,” said she; “I will go for the key and accompany you.” + +She fetched the key and away we went to the church. It is a venerable +chapel-like edifice, with a belfry towards the west; the roof, sinking by +two gradations, is lower at the eastern or altar end than at the other. +The girl, unlocking the door, ushered me into the interior. + +“Which is the tomb of Tudor?” said I to the pretty damsel. + +“There it is, sir,” said she, pointing to the north side of the church; +“there is the tomb of Owen Tudor.” + +Beneath a low-roofed arch lay sculptured in stone, on an altar tomb, the +figures of a man and woman; that of the man in armour; that of the woman +in graceful drapery. The male figure lay next the wall. + +“And you think,” said I to the girl, “that yonder figure is that of Owen +Tudor?” + +“Yes, sir,” said the girl; “yon figure is that of Owen Tudor; the other +is that of his wife, the great queen; both their bodies rest below.” + +I forbore to say that the figures were not those of Owen Tudor and the +great queen, his wife; and I forbore to say that their bodies did not +rest in that church, nor anywhere in the neighbourhood, for I was +unwilling to dispel a pleasing delusion. The tomb is doubtless a tomb of +one of the Tudor race, and of a gentle partner of his, but not of the +Rose of Mona and Catherine of France. Her bones rest in some corner of +Westminster’s noble abbey; his moulder amongst those of thousands of +others, Yorkists and Lancastrians, under the surface of the plain, where +Mortimer’s cross once stood, that plain on the eastern side of which +meanders the murmuring Lug; that noble plain, where one of the hardest +battles which ever blooded English soil was fought; where beautiful young +Edward gained a crown, and old Owen lost a head, which when young had +been the most beautiful of heads, which had gained for him the +appellation of the Rose of Anglesey, and which had captivated the glances +of the fair daughter of France, the widow of Monmouth’s Harry, the +immortal victor of Agincourt. + +Nevertheless, long did I stare at that tomb which, though not that of the +Rose of Mona and his queen, is certainly the tomb of some mighty one of +the mighty race of Theodore—then saying something in Welsh to the pretty +damsel at which she started, and putting something into her hand, at +which she curtseyed, I hurried out of the church. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + + +Mental Excitation—Land of Poets—The Man in Grey—Drinking Healths—The +Greatest Prydydd—Envy—Welshmen not Hogs—Gentlemanly Feeling—What +Pursuit?—Tell him to Walk Up—Editor of the _Times_—Careful +Wife—Departure. + +I regained the high road by a short cut, which I discovered across a +field. I proceeded rapidly along for some time. My mind was very much +excited: I was in the birth-place of the mighty Tudors—I had just seen +the tomb of one of them; I was also in the land of the bard; a country +which had produced Gwalchmai who sang the triumphs of Owain, and him who +had sung the Cowydd of Judgment, Gronwy Owen. So no wonder I was +excited. On I went reciting bardic snatches connected with Anglesey. At +length I began repeating Black Robin’s ode in praise of the island, or +rather my own translation of it, executed more than thirty years before, +which amongst others, contains the following lines:— + + “Twelve sober men the muses woo, + Twelve sober men in Anglesey, + Dwelling at home, like patriots true, + In reverence for Anglesey.” + +“Oh,” said I, after I had recited that stanza, “what would I not give to +see one of those sober patriotic bards, or at least one of their +legitimate successors, for by this time no doubt, the sober poets, +mentioned by Black Robin, are dead. That they left legitimate successors +who can doubt? for Anglesey is never to be without bards. Have we not +the words, not of Robin the Black, but Huw the Red to that effect? + + “‘Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd; + Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.’ + +“That is: a hospitable country, in which a poet is a thing of course. It +has never been and will never be without song.” + +Here I became silent, and presently arrived at the side of a little dell +or ravine, down which the road led from east to west. The northern and +southern sides of this dell were precipitous. Beneath the southern one +stood a small cottage. Just as I began to descend the eastern side, two +men began to descend the opposite one, and it so happened that we met at +the bottom of the dingle, just before the house, which bore a sign, and +over the door of which was an inscription to the effect that ale was sold +within. They saluted me; I returned their salutation, and then we all +three stood still looking at one another. One of the men was rather a +tall figure, about forty, dressed in grey, or pepper-and-salt, with a cap +of some kind on his head, his face was long and rather good-looking, +though slightly pock-broken. There was a peculiar gravity upon it. The +other person was somewhat about sixty—he was much shorter than his +companion, and much worse dressed—he wore a hat that had several holes in +it, a dusty, rusty black coat, much too large for him; ragged yellow +velveteen breeches, indifferent fustian gaiters, and shoes, cobbled here +and there, one of which had rather an ugly bulge by the side near the +toes. His mouth was exceedingly wide, and his nose remarkably long; its +extremity of a deep purple; upon his features was a half-simple smile or +leer; in his hand was a long stick. After we had all taken a full view +of one another I said in Welsh, addressing myself to the man in grey, +“Pray may I take the liberty of asking the name of this place?” + +“I believe you are an Englishman, sir,” said the man in grey, speaking +English, “I will therefore take the liberty of answering your question in +the English tongue. The name of this place is Dyffryn Gaint.” + +“Thank you,” said I; “you are quite right with regard to my being an +Englishman; perhaps you are one yourself?” + +“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I have not the honour to be so. I am a +native of the small island in which we are.” + +“Small,” said I, “but famous, particularly for producing illustrious +men.” + +“That’s very true indeed, sir,” said the man in grey, drawing himself up; +“it is particularly famous for producing illustrious men.” + +“There was Owen Tudor?” said I. + +“Very true,” said the man in grey, “his tomb is in the church a little +way from hence.” + +“Then,” said I, “there was Gronwy Owen, one of the greatest bards that +ever lived. Out of reverence to his genius I went yesterday to see the +place of his birth.” + +“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I should be sorry to leave you without +enjoying your conversation at some length. In yonder house they sell +good ale, perhaps you will not be offended if I ask you to drink some +with me and my friend?” + +“You are very kind,” said I, “I am fond of good ale, and fonder still of +good company—suppose we go in?” + +We went into the cottage, which was kept by a man and his wife, both of +whom seemed to be perfectly well acquainted with my two new friends. We +sat down on stools, by a clean white table in a little apartment with a +clay floor—notwithstanding the heat of the weather, the little room was +very cool and pleasant owing to the cottage being much protected from the +sun by its situation. The man in grey called for a jug of ale, which was +presently placed before us along with three glasses. The man in grey, +having filled the glasses from the jug which might contain three pints, +handed one to me, another to his companion, and then taking the third +drank to my health. I drank to his, and that of his companion; the +latter, after nodding to us both, emptied his at a draught, and then with +a kind of half-fatuous leer, exclaimed “Da iawn, very good.” + +The ale, though not very good, was cool and neither sour nor bitter; we +then sat for a moment or two in silence, my companions on one side of the +table, and I on the other. After a little time the man in grey looking +at me said: + +“Travelling I suppose in Anglesey for pleasure?” + +“To a certain extent,” said I; “but my chief object in visiting Anglesey +was to view the birth-place of Gronwy Owen; I saw it yesterday and am now +going to Holyhead chiefly with a view to see the country.” + +“And how came you, an Englishman, to know anything of Gronwy Owen?” + +“I studied Welsh literature when young,” said I, “and was much struck +with the verses of Gronwy: he was one of the great bards of Wales, and +certainly the most illustrious genius that Anglesey ever produced.” + +“A great genius I admit,” said the man in grey, “but pardon me, not +exactly the greatest Ynis Fon has produced. The race of the bards is not +quite extinct in the island, sir, I could name one or two—however, I +leave others to do so—but I assure you the race of bards is not quite +extinct here.” + +“I am delighted to hear you say so,” said I, “and make no doubt that you +speak correctly, for the Red Bard has said that Mona is never to be +without a poet—but where am I to find one? Just before I saw you I was +wishing to see a poet; I would willingly give a quart of ale to see a +genuine Anglesey poet.” + +“You would, sir, would you?” said the man in grey, lifting his head on +high, and curling his upper lip. + +“I would, indeed,” said I, “my greatest desire at present is to see an +Anglesey poet, but where am I to find one?” + +“Where is he to find one?” said he of the tattered hat; “where’s the gwr +boneddig to find a prydydd? No occasion to go far, he, he, he.” + +“Well,” said I, “but where is he?” + +“Where is he? why there,” said he pointing to the man in grey—“the +greatest prydydd in tîr Fon or the whole world.” + +“Tut, tut, hold your tongue,” said the man in grey. + +“Hold my tongue, myn Diawl, not I—I speak the truth,” then filling his +glass he emptied it exclaiming, “I’ll not hold my tongue. The greatest +prydydd in the whole world.” + +“Then I have the honour to be seated with a bard of Anglesey?” said I, +addressing the man in grey. + +“Tut, tut,” said he of the grey suit. + +“The greatest prydydd in the whole world,” iterated he of the bulged +shoe, with a slight hiccup, as he again filled his glass. + +“Then,” said I, “I am truly fortunate.” + +“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I had no intention of discovering myself, +but as my friend here has betrayed my secret, I confess that I am a bard +of Anglesey—my friend is an excellent individual but indiscreet, highly +indiscreet, as I have frequently told him,” and here he looked most +benignantly reproachful at him of the tattered hat. + +“The greatest prydydd,” said the latter, “the greatest prydydd that—” and +leaving his sentence incomplete he drank off the ale which he had poured +into his glass. + +“Well,” said I, “I cannot sufficiently congratulate myself, for having +met an Anglesey bard—no doubt a graduate one. Anglesey was always famous +for graduate bards, for what says Black Robin? + + “‘Though Arvon graduate bards can boast, + Yet more canst thou, O Anglesey.’” + +“I suppose by graduate bard you mean one who has gained the chair at an +eisteddfod?” said the man in grey. “No, I have never gained the silver +chair—I have never had an opportunity. I have been kept out of the +eisteddfodau. There is such a thing as envy, sir—but there is one +comfort, that envy will not always prevail.” + +“No,” said I; “envy will not always prevail—envious scoundrels may +chuckle for a time at the seemingly complete success of the dastardly +arts to which they have recourse, in order to crush merit—but Providence +is not asleep. All of a sudden they see their supposed victim on a +pinnacle far above their reach. Then there is weeping, and gnashing of +teeth with a vengeance, and the long melancholy howl. O, there is +nothing in this world which gives one so perfect an idea of retribution +as the long melancholy howl of the disappointed envious scoundrel when he +sees his supposed victim smiling on an altitude far above his reach.” + +“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I am delighted to hear you. Give me your +hand, your honourable hand. Sir, you have now felt the hand-grasp of a +Welshman, to say nothing of an Anglesey bard, and I have felt that of a +Briton, perhaps a bard, a brother, sir? O, when I first saw your face +out there in the dyffryn, I at once recognised in it that of a kindred +spirit, and I felt compelled to ask you to drink. Drink sir! but how is +this? the jug is empty—how is this?—O, I see—my friend, sir, though an +excellent individual, is indiscreet, sir—very indiscreet. Landlord, +bring this moment another jug of ale.” + +“The greatest prydydd,” stuttered he of the bulged shoe—“the greatest +prydydd—Oh—” + +“Tut, tut,” said the man in grey. + +“I speak the truth and care for no one,” said he of the tattered hat. “I +say the greatest prydydd. If any one wishes to gainsay me let him show +his face, and Myn Diawl—” + +The landlord brought the ale, placed it on the table, and then stood as +if waiting for something. + +“I suppose you are waiting to be paid,” said I; “what is your demand?” + +“Sixpence for this jug, and sixpence for the other,” said the landlord. + +I took out a shilling and said: “It is but right that I should pay half +of the reckoning, and as the whole affair is merely a shilling matter I +should feel obliged in being permitted to pay the whole, so, landlord, +take the shilling and remember you are paid.” I then delivered the +shilling to the landlord, but had no sooner done so than the man in grey, +starting up in violent agitation, wrested the money from the other, and +flung it down on the table before me saying:— + +“No, no, that will never do. I invited you in here to drink, and now you +would pay for the liquor which I ordered. You English are free with your +money, but you are sometimes free with it at the expense of people’s +feelings. I am a Welshman, and I know Englishmen consider all Welshmen +hogs. But we are not hogs, mind you! for we have little feelings which +hogs have not. Moreover, I would have you know that we have money, +though perhaps not so much as the Saxon.” Then putting his hand into his +pocket he pulled out a shilling, and giving it to the landlord said in +Welsh: “Now thou art paid, and mayst go thy ways till thou art again +called for. I do not know why thou didst stay after thou hadst put down +the ale. Thou didst know enough of me to know that thou didst run no +risk of not being paid.” + +“But,” said I, after the landlord had departed, “I must insist on being +my share. Did you not hear me say that I would give a quart of ale to +see a poet?” + +“A poet’s face,” said the man in grey, “should be common to all, even +like that of the sun. He is no true poet, who would keep his face from +the world.” + +“But,” said I, “the sun frequently hides his head from the world, behind +a cloud.” + +“Not so,” said the man in grey. “The sun does not hide his face, it is +the cloud that hides it. The sun is always glad enough to be seen, and +so is the poet. If both are occasionally hid, trust me it is no fault of +theirs. Bear that in mind; and now pray take up your money.” + +“The man is a gentleman,” thought I to myself, “whether poet or not; but +I really believe him to be a poet; were he not he could hardly talk in +the manner I have just heard him.” + +The man in grey now filled my glass, his own and that of his companion. +The latter emptied his in a minute, not forgetting first to say “the best +prydydd in all the world!” The man in grey was also not slow to empty +his own. The jug now passed rapidly between my two friends, for the poet +seemed determined to have his full share of the beverage. I allowed the +ale in my glass to remain untasted, and began to talk about the bards, +and to quote from their works. I soon found that the man in grey knew +quite as much of the old bards and their works as myself. In one +instance he convicted me of a mistake. + +I had quoted those remarkable lines in which an old bard, doubtless +seeing the Menai Bridge by means of second sight, says:—“I will pass to +the land of Mona notwithstanding the waters of Menai, without waiting for +the ebb”—and was feeling not a little proud of my erudition when the man +in grey, after looking at me for a moment fixedly, asked me the name of +the bard who composed them—“Sion Tudor,” I replied. + +“There you are wrong,” said the man in grey; “his name was not Sion +Tudor, but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob. Sion Tudor wrote an +englyn on the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little Bob who +wrote the stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai is hinted at.” + +“You are right,” said I, “you are right. Well, I am glad that all song +and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon.” + +“Dead,” said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather flushed, +“they are neither dead, nor ever will be. There are plenty of poets in +Anglesey—why, I can mention twelve, and amongst them, and not the +least—pooh, what was I going to say?—twelve there are, genuine Anglesey +poets, born there, and living there for the love they bear their native +land. When I say they all live in Anglesey, perhaps I am not quite +accurate, for one of the dozen does not exactly live in Anglesey, but +just over the bridge. He is an elderly man, but his awen, I assure you, +is as young and vigorous as ever.” + +“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said I, “if he was a certain ancient +gentleman, from whom I obtained information yesterday, with respect to +the birth-place of Gronwy Owen.” + +“Very likely,” said the man in grey; “well, if you have seen him consider +yourself fortunate, for he is a genuine bard, and a genuine son of +Anglesey, notwithstanding he lives across the water.” + +“If he is the person I allude to,” said I, “I am doubly fortunate, for I +have seen two bards of Anglesey.” + +“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I consider myself quite as fortunate in +having met such a Saxon as yourself, as it is possible for you to do, in +having seen two bards of Ynis Fon.” + +“I suppose you follow some pursuit besides bardism?” said I; “I suppose +you farm?” + +“I do not farm,” said the man in grey, “I keep an inn.” + +“Keep an inn?” said I. + +“Yes,” said the man in grey. “The — Arms at L—.” + +“Sure,” said I, “inn-keeping and bardism are not very cognate pursuits?” + +“You are wrong,” said the man in grey, “I believe the awen, or +inspiration, is quite as much at home in the bar as in the barn, perhaps +more. It is that belief which makes me tolerably satisfied with my +position, and prevents me from asking Sir Richard to give me a farm +instead of an inn.” + +“I suppose,” said I, “that Sir Richard is your landlord?” + +“He is,” said the man in grey, “and a right noble landlord too.” + +“I suppose,” said I, “that he is right proud of his tenant?” + +“He is,” said the man in grey, “and I am proud of my landlord, and will +here drink his health. I have often said that if I were not what I am, I +should wish to be Sir Richard.” + +“You consider yourself his superior?” said I. + +“Of course,” said the man in grey—“a baronet is a baronet; but a bard is +a bard you know—I never forget what I am, and the respect due to my +sublime calling. About a month ago I was seated in an upper apartment, +in a fit of rapture; there was a pen in my hand, and paper before me on +the table, and likewise a jug of good ale, for I always find that the +awen is most prodigal of her favours, when a jug of good ale is before +me. All of a sudden my wife came running up, and told me that Sir +Richard was below, and wanted to speak to me. ‘Tell him to walk up,’ +said I. ‘Are you mad?’ said my wife. ‘Don’t you know who Sir Richard +is?’ ‘I do,’ said I, ‘a baronet is a baronet, but a bard is a bard. +Tell him to walk up.’ Well, my wife went and told Sir Richard that I was +writing, and could not come down, and that she hoped he would not object +to walk up. ‘Certainly not; certainly not,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I shall +be only too happy to ascend to a genius on his hill. You may be proud of +such a husband, Mrs. W.’ And here it will be as well to tell you that my +name is W—, J. W. of —. Sir Richard then came up, and I received him +with gravity and politeness. I did not rise, of course, for I never +forget myself a moment, but I told him to sit down, and added that after +I had finished the pennill I was engaged upon, I would speak to him. +Well, Sir Richard smiled and sat down, and begged me not to hurry myself, +for that he could wait. So I finished the pennill, deliberately, mind +you, for I did not forget who I was, and then turning to Sir Richard +entered upon business with him.” + +“I suppose Sir Richard is a very good-tempered man?” said I. + +“I don’t know,” said the man in grey. “I have seen Sir Richard in a +devil of a passion, but never with me—no, no! Trust Sir Richard for not +riding the high horse with me—a baronet is a baronet, but a bard is a +bard; and that Sir Richard knows.” + +“The greatest prydydd,” said the man of the tattered hat, emptying the +last contents of the jug into his glass, “the greatest prydydd that—” + +“Well,” said I, “you appear to enjoy very great consideration, and yet +you were talking just now of being ill-used.” + +“So I have been,” said the man in grey, “I have been kept out of the +eisteddfodau—and then—what do you think? That fellow the editor of the +_Times_—” + +“O,” said I, “if you have anything to do with the editor of the _Times_ +you may, of course, expect nothing but shabby treatment, but what +business could you have with him?” + +“Why I sent him some pennillion for insertion, and he did not insert +them.” + +“Were they in Welsh or English?” + +“In Welsh, of course.” + +“Well, then the man had some excuse for disregarding them—because you +know the _Times_ is written in English.” + +“O, you mean the London _Times_,” said the man in grey. “Pooh! I did +not allude to that trumpery journal, but the Liverpool _Times_, the +Amserau. I sent some pennillion to the editor for insertion and he did +not insert them. Peth a clwir cenfigen yn Saesneg?” + +“We call cenfigen in English envy,” said I; “but as I told you before, +envy will not always prevail.” + +“You cannot imagine how pleased I am with your company,” said the man in +grey. “Landlord, landlord!” + +“The greatest prydydd,” said the man of the tattered hat, “the greatest +prydydd.” + +“Pray don’t order any more on my account,” said I, “as you see my glass +is still full. I am about to start for Caer Gybi. Pray where are you +bound for?” + +“For Bangor,” said the man in grey. “I am going to the market.” + +“Then I would advise you to lose no time,” said I, “or you will +infallibly be too late; it must now be one o’clock.” + +“There is no market to-day,” said the man in grey, “the market is +to-morrow, which is Saturday. I like to take things leisurely, on which +account, when I go to market, I generally set out the day before, in +order that I may enjoy myself upon the road. I feel myself so happy here +that I shall not stir till the evening. Now pray stay with me and my +friend till then.” + +“I cannot,” said I, “if I stay longer here I shall never reach Caer Gybi +to-night. But allow me to ask whether your business at L— will not +suffer by your spending so much time on the road to market?” + +“My wife takes care of the business whilst I am away,” said the man in +grey, “so it won’t suffer much. Indeed it is she who chiefly conducts +the business of the inn. I spend a good deal of time from home, for +besides being a bard and innkeeper, I must tell you I am a horse-dealer +and a jobber, and if I go to Bangor it is in the hope of purchasing a +horse or pig worth the money.” + +“And is your friend going to market too?” said I. + +“My friend goes with me to assist me and bear me company. If I buy a pig +he will help me to drive it home; if a horse, he will get up upon its +back behind me. I might perhaps do without him, but I enjoy his company +highly. He is sometimes rather indiscreet, but I do assure you he is +exceedingly clever.” + +“The greatest prydydd,” said the man of the bulged shoe, “the greatest +prydydd in the world.” + +“O, I have no doubt of his cleverness,” said I, “from what I have +observed of him. Now before I go allow me to pay for your next jug of +ale.” + +“I will do no such thing,” said the man in grey. “No farthing do you pay +here for me or my friend either. But I will tell you what you may do. I +am, as I have told you, an innkeeper as well as a bard. By the time you +get to L— you will be hot and hungry and in need of refreshment, and if +you think proper to patronize my house, the — Arms by taking your chop +and pint there, you will oblige me. Landlord, some more ale.” + +“The greatest prydydd,” said he of the bulged shoe, “the greatest +prydydd—” + +“I will most certainly patronize your house,” said I to the man in grey, +and shaking him heartily by the hand I departed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + + +Inn at L—The Handmaid—The Decanter—Religious Gentleman—Truly +Distressing—Sententiousness—Way to Pay Bills. + +I proceeded on my way in high spirits indeed, having now seen not only +the tomb of the Tudors, but one of those sober poets for which Anglesey +has always been so famous. The country was pretty, with here and there a +hill, a harvest-field, a clump of trees or a grove. I soon reached L—, a +small but neat town. “Where is the — Arms?” said I to a man whom I met. + +“Yonder, sir, yonder,” said he, pointing to a magnificent structure on +the left. + +I went in and found myself in a spacious hall. A good-looking young +woman in a white dress, with a profusion of pink ribbons confronted me +with a curtsey. “A pint and a chop!” I exclaimed, with a flourish of my +hand and at the top of my voice. The damsel gave a kind of start, and +then, with something like a toss of the head, led the way into a very +large room, on the left, in which were many tables, covered with +snowy-white cloths, on which were plates, knives and forks, the latter +seemingly of silver, tumblers, and wineglasses. + +“I think you asked for a pint and a chop, sir?” said the damsel, +motioning me to sit down at one of the tables. + +“I did,” said I, as I sat down, “let them be brought with all convenient +speed, for I am in something of a hurry.” + +“Very well, sir,” said the damsel, and then with another kind of toss of +the head, she went away, not forgetting to turn half round, to take a +furtive glance at me, before she went out of the door. + +“Well,” said I, as I looked at the tables, with their snowy-white cloths, +tumblers, wine-glasses and what not, and at the walls of the room +glittering with mirrors, “surely a poet never kept so magnificent an inn +before; there must be something in this fellow besides the awen, or his +house would never exhibit such marks of prosperity, and good taste—there +must be something in this fellow; though he pretends to be a wild erratic +son of Parnassus, he must have an eye to the main chance, a genius for +turning the penny, or rather the sovereign, for the accommodation here is +no penny accommodation, as I shall probably find. Perhaps, however, like +myself, he has an exceedingly clever wife who whilst he is making verses, +or running about the country swigging ale with people in bulged shoes, or +buying pigs or glandered horses, looks after matters at home, drives a +swinging trade, and keeps not only herself, but him respectable—but even +in that event he must have a good deal of common sense in him, even like +myself, who always allow my wife to buy and sell, carry money to the +bank, draw cheques, inspect and pay tradesmen’s bills, and transact all +my real business, whilst I myself pore over old books, walk about shires, +discoursing with gypsies, under hedgerows, or with sober bards—in hedge +alehouses.” I continued musing in this manner until the handmaid made +her appearance with a tray, on which were covers and a decanter, which +she placed before me. “What is that?” said I, pointing to a decanter. + +“Only a pint of sherry, sir,” said she of the white dress and ribbons. + +“Dear me,” said I, “I ordered no sherry, I wanted some ale—a pint of +ale.” + +“You called for a pint, sir,” said the handmaid, “but you mentioned no +ale, and I naturally supposed that a gentleman of your appearance”—here +she glanced at my dusty coat—“and speaking in the tone you did, would not +condescend to drink ale with his chop; however, as it seems I have been +mistaken, I can take away the sherry and bring you the ale.” + +“Well, well,” said I, “you can let the sherry remain; I do not like +sherry, and am very fond of ale, but you can let the wine remain; upon +the whole I am glad you brought it. Indeed, I merely came to do a good +turn to the master of the house.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said the handmaid. + +“Are you his daughter?” said I. + +“O no, sir,” said the handmaid reverently; “only his waiter.” + +“You may be proud to wait on him,” said I. + +“I am, sir,” said the handmaid, casting down her eyes. + +“I suppose he is much respected in the neighbourhood?” said I. + +“Very much so, sir,” said the damsel, “especially amidst the connection.” + +“The connection,” said I. “Ah I see, he has extensive consanguinity, +most Welsh have. But,” I continued, “there is such a thing as envy in +the world, and there are a great many malicious people in the world, who +speak against him.” + +“A great many, sir, but we take what they say from whence it comes.” + +“You do quite right,” said I. “Has your master written any poetry +lately?” + +“Sir!” said the damsel, staring at me. + +“Any poetry,” said I, “any pennillion?” + +“No, sir,” said the damsel; “my master is a respectable man, and would +scorn to do anything of the kind.” + +“Why,” said I, “is not your master a bard as well as an innkeeper?” + +“My master, sir, is an innkeeper,” said the damsel; “but as for the +other, I don’t know what you mean.” + +“A bard,” said I, “is a prydydd, a person who makes verses—pennillion; +does not your master make them?” + +“My master make them? No, sir; my master is a religious gentleman, and +would scorn to make such profane stuff.” + +“Well,” said I, “he told me he did within the last two hours. I met him +at Dyffryn Gaint, along with another man, and he took me into the +public-house, where we had a deal of discourse.” + +“You met my master at Dyffryn Gaint?” said the damsel. + +“Yes,” said I, “and he treated me with ale, told me that he was a poet, +and that he was going to Bangor to buy a horse or a pig.” + +“I don’t see how that could be, sir,” said the damsel; “my master is at +present in the house, rather unwell, and has not been out for the last +three days. There must be some mistake.” + +“Mistake,” said I. “Isn’t this the — Arms?” + +“Yes, sir, it is.” + +“And isn’t your master’s name W—?” + +“No, sir, my master’s name is H—, and a more respectable man—” + +“Well,” said I, interrupting her, “all I can say is that I met a man in +Dyffryn Gaint, who treated me with ale, told me that his name was W—, +that he was a prydydd and kept the Arms at L—.” + +“Well,” said the damsel, “now I remember there is a person of that name +in L—, and he also keeps a house which he calls the — Arms, but it is +only a public-house.” + +“But,” said I, “is he not a prydydd, an illustrious poet; does he not +write pennillion which everybody admires?” + +“Well,” said the damsel, “I believe he does write things which he calls +pennillion, but everybody laughs at them.” + +“Come, come,” said I, “I will not hear the productions of a man who +treated me with ale spoken of with disrespect. I am afraid that you are +one of his envious maligners, of which he gave me to understand that he +had a great many.” + +“Envious, sir! not I indeed; and if I were disposed to be envious of +anybody it would not be of him; O dear, why he is—” + +“A bard of Anglesey,” said I, interrupting her, “such a person as Gronwy +Owen describes in the following lines, which by the bye were written upon +himself:— + + “‘Where’er he goes he’s sure to find + Respectful looks and greetings kind.’ + +“I tell you that it was out of respect to that man that I came to this +house. Had I not thought that he kept it, I should not have entered it +and called for a pint and chop. How distressing! how truly distressing!” + +“Well, sir,” said the damsel, “if there is anything distressing you have +only to thank your acquaintance who chooses to call his mughouse by the +name of a respectable hotel, for I would have you know that this is an +hotel, and kept by a respectable and religious man, and not kept by—. +However, I scorn to say more, especially as I might be misinterpreted. +Sir, there’s your pint and chop, and if you wish for anything else you +can ring. Envious, indeed, of such. Marry come up!” and with a toss of +her head, higher than any she had hitherto given, she bounced out of the +room. + +Here was a pretty affair! I had entered the house and ordered the chop +and pint in the belief that by so doing I was patronising the poet, and +lo, I was not in the poet’s house, and my order would benefit a person +for whom, however respectable and religious, I cared not one rush. +Moreover, the pint which I had ordered appeared in the guise not of ale, +which I am fond of, but of sherry, for which I have always entertained a +sovereign contempt, as a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will +transform a nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a race of +sketchers, scribblers, and punsters, in fact into what Englishmen are at +the present day. But who was to blame? Why, who but the poet and +myself? The poet ought to have told me that there were two houses in L— +bearing the sign of the — Arms, and that I must fight shy of the hotel +and steer for the pot-house, and when I gave the order I certainly ought +to have been a little more explicit; when I said a pint, I ought to have +added—of ale. Sententiousness is a fine thing sometimes, but not always. +By being sententious here, I got sherry, which I dislike, instead of ale +which I like, and should have to pay more for what was disagreeable than +I should have had to pay for what was agreeable. Yet I had merely echoed +the poet’s words in calling for a pint and chop, so after all the poet +was to blame for both mistakes. But perhaps he meant that I should drink +sherry at his house, and when he advised me to call for a pint, he meant +a pint of sherry. But the maid had said he kept a pot-house, and no +pot-houses have wine-licences; but the maid after all might be an envious +baggage, and no better than she should be. But what was now to be done? +Why, clearly make the best of the matter, eat the chop and leave the +sherry. So I commenced eating the chop, which was by this time nearly +cold. After eating a few morsels I looked at the sherry; “I may as well +take a glass,” said I. So with a wry face I poured myself out a glass. + +“What detestable stuff!” said I, after I had drunk it. “However, as I +shall have to pay for it I may as well go through with it.” So I poured +myself out another glass, and by the time I had finished the chop I had +finished the sherry also. + +And now what was I to do next? Why, my best advice seemed to be to pay +my bill and depart. But I had promised the poet to patronise his house, +and had by mistake ordered and despatched a pint and chop in a house +which was not the poet’s. Should I now go to his house and order a pint +and chop there? Decidedly not! I had patronised a house which I believed +to be the poet’s; if I patronised the wrong one, the fault was his, not +mine—he should have been more explicit. I had performed my promise, at +least in intention. + +Perfectly satisfied with the conclusion I had come to, I rang the bell. +“The bill?” said I to the handmaid. + +“Here it is!” said she, placing a strip of paper in my hand. + +I looked at the bill, and, whether moderate or immoderate, paid it with a +smiling countenance, commended the entertainment highly, and gave the +damsel something handsome for her trouble in waiting on me. + +Reader, please to bear in mind that as all bills must be paid, it is much +more comfortable to pay them with a smile than with a frown, and that it +is much better by giving sixpence, or a shilling to a poor servant, which +you will never miss at the year’s end, to be followed from the door of an +inn by good wishes, than by giving nothing to be pursued by cutting +silence, or the yet more cutting Hm! + +“Sir,” said the good-looking, well-ribboned damsel, “I wish you a +pleasant journey, and whenever you please again to honour our +establishment with your presence, both my master and myself shall be +infinitely obliged to you.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + + +Oats and Methodism—The Little Girl—Tŷ Gwyn—Bird of the Roof—Purest +English—Railroads—Inconsistency—The Boots. + +It might be about four in the afternoon when I left L— bound for Pen Caer +Gybi, or Holy Head, seventeen miles distant. I reached the top of the +hill on the west of the little town, and then walked briskly forward. +The country looked poor and mean—on my right was a field of oats, on my +left a Methodist chapel—oats and Methodism! what better symbols of +poverty and meanness? + +I went onward a long way; the weather was broiling hot, and I felt +thirsty. On the top of a long ascent stood a house by the roadside. I +went to the door and knocked—no answer—“Oes neb yn y tŷ?” said I. + +“Oes!” said an infantine voice. + +I opened the door, and saw a little girl. “Have you any water?” said I. + +“No,” said the child; “but I have this,” and she brought me some +butter-milk in a basin. I just tasted it, gave the child a penny and +blessed her. + +“Oes genoch tad?” + +“No,” said she; “but I have a mam.” Tad im mam; blessed sounds; in all +languages expressing the same blessed things. + +After walking for some hours I saw a tall blue hill in the far distance +before me. “What is the name of that hill?” said I to a woman whom I +met. + +“Pen Caer Gybi,” she replied. + +Soon after I came to a village near to a rocky gulley. On inquiring the +name of the village, I was told it was Llan yr Afon, or the church of the +river. I passed on; the country was neither grand nor pretty—it +exhibited a kind of wildness, however, which did not fail to interest +me—there were stones, rocks, and furze in abundance. Turning round the +corner of a hill, I observed through the mists of evening, which began to +gather about me, what seemed to be rather a genteel house on the +road-side, on my left, and a little way behind it a strange kind of +monticle, on which I thought I observed tall upright stones. Quickening +my pace, I soon came parallel with the house, which, as I drew nigh, +ceased to look like a genteel house, and exhibited an appearance of great +desolation. It was a white, or rather grey structure of some antiquity. +It was evidently used as a farm-house, for there was a yard adjoining to +it, in which were stacks and agricultural implements. Observing two men +in the yard, I went in. They were respectable, farming-looking men, +between forty and fifty; one had on a coat and hat, the other a cap and +jacket. “Good evening,” I said in Welsh. + +“Good evening,” they replied in the same language, looking inquiringly at +me. + +“What is the name of this place?” said I. + +“It is called Tŷ gwyn,” said the man of the hat. + +“On account of its colour, I suppose?” said I. + +“Just so,” said the man of the hat. + +“It looks old,” said I. + +“And it is old,” he replied. “In the time of the Papists it was one of +their chapels.” + +“Does it belong to you?” I demanded. + +“O no, it belongs to one Mr. Sparrow from Liverpool. I am his bailiff, +and this man is a carpenter who is here doing a job for him.” + +Here ensued a pause, which was broken by the man of the hat saying in +English to the man of the cap— + +“Who can this strange fellow be? he has not a word of English, and though +he speaks Welsh, his Welsh sounds very different from ours. Who can he +be?” + +“I am sure I don’t know,” said the other. + +“I know who he is,” said the first; “he comes from Llydaw, or Armorica, +which was peopled from Britain estalom, and where I am told the real old +Welsh language is still spoken.” + +“I think I heard you mention the word Llydaw?” said I to the man of the +hat. + +“Ah,” said the man of the hat, speaking Welsh, “I was right after all; +oh, I could have sworn you were Llydaweg. Well, how are the descendants +of the ancient Britons getting on in Llydaw?” + +“They were getting on tolerably well,” said I, “when I last saw them, +though all things do not go exactly as they could wish.” + +“Of course not,” said he of the hat. “We too have much to complain of +here; the lands are almost entirely taken possession of by Saxons, +wherever you go you will find them settled, and a Saxon bird of the roof +must build its nest in Gwyn dŷ.” + +“You call a sparrow in your Welsh a bird of the roof, do you not?” said +I. + +“We do,” said he of the hat. “You speak Welsh very well, considering you +were not born in Wales. It is really surprising that the men of Llydaw +should speak the iaith so pure as they do.” + +“The Welsh, when they went over there,” said I, “took effectual means +that their descendants should speak good Welsh, if all tales be true.” + +“What means?” said he of the hat. + +“Why,” said I, “after conquering the country they put all the men to +death, and married the women, but before a child was born they cut out +all the women’s tongues, so that the only language the children heard +when they were born was pure Cumraeg. What do you think of that?” + +“Why, that it was a cute trick,” said he of the hat. + +“A more clever trick I never heard,” said he of the cap. + +“Have you any memorials in the neighbourhood of the old Welsh?” said I. + +“What do you mean?” said the man of the hat. + +“Any altars of the Druids?” said I; “any stone tables?” + +“None,” said the man of the hat. + +“What may those stones be?” said I, pointing to the stones which had +struck my attention. + +“Mere common rocks,” said the man. + +“May I go and examine them?” said I. + +“O yes,” said he of the hat, “and we will go with you.” + +We went to the stones, which were indeed common rocks, and which, when I +reached them, presented quite a different appearance from that which they +presented to my eye when I viewed them from afar. + +“Are there many altars of the Druids in Llydaw?” said the man of the hat. + +“Plenty,” said I; “but those altars are older than the time of the Welsh +colonists, and were erected by the old Gauls.” + +“Well,” said the man of the cap, “I am glad to have seen a man of +Llydaw.” + +“Whom do you call a man of Llydaw?” said I. + +“Whom but yourself?” said he of the hat. + +“I am not a man of Llydaw,” said I in English, “but of Norfolk, where the +people eat the best dumplings in the world, and speak the purest English. +Now a thousand thanks for your civility. I would have some more chat +with you, but night is coming on, and I am bound to Holyhead.” + +Then leaving the men staring after me, I bent my steps towards Holyhead. + +I passed by a place called Llan something, standing lonely on its hill. +The country around looked sad and desolate. It is true night had come on +when I saw it. + +On I hurried. The voices of children sounded sweetly at a distance +across the wild champaign on my left. + +It grew darker and darker. On I hurried along the road; at last I came +to lone, lordly groves. On my right was an open gate and a lodge. I +went up to the lodge. The door was open, and in a little room I beheld a +nice-looking old lady sitting by a table, on which stood a lighted +candle, with her eyes fixed on a large book. + +“Excuse me,” said I; “but who owns this property?” + +The old lady looked up from her book, which appeared to be a Bible, +without the slightest surprise, though I certainly came upon her +unawares, and answered: + +“Mr. John Wynn.” + +I shortly passed through a large village, or rather town, the name of +which I did not learn. I then went on for a mile or two, and saw a red +light at some distance. The road led nearly up to it, and then diverged +towards the north. Leaving the road, I made towards the light by a lane, +and soon came to a railroad station. + +“You won’t have long to wait, sir,” said a man—“the train to Holyhead +will be here presently.” + +“How far is it to Holyhead?” said I. + +“Two miles, sir, and the fare is only sixpence.” + +“I despise railroads,” said I, “and those who travel by them,” and +without waiting for an answer returned to the road. Presently I heard +the train—it stopped for a minute at the station, and then continuing its +course, passed me on my left hand, voiding fierce sparks, and making a +terrible noise—the road was a melancholy one; my footsteps sounded hollow +upon it. I seemed to be its only traveller—a wall extended for a long, +long way on my left. At length I came to a turnpike. I felt desolate, +and wished to speak to somebody. I tapped at the window, at which there +was a light; a woman opened it. “How far to Holyhead?” said I in +English. + +“Dim Saesneg,” said the woman. + +I repeated my question in Welsh. + +“Two miles,” said she. + +“Still two miles to Holyhead by the road,” thought I. “Nos da,” said I +to the woman, and sped along. At length I saw water on my right, +seemingly a kind of bay, and presently a melancholy ship. I doubled my +pace, which was before tolerably quick, and soon saw a noble-looking +edifice on my left, brilliantly lighted up. “What a capital inn that +would make,” said I, looking at it wistfully, as I passed it. Presently +I found myself in the midst of a poor, dull, ill-lighted town. + +“Where is the inn?” said I to a man. + +“The inn, sir? you have passed it. The inn is yonder,” he continued, +pointing towards the noble-looking edifice. + +“What, is that the inn?” said I. + +“Yes, sir, the railroad hotel—and a first-rate hotel it is.” + +“And are there no other inns?” + +“Yes; but they are all poor places. No gent puts up at them—all the +gents by the railroad put up at the railroad hotel.” + +What was I to do? after turning up my nose at the railroad, was I to put +up at its hotel? Surely to do so would be hardly acting with +consistency. “Ought I not rather to go to some public-house, frequented +by captains of fishing-smacks, and be put in a bed a foot too short for +me,” said I, as I reflected on my last night’s couch at Mr. Pritchard’s. +“No, that won’t do—I shall go to the hotel; I have money in my pocket, +and a person with money in his pocket has surely a right to be +inconsistent if he pleases.” + +So I turned back and entered the railway hotel with lofty port and with +sounding step, for I had twelve sovereigns in my pocket, besides a half +one, and some loose silver, and feared not to encounter the gaze of any +waiter or landlord in the land. “Send boots!” I roared to the waiter, as +I flung myself down in an arm-chair in a magnificent coffee-room. “What +the deuce are you staring at? send boots, can’t you, and ask what I can +have for dinner.” + +“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, and with a low bow departed. + +“These boots are rather dusty,” said the boots, a grey-haired, +venerable-looking man, after he had taken off my thick, solid, +square-toed boots. “I suppose you came walking from the railroad?” + +“Confound the railroad!” said I: “I came walking from Bangor. I would +have you know that I have money in my pocket, and can afford to walk. I +am fond of the beauties of nature; now it is impossible to see much of +the beauties of nature unless you walk. I am likewise fond of poetry, +and take especial delight in inspecting the birth-places and haunts of +poets. It is because I am fond of poetry, poets and their haunts, that I +am come to Anglesey. Anglesey does not abound in the beauties of nature, +but there never was such a place for poets; you meet a poet, or the +birth-place of a poet, everywhere.” + +“Did your honour ever hear of Gronwy Owen?” said the old man. + +“I have,” I replied, “and yesterday I visited his birth-place; so you +have heard of Gronwy Owen?” + +“Heard of him, your honour; yes, and read his works. That ‘Cowydd y +Farn’ of his is a wonderful poem.” + +“You say right,” said I; “the ‘Cowydd of Judgment’ contains some of the +finest things ever written—that description of the toppling down of the +top crag of Snowdon, at the day of Judgment, beats anything in Homer.” + +“Then there was Lewis Morris, your honour,” said the old man, “who gave +Gronwy his education and wrote ‘The Lasses of Meirion’—and—” + +“And ‘The Cowydd to the Snail,’” said I, interrupting him—“a wonderful +man he was.” + +“I am rejoiced to see your honour in our house,” said boots; “I never saw +an English gentleman before who knew so much about Welsh poetry, nor a +Welsh one either. Ah, if your honour is fond of poets and their places +you did right to come to Anglesey—and your honour was right in saying +that you can’t stir a step without meeting one; you have an example of +the truth of that in me—for to tell your honour the truth, I am a poet +myself, and no bad one either.” + +Then tucking the dusty boots under his arm, the old man, with a low +congee, and a “Good-night, your honour!” shuffled out of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XL + + +Caer Gybi—Lewis Morris—Noble Character. + +I dined, or rather supped, well at the Railroad Inn—I beg its pardon, +Hotel, for the word Inn at the present day is decidedly vulgar. I +likewise slept well; how could I do otherwise, passing the night, as I +did, in an excellent bed in a large, cool, quiet room? I arose rather +late, went down to the coffee-room and took my breakfast leisurely, after +which I paid my bill and strolled forth to observe the wonders of the +place. + +Caer Gybi, or Cybi’s town, is situated on the southern side of a bay on +the north-western side of Anglesey. Close to it, on the south-west, is a +very high headland, called in Welsh Pen Caer Gybi, or the head of Cybi’s +city, and in English Holyhead. On the north, across the bay, is another +mountain of equal altitude, which, if I am not mistaken, bears in Welsh +the name of Mynydd Llanfair, or Saint Mary’s Mount. It is called Cybi’s +town from one Cybi, who, about the year 500, built a college here, to +which youths, noble and ignoble, resorted from far and near. He was a +native of Dyfed, or Pembrokeshire, and was a friend, and for a long time +a fellow-labourer, of Saint David. Besides being learned, according to +the standard of the time, he was a great walker, and from bronzing his +countenance by frequent walking in the sun, was generally called Cybi +Velin, which means tawny, or yellow Cybi. + +So much for Cybi, and his town! And now something about one whose memory +haunted me much more than that of Cybi during my stay at Holyhead. + +Lewis Morris was born at a place called Tref y Beirdd, in Anglesey, in +the year 1700. Anglesey, or Mona, has given birth to many illustrious +men, but few, upon the whole, entitled to more honourable mention than +himself. From a humble situation in life, for he served an +apprenticeship to a cooper at Holyhead, he raised himself by his industry +and talents to affluence and distinction, became a landed proprietor in +the county of Cardigan, and inspector of the royal domains and mines in +Wales. Perhaps a man more generally accomplished never existed; he was a +first-rate mechanic, an expert navigator, a great musician, both in +theory and practice, and a poet of singular excellence. Of him it was +said, and with truth, that he could build a ship and sail it, frame a +harp and make it speak, write an ode and set it to music. Yet that +saying, eulogistic as it is, is far from expressing all the vast powers +and acquirements of Lewis Morris. Though self-taught, he was confessedly +the best Welsh scholar of his age, and was well-versed in those cognate +dialects of the Welsh—the Cornish, Armoric, Highland Gaelic and Irish. +He was likewise well acquainted with Hebrew, Greek and Latin, had studied +Anglo-Saxon with some success, and was a writer of bold and vigorous +English. He was besides a good general antiquary, and for knowledge of +ancient Welsh customs, traditions and superstitions had no equal. Yet +all has not been said which can be uttered in his praise: he had +qualities of mind which entitled him to higher esteem than any +accomplishment connected with intellect or skill. Amongst these were his +noble generosity and sacrifice of self for the benefit of others. Weeks +and months he was in the habit of devoting to the superintendence of the +affairs of the widow and the fatherless: one of his principal delights +was to assist merit, to bring it before the world, and to procure for it +its proper estimation: it was he who first discovered the tuneful genius +of blind Parry; it was he who first put the harp into his hand; it was he +who first gave him scientific instruction; it was he who cheered him with +encouragement, and assisted him with gold. It was he who instructed the +celebrated Evan Evans in the ancient language of Wales, enabling that +talented but eccentric individual to read the pages of the red book of +Hergest as easily as those of the Welsh Bible; it was he who corrected +his verses with matchless skill, refining and polishing them till they +became well worthy of being read by posterity; it was he who gave him +advice, which, had it been followed, would have made the Prydydd Hir, as +he called himself, one of the most illustrious Welshmen of the last +century; and it was he who first told his countrymen that there was a +youth of Anglesey whose genius, if properly encouraged, promised fair to +rival that of Milton: one of the most eloquent letters ever written is +one by him, in which he descants upon the beauties of certain poems of +Gronwy Owen, the latent genius of whose early boyhood he had observed, +whom he had clothed, educated, and assisted up to the period when he was +ordained a minister of the Church, and whom he finally rescued from a +state bordering on starvation in London, procuring for him an honourable +appointment in the New World. Immortality to Lewis Morris! But +immortality he has won, even as his illustrious pupil has said, who in +his elegy upon his benefactor, written in America, in the four-and-twenty +measures, at a time when Gronwy had not heard the Welsh language spoken +for more than twenty years, has words to the following effect:— + + “As long as Bardic lore shall last, science and learning be + cherished, the language and blood of the Britons undefiled, song be + heard on Parnassus, heaven and earth be in existence, foam be on the + surge, and water in the river, the name of Lewis of Mon shall be held + in grateful remembrance.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + + +The Pier—Irish Reapers—Wild Irish Face—Father Toban—The Herd of +Swine—Latin Blessing. + +The day was as hot as the preceding one. I walked slowly towards the +west, and presently found myself upon a pier, or breakwater, at the mouth +of the harbour. A large steamer lay at a little distance within the +pier. There were fishing boats on both sides, the greater number on the +outer side, which lies towards the hill of Holyhead. On the shady side +of the breakwater, under the wall, were two or three dozen of Irish +reapers; some were lying asleep, others in parties of two or three were +seated with their backs against the wall, and were talking Irish; these +last all appeared to be well-made, middle-sized young fellows, with +rather a ruffianly look; they stared at me as I passed. The whole party +had shillealahs either in their hands or by their sides. I went to the +extremity of the pier, where was a little light-house, and then turned +back. As I again drew near the Irish, I heard a hubbub, and observed a +great commotion amongst them. All, whether those whom I had seen +sitting, or those whom I had seen reclining, had got, or were getting, on +their legs. As I passed them they were all standing up, and their eyes +were fixed upon me with a strange kind of expression, partly of wonder, +methought, partly of respect. “Yes, ’tis he, sure enough,” I heard one +whisper. On I went, and at about thirty yards from the last I stopped, +turned round, and leaned against the wall. All the Irish were looking at +me—presently they formed into knots, and began to discourse very eagerly +in Irish, though in an under tone. At length I observed a fellow going +from one knot to the other, exchanging a few words with each. After he +had held communication with all, he nodded his head, and came towards me +with a quick step; the rest stood silent and motionless, with their eyes +turned in the direction in which I was, and in which he was advancing. +He stopped within a yard of me, and took off his hat. He was an athletic +fellow of about twenty-eight, dressed in brown frieze. His features were +swarthy, and his eyes black; in every lineament of his countenance was a +jumble of savagery and roguishness. I never saw a more genuine wild +Irish face—there he stood, looking at me full in the face, his hat in one +hand, and his shillealah in the other. + +“Well, what do you want?” said I, after we had stared at each other about +half a minute. + +“Sure, I’m just come on the part of the boys and myself to beg a bit of a +favour of your reverence.” + +“Reverence,” said I, “what do you mean by styling me reverence?” + +“Och sure, because to be styled your reverence is the right of your +reverence.” + +“Pray, what do you take me for?” + +“Och sure, we knows your reverence very well.” + +“Well, who am I?” + +“Och, why Father Toban, to be sure.” + +“And who knows me to be Father Toban?” + +“Och, a boy here knows your reverence to be Father Toban.” + +“Where is that boy?” + +“Here he stands, your reverence.” + +“Are you that boy?” + +“I am, your reverence.” + +“And you told the rest that I was Father Toban?” + +“I did, your reverence.” + +“And you know me to be Father Toban?” + +“I do, your reverence.” + +“How do you know me to be Father Toban?” + +“Och, why because many’s the good time that I have heard your reverence, +Father Toban, say mass.” + +“And what is it you want me to do?” + +“Why, see here, your reverence, we are going to embark in the dirty +steamer yonder for ould Ireland, which starts as soon as the tide serves, +and we want your reverence to bless us before we goes.” + +“You want me to bless you?” + +“We do, your reverence; we want you to spit out a little bit of a +blessing upon us before we goes on board.” + +“And what good would my blessing do you?” + +“All kinds of good, your reverence; it would prevent the dirty steamer +from catching fire, your reverence, or from going down, your reverence, +or from running against the blackguard Hill of Howth in the mist, +provided there should be one.” + +“And suppose I were to tell you that I am not Father Toban?” + +“Och, your reverence will never think of doing that.” + +“Would you believe me if I did?” + +“We would not, your reverence.” + +“If I were to swear that I am not Father Toban?” + +“We would not, your reverence.” + +“On the evangiles?” + +“We would not, your reverence.” + +“On the Cross?” + +“We would not, your reverence.” + +“And suppose I were to refuse to give you a blessing?” + +“Och, your reverence will never refuse to bless the poor boys.” + +“But suppose I were to refuse?” + +“Why, in such a case, which by the bye is altogether impossible, we +should just make bould to give your reverence a good bating.” + +“You would break my head?” + +“We would, your reverence.” + +“Kill me?” + +“We would, your reverence.” + +“You would really put me to death?” + +“We would not, your reverence.” + +“And what’s the difference between killing and putting to death?” + +“Och, sure there’s all the difference in the world. Killing manes only a +good big bating, such as every Irishman is used to, and which your +reverence would get over long before matins, whereas putting your +reverence to death would prevent your reverence from saying mass for ever +and a day.” + +“And you are determined on having a blessing?” + +“We are, your reverence.” + +“By hook or by crook?” + +“By hook or by crook, your reverence.” + +“Before I bless you, will you answer me a question or two?” + +“I will, your reverence.” + +“Are you not a set of great big blackguards?” + +“We are, your reverence.” + +“Without one good quality?” + +“We are, your reverence.” + +“Would it not be quite right to saddle and bridle you all, and ride you +violently down Holyhead or the Giant’s Causeway into the waters, causing +you to perish there, like the herd of swine of old?” + +“It would, your reverence.” + +“And knowing and confessing all this, you have the cheek to come and ask +me for a blessing?” + +“We have, your reverence.” + +“Well, how shall I give the blessing?” + +“Och, sure your reverence knows very well how to give it.” + +“Shall I give it in Irish?” + +“Och, no, your reverence—a blessing in Irish is no blessing at all.” + +“In English?” + +“Och, murder, no, your reverence, God preserve us all from an English +blessing.” + +“In Latin?” + +“Yes, sure, your reverence; in what else should you bless us but in holy +Latin?” + +“Well, then, prepare yourselves.” + +“We will, your reverence—stay one moment whilst I whisper to the boys +that your reverence is about to bestow your blessing upon us.” + +Then turning to the rest, who all this time had kept their eyes fixed +intently upon us, he bellowed with the voice of a bull: + +“Down on your marrow bones, ye sinners, for his reverence Toban is about +to bless us all in holy Latin.” + +He then flung himself on his knees on the pier, and all his countrymen, +baring their heads, followed his example—yes, there knelt thirty +bare-headed Eirionaich on the pier of Caer Gybi, beneath the broiling +sun. I gave them the best Latin blessing I could remember out of two or +three which I had got by memory out of an old Popish book of devotion, +which I bought in my boyhood at a stall. Then turning to the deputy, I +said, “Well, now are you satisfied?” + +“Sure, I have a right to be satisfied, your reverence; and so have we +all—sure, we can now all go on board the dirty steamer, without fear of +fire or water, or the blackguard Hill of Howth either.” + +“Then get up, and tell the rest to get up, and please to know, and let +the rest know, that I do not choose to receive farther trouble, either by +word or look, from any of ye, as long as I remain here.” + +“Your reverence shall be obeyed in all things,” said the fellow, getting +up. Then walking away to his companions, he cried, “Get up, boys, and +plase to know that his reverence Toban is not to be farther troubled by +being looked at or spoken to by any one of us, as long as he remains upon +this dirty pier.” + +“Divil a bit farther trouble shall he have from us!” exclaimed many a +voice, as the rest of the party arose from their knees. + +In half-a-minute they disposed themselves in much the same manner as that +in which they were when I first saw them: some flung themselves again to +sleep under the wall, some seated themselves with their backs against it, +and laughed and chatted, but without taking any notice of me; those who +sat and chatted took, or appeared to take, as little notice as those who +lay and slept, of his reverence Father Toban. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + + +Gage of Suffolk—Fellow in a Turban—Town of Holyhead—Father Boots—An +Expedition—Holyhead and Finisterræ—Gryffith ab Cynan—The Fairies’ Well. + +Leaving the pier, I turned up a street to the south, and was not long +before I arrived at a kind of market-place, where were carts and stalls, +and on the ground, on cloths, apples and plums, and abundance of +greengages—the latter, when good, decidedly the finest fruit in the +world; a fruit, for the introduction of which into England, the English +have to thank one Gage, of an ancient Suffolk family, at present extinct, +after whose name the fruit derives the latter part of its appellation. +Strolling about the market-place, I came in contact with a fellow dressed +in a turban and dirty blue linen robes and trowsers. He bore a bundle of +papers in his hand, one of which he offered to me. I asked him who he +was. + +“Arap,” he replied. + +He had a dark, cunning, roguish countenance, with small eyes, and had all +the appearance of a Jew. I spoke to him in what Arabic I could command +on a sudden, and he jabbered to me in a corrupt dialect, giving me a +confused account of a captivity which he had undergone amidst savage +Mahometans. At last I asked him what religion he was of. + +“The Christian,” he replied. + +“Have you ever been of the Jewish?” said I. + +He returned no answer save by a grin. + +I took the paper, gave him a penny, and then walked away. The paper +contained an account in English of how the bearer, the son of Christian +parents, had been carried into captivity by two Mahometan merchants, +father and son, from whom he had escaped with the greatest difficulty. + +“Pretty fools,” said I, “must any people have been who ever stole you; +but O what fools if they wished to keep you after they had got you!” + +The paper was stuffed with religious and anti-slavery cant, and merely +wanted a little of the teetotal nonsense to be a perfect specimen of +humbug. + +I strolled forward, encountering more carts and more heaps of greengages; +presently I turned to the right by a street, which led some way up the +hill. The houses were tolerably large and all white. The town, with its +white houses placed by the seaside, on the skirt of a mountain, beneath a +blue sky and a broiling sun, put me something in mind of a Moorish +piratical town, in which I had once been. Becoming soon tired of walking +about, without any particular aim, in so great a heat, I determined to +return to the inn, call for ale, and deliberate on what I had best next +do. So I returned and called for ale. The ale which was brought was not +ale which I am particularly fond of. The ale which I am fond of is ale +about nine or ten months old, somewhat hard, tasting well of the malt and +little of the hop—ale such as farmers, and noblemen too, of the good old +time, when farmers’ daughters did not play on pianos and noblemen did not +sell their game, were in the habit of offering to both high and low, and +drinking themselves. The ale which was brought me was thin, washy stuff, +which though it did not taste much of hop, tasted still less of malt, +made and sold by one Allsopp, who I am told calls himself a squire and a +gentleman—as he certainly may be with quite as much right as many a lord +calls himself a nobleman and a gentleman; for surely it is not a fraction +more trumpery to make and sell ale than to fatten and sell game. The ale +of the Saxon squire, for Allsopp is decidedly an old Saxon name, however +unakin to the practice of old Saxon squires the selling of ale may be, +was drinkable, for it was fresh, and the day, as I have said before, +exceedingly hot; so I took frequent draughts out of the shining metal +tankard in which it was brought, deliberating both whilst drinking, and +in the intervals of drinking, on what I had next best do. I had some +thoughts of crossing to the northern side of the bay, then, bearing to +the north-east, wend my way to Amlwch, follow the windings of the +sea-shore to Mathafarn eithaf and Pentraeth Coch, and then return to +Bangor, after which I could boast that I had walked round the whole of +Anglesey, and indeed trodden no inconsiderable part of the way twice. +Before coming, however, to any resolution I determined to ask the advice +of my friend the boots on the subject. So I finished my ale, and sent +word by the waiter that I wished to speak to him; he came forthwith, and +after communicating my deliberations to him in a few words I craved his +counsel. The old man, after rubbing his right forefinger behind his +right ear for about a quarter, of a minute, inquired if I meant to return +to Bangor, and on my telling him that it would be necessary for me to do +so, as I intended to walk back to Llangollen by Caernarvon and Beth +Gelert, strongly advised me to return to Bangor by the railroad train, +which would start at seven in the evening, and would convey me thither in +an hour and a half. I told him that I hated railroads, and received for +answer that he had no particular liking for them himself, but that he +occasionally made use of them on a pinch, and supposed that I likewise +did the same. I then observed that if I followed his advice I should not +see the north side of the island nor its principal town Amlwch, and +received for answer that if I never did, the loss would not be great. +That as for Amlwch, it was a poor poverty-stricken place; the inn a +shabby affair, the master a very so-so individual, and the boots a fellow +without either wit or literature. That upon the whole he thought I might +be satisfied with what I had seen already, for after having visited Owen +Tudor’s tomb, Caer Gybi and his hotel, I had in fact seen the cream of +Mona. I then said that I had one objection to make, which was that I +really did not know how to employ the time till seven o’clock, for that I +had seen all about the town. + +“But has your honour ascended the Head?” demanded Father Boots. + +“No,” said I, “I have not.” + +“Then,” said he, “I will soon find your honour ways and means to spend +the time agreeably till the starting of the train. Your honour shall +ascend the head under the guidance of my nephew, a nice intelligent lad, +your honour, and always glad to earn a shilling or two. By the time your +honour has seen all the wonders of the Head and returned, it will be five +o’clock. Your honour can then dine, and after dinner trifle away the +minutes over your wine or brandy-and-water till seven, when your honour +can step into a first-class for Bangor.” + +I was struck with the happy manner in which he had removed the difficulty +in question, and informed him that I was determined to follow his advice. +He hurried away, and presently returned with his nephew, to whom I +offered half-a-crown provided he would show me all about Pen Caer Gyby. +He accepted my offer with evident satisfaction, and we lost no time in +setting out upon our expedition. + +We had to pass over a great deal of broken ground, sometimes ascending, +sometimes descending, before we found ourselves upon the side of what may +actually be called the headland. Shaping our course westward we came to +the vicinity of a lighthouse standing on the verge of a precipice, the +foot of which was washed by the sea. + +Leaving the lighthouse on our right we followed a steep winding path +which at last brought us to the top of the pen or summit, rising +according to the judgment which I formed about six hundred feet from the +surface of the sea. Here was a level spot some twenty yards across, in +the middle of which stood a heap of stones or cairn. I asked the lad +whether this cairn bore a name and received for answer that it was +generally called Bar-cluder y Cawr Glâs, words which seem to signify the +top heap of the Grey Giant. + +“Some king, giant, or man of old renown lies buried beneath this cairn,” +said I. “Whoever he may be I trust he will excuse me for mounting it, +seeing that I do so with no disrespectful spirit.” I then mounted the +cairn, exclaiming: + + “Who lies ’neath the cairn on the headland hoar, + His hand yet holding his broad claymore, + Is it Beli, the son of Benlli Gawr?” + +There stood I on the cairn of the Grey Giant, looking around me. The +prospect, on every side, was noble: the blue interminable sea to the west +and north; the whole stretch of Mona to the east; and far away to the +south the mountainous region of Eryri, comprising some of the most +romantic hills in the world. In some respects this Pen Santaidd, this +holy headland, reminded me of Finisterræ, the Gallegan promontory which I +had ascended some seventeen years before, whilst engaged in battling the +Pope with the sword of the gospel in his favourite territory. Both are +bold, bluff headlands looking to the west, both have huge rocks in their +vicinity, rising from the bosom of the brine. For a time, as I stood on +the cairn, I almost imagined myself on the Gallegan hill; much the same +scenery presented itself as there, and a sun equally fierce struck upon +my head as that which assailed it on the Gallegan hill. For a time all +my thoughts were of Spain. It was not long, however, before I bethought +me that my lot was now in a different region, that I had done with Spain +for ever, after doing for her all that lay in the power of a lone man, +who had never in this world anything to depend upon, but God and his own +slight strength. Yes, I had done with Spain, and was now in Wales; and, +after a slight sigh, my thoughts became all intensely Welsh. I thought +on the old times when Mona was the grand seat of Druidical superstition, +when adoration was paid to Dwy Fawr, and Dwy Fach, the sole survivors of +the apocryphal Deluge; to Hu the Mighty and his plough; to Ceridwen and +her cauldron; to András the Horrible; to Wyn ab Nudd, Lord of Unknown, +and to Beli, Emperor of the Sun. I thought on the times when the Beal +fire blazed on this height, on the neighbouring promontory, on the +copestone of Eryri, and on every high hill throughout Britain on the eve +of the first of May. I thought on the day when the bands of Suetonius +crossed the Menai strait in their broad-bottomed boats, fell upon the +Druids and their followers, who with wild looks and brandished torches +lined the shore, slew hundreds with merciless butchery upon the plains, +and pursued the remainder to the remotest fastnesses of the isle. I +figured to myself long-bearded men with white vestments toiling up the +rocks, followed by fierce warriors with glittering helms and short broad +two-edged swords; I thought I heard groans, cries of rage, and the dull, +awful sound of bodies precipitated down rocks. Then as I looked towards +the sea I thought I saw the fleet of Gryffith Ab Cynan steering from +Ireland to Aber Menai, Gryffith the son of a fugitive king, born in +Ireland in the Commot of Columbcille, Gryffith the frequently baffled, +the often victorious; once a manacled prisoner sweating in the sun, in +the market-place of Chester, eventually king of North Wales; Gryffith, +who “though he loved well the trumpet’s clang loved the sound of the harp +better;” who led on his warriors to twenty-four battles, and presided +over the composition of the twenty-four measures of the Cambrian song. +Then I thought— But I should tire the reader were I to detail all the +intensely Welsh thoughts, which crowded into my head as I stood on the +Cairn of the Grey Giant. + +Satiated with looking about and thinking, I sprang from the cairn and +rejoined my guide. We now descended the eastern side of the hill till we +came to a singular-looking stone, which had much the appearance of a +Druid’s stone. I inquired of my guide whether there was any tale +connected with this stone. + +“None,” he replied; “but I have heard people say that it was a strange +stone and on that account I brought you to look at it.” + +A little farther down he showed me part of a ruined wall. + +“What name does this bear?” said I. + +“Clawdd yr Afalon,” he replied. “The dyke of the orchard.” + +“A strange place for an orchard,” I replied. “If there was ever an +orchard on this bleak hill, the apples must have been very sour.” + +Over rocks and stones we descended till we found ourselves on a road, not +very far from the shore, on the south-east side of the hill. + +“I am very thirsty,” said I, as I wiped the perspiration from my face; +“how I should like now to drink my fill of cool spring water.” + +“If your honour is inclined for water,” said my guide, “I can take you to +the finest spring in all Wales.” + +“Pray do so,” said I, “for I really am dying of thirst.” + +“It is on our way to the town,” said the lad, “and is scarcely a hundred +yards off.” + +He then led me to the fountain. It was a little well under a stone wall, +on the left side of the way. It might be about two feet deep, was fenced +with rude stones, and had a bottom of sand. + +“There,” said the lad, “is the fountain. It is called the Fairies’ well, +and contains the best water in Wales.” + +I lay down and drank. O, what water was that of the Fairies’ well! I +drank and drank and thought I could never drink enough of that delicious +water; the lad all the time saying that I need not be afraid to drink, as +the water of the Fairies’ well had never done harm to anybody. At length +I got up, and standing by the fountain repeated the lines of a bard on a +spring, not of a Welsh but a Gaelic bard, which are perhaps the finest +lines ever composed on the theme. Yet MacIntyre, for such was his name, +was like myself an admirer of good ale, to say nothing of whiskey, and +loved to indulge in it at a proper time and place. But there is a time +and place for everything, and sometimes the warmest admirer of ale would +prefer the lymph of the hill-side fountain to the choicest ale that ever +foamed in tankard from the cellars of Holkham. Here are the lines, most +faithfully rendered: + + “The wild wine of nature, + Honey-like in its taste, + The genial, fair, thin element + Filtering through the sands, + Which is sweeter than cinnamon, + And is well-known to us hunters. + O, that eternal, healing draught, + Which comes from under the earth, + Which contains abundance of good + And costs no money!” + +Returning to the hotel I satisfied my guide and dined. After dinner I +trifled agreeably with my brandy-and-water till it was near seven o’clock +when I paid my bill, thought of the waiter and did not forget Father +Boots. I then took my departure, receiving and returning bows, and +walking to the station got into a first-class carriage and soon found +myself at Bangor. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + + +The Inn at Bangor—Port Dyn Norwig—Sea Serpent—Thoroughly Welsh +Place—Blessing of Health. + +I went to the same inn at Bangor at which I had been before. It was +Saturday night and the house was thronged with people, who had arrived by +train from Manchester and Liverpool, with the intention of passing the +Sunday in the Welsh town. I took tea in an immense dining or ball-room, +which was, however, so crowded with guests that its walls literally +sweated. Amidst the multitude I felt quite solitary—my beloved ones had +departed for Llangollen, and there was no one with whom I could exchange +a thought or a word of kindness. I addressed several individuals, and in +every instance repented; from some I got no answers, from others what was +worse than no answers at all—in every countenance near me suspicion, +brutality, or conceit, was most legibly imprinted—I was not amongst +Welsh, but the scum of manufacturing England. + +Every bed in the house was engaged—the people of the house, however, +provided me a bed at a place which they called the cottage, on the side +of a hill in the outskirts of the town. There I passed the night +comfortably enough. At about eight in the morning I arose, returned to +the inn, breakfasted, and departed for Bethgelert by way of Caernarvon. + +It was Sunday, and I had originally intended to pass the day at Bangor, +and to attend divine service twice at the cathedral, but I found myself +so very uncomfortable, owing to the crowd of interlopers, that I +determined to proceed on my journey without delay; making up my mind, +however, to enter the first church I should meet in which service was +being performed; for it is really not good to travel on the Sunday +without going into a place of worship. + +The day was sunny and fiercely hot, as all the days had lately been. In +about an hour I arrived at Port Dyn Norwig: it stood on the right side of +the road. The name of this place, which I had heard from the coachman +who drove my family and me to Caernarvon and Llanberis a few days before, +had excited my curiosity in respect to it, as it signifies the Port of +the Norway man, so I now turned aside to examine it. “No doubt,” said I +to myself, “the place derives its name from the piratical Danes and Norse +having resorted to it in the old time.” Port Dyn Norwig seems to consist +of a creek, a staithe, and about a hundred houses: a few small vessels +were lying at the staithe. I stood about ten minutes upon it staring +about, and then feeling rather oppressed by the heat of the sun, I bent +my way to a small house which bore a sign, and from which a loud noise of +voices proceeded. “Have you good ale?” said I in English to a +good-looking buxom dame, of about forty, whom I saw in the passage. + +She looked at me but returned no answer. + +“Oes genoch cwrw da?” said I. + +“Oes!” she replied with a smile, and opening the door of a room on the +left-hand bade me walk in. + +I entered the room; six or seven men, seemingly sea-faring people, were +seated drinking and talking vociferously in Welsh. Their conversation +was about the sea-serpent; some believed in the existence of such a +thing, others did not—after a little time one said, “Let us ask this +gentleman for his opinion.” + +“And what would be the use of asking him?” said another, “we have only +Cumraeg, and he has only Saesneg.” + +“I have a little broken Cumraeg, at the service of this good company,” +said I. “With respect to the snake of the sea I beg leave to say that I +believe in the existence of such a creature; and am surprised that any +people in these parts should not believe in it; why, the sea-serpent has +been seen in these parts.” + +“When was that, Gwr Bonneddig?” said one of the company. + +“About fifty years ago,” said I. “Once in October, in the year 1805, as +a small vessel of the Traeth was upon the Menai, sailing very slowly, the +weather being very calm, the people on board saw a strange creature like +an immense worm swimming after them. It soon overtook them, climbed on +board through the tiller-hole, and coiled itself on the deck under the +mast—the people at first were dreadfully frightened, but taking courage +they attacked it with an oar and drove it overboard; it followed the +vessel for some time but a breeze springing up they lost sight of it.” + +“And how did you learn this?” said the last who had addressed me. + +“I read the story,” said I, “in a pure Welsh book called the _Greal_.” + +“I now remember hearing the same thing,” said an old man, “when I was a +boy; it had slipped out of my memory, but now I remember all about it. +The ship was called the _Robert Ellis_. Are you of these parts, +gentleman?” + +“No,” said I, “I am not of these parts.” + +“Then you are of South Wales—indeed your Welsh is very different from +ours.” + +“I am not of South Wales,” said I, “I am the seed not of the sea-snake +but of the coiling serpent, for so one of the old Welsh poets called the +Saxons.” + +“But how did you learn Welsh?” said the old man. + +“I learned it by the grammar,” said I, “a long time ago.” + +“Ah, you learnt it by the grammar,” said the old man; “that accounts for +your Welsh being different from ours. We did not learn our Welsh by the +grammar—your Welsh is different from ours, and of course better, being +the Welsh of the grammar. Ah, it is a fine thing to be a grammarian.” + +“Yes, it is a fine thing to be a grammarian,” cried the rest of the +company, and I observed that everybody now regarded me with a kind of +respect. + +A jug of ale which the hostess had brought me had been standing before me +some time. I now tasted it and found it very good. Whilst dispatching +it, I asked various questions about the old Danes, the reason why the +place was called the port of the Norwegian, and about its trade. The +good folks knew nothing about the old Danes, and as little as to the +reason of its being called the port of the Norwegian—but they said that +besides that name it bore that of Melin Heli, or the mill of the salt +pool, and that slates were exported from thence, which came from quarries +close by. + +Having finished my ale I bade the company adieu and quitted Port Dyn +Norwig, one of the most thoroughly Welsh places I had seen, for during +the whole time I was in it, I heard no words of English uttered, except +the two or three spoken by myself. In about an hour I reached +Caernarvon. + +The road from Bangor to Caernarvon is very good and the scenery +interesting—fine hills border it on the left, or south-east, and on the +right at some distance is the Menai with Anglesey beyond it. Not far +from Caernarvon a sandbank commences, extending for miles up the Menai, +towards Bangor, and dividing the strait into two. + +I went to the Castle Inn which fronts the square or market-place, and +being shown into a room ordered some brandy-and-water, and sat down. Two +young men were seated in the room. I spoke to them and received civil +answers, at which I was rather astonished, as I found by the tone of +their voices that they were English. The air of one was far superior to +that of the other, and with him I was soon in conversation. In the +course of discourse he informed me that being a martyr to ill-health he +had come from London to Wales, hoping that change of air, and exercise on +the Welsh hills, would afford him relief, and that his friend had been +kind enough to accompany him. That he had been about three weeks in +Wales, had taken all the exercise that he could, but that he was still +very unwell, slept little and had no appetite. I told him not to be +discouraged, but to proceed in the course which he had adopted till the +end of the summer, by which time I thought it very probable that he would +be restored to his health, as he was still young. At these words of mine +a beam of hope brightened his countenance, and he said he had no other +wish than to regain his health, and that if he did he should be the +happiest of men. The intense wish of the poor young man for health +caused me to think how insensible I had hitherto been to the possession +of the greatest of all terrestrial blessings. I had always had the +health of an elephant, but I never remember to have been sensible to the +magnitude of the blessing or in the slightest degree grateful to the God +who gave it. I shuddered to think how I should feel if suddenly deprived +of my health. Far worse, no doubt, than that poor invalid. He was +young, and in youth there is hope—but I was no longer young. At last, +however, I thought that if God took away my health He might so far alter +my mind that I might be happy even without health, or the prospect of it; +and that reflection made me quite comfortable. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + + +National School—The Young Preacher—Pont Bettws—Spanish Words—Two Tongues, +Two Faces—The Elephant’s Snout—Llyn Cwellyn—The Snowdon Ranger—My +House—Castell y Cidwm—Descent to Bethgelert. + +It might be about three o’clock in the afternoon when I left Caernarvon +for Bethgelert, distant about thirteen miles. I journeyed through a +beautiful country of hill and dale, woods and meadows, the whole gilded +by abundance of sunshine. After walking about an hour without +intermission I reached a village, and asked a man the name of it. + +“Llan— something,” he replied. + +As he was standing before a long building, through the open door of which +a sound proceeded like that of preaching, I asked him what place it was, +and what was going on in it, and received for answer that it was the +National School, and that there was a clergyman preaching in it. I then +asked if the clergyman was of the Church, and on learning that he was, I +forthwith entered the building, where in one end of a long room I saw a +young man in a white surplice preaching from a desk to about thirty or +forty people, who were seated on benches before him. I sat down and +listened. The young man preached with great zeal and fluency. The +sermon was a very seasonable one, being about the harvest, and in it +things temporal and spiritual were very happily blended. The part of the +sermon which I heard—I regretted that I did not hear the whole—lasted +about five-and-twenty minutes: a hymn followed, and then the congregation +broke up. I inquired the name of the young man who preached, and was +told that it was Edwards, and that he came from Caernarvon. The name of +the incumbent of the parish was Thomas. + +Leaving the village of the harvest sermon, I proceeded on my way, which +lay to the south-east. I was now drawing nigh to the mountainous +district of Eryri—a noble hill called Mount Eilio appeared before me to +the north; an immense mountain called Pen Drws Coed lay over against it +on the south, just like a couchant elephant, with its head lower than the +top of its back. After a time, I entered a most beautiful sunny valley, +and presently came to a bridge over a pleasant stream running in the +direction of the south. As I stood upon that bridge, I almost fancied +myself in paradise; everything looked so beautiful or grand—green, sunny +meadows lay all around me, intersected by the brook, the waters of which +ran with tinkling laughter over a shingley bottom. Noble Eilio to the +north; enormous Pen Drws Coed to the south; a tall mountain far beyond +them to the east. “I never was in such a lovely spot!” I cried to myself +in a perfect rapture. “O, how glad I should be to learn the name of this +bridge, standing on which I have had ‘heaven opened to me,’ as my old +friends the Spaniards used to say.” Scarcely had I said these words, +when I observed a man and a woman coming towards the bridge from the +direction in which I was bound. I hastened to meet them, in the hope of +obtaining information; they were both rather young, and were probably a +couple of sweethearts taking a walk, or returning from meeting. The +woman was a few steps in advance of the man; seeing that I was about to +address her, she averted her head and quickened her steps, and before I +had completed the question, which I put to her in Welsh, she had bolted +past me screaming, “Ah Dim Saesneg,” and was several yards distant. + +I then addressed myself to the man, who had stopped, asking him the name +of the bridge. + +“Pont Bettws,” he replied. + +“And what may be the name of the river?” said I. + +“Afon — something,” said he. + +And on my thanking him, he went forward to the woman, who was waiting for +him by the bridge. + +“Is that man Welsh or English?” I heard her say when he had rejoined her. + +“I don’t know,” said the man—“he was civil enough; why were you such a +fool?” + +“O, I thought he would speak to me in English,” said the woman, “and the +thought of that horrid English puts me into such a flutter; you know I +can’t speak a word of it.” + +They proceeded on their way, and I proceeded on mine, and presently +coming to a little inn on the left side of the way, at the entrance of a +village, I went in. + +A respectable-looking man and woman were seated at tea at a table in a +nice clean kitchen. I sat down on a chair near the table, and called for +ale—the ale was brought me in a jug—I drank some, put the jug on the +table, and began to discourse with the people in Welsh—a handsome dog was +seated on the ground; suddenly it laid one of its paws on its master’s +knee. + +“Down, Perro,” said he. + +“Perro!” said I; “why do you call the dog Perro?” + +“We call him Perro,” said the man, “because his name is Perro.” + +“But how came you to give him that name?” said I. + +“We did not give it to him,” said the man—“he bore that name when he came +into our hands; a farmer gave him to us when he was very young, and told +us his name was Perro.” + +“And how came the farmer to call him Perro?” said I. + +“I don’t know,” said the man—“why do you ask?” + +“Perro,” said I, “is a Spanish word, and signifies a dog in general. I +am rather surprised that a dog in the mountains of Wales should be called +by the Spanish word for dog.” I fell into a fit of musing. “How Spanish +words are diffused! Wherever you go you will find some Spanish word or +other in use. I have heard Spanish words used by Russian mujiks, and +Turkish fig-gatherers—I have this day heard a Spanish word in the +mountains of Wales, and I have no doubt that were I to go to Iceland I +should find Spanish words used there. How can I doubt it? when I reflect +that more than six hundred years ago, one of the words to denote a bad +woman was Spanish. In the oldest of Icelandic domestic sagas, +Skarphedin, the son of Nial the seer, called Hallgerdr, widow of Gunnar, +a puta—and that word so maddened Hallgerdr, that she never rested till +she had brought about his destruction. Now, why this preference +everywhere for Spanish words, over those of every other language? I +never heard French words or German words used by Russian mujiks and +Turkish fig-gatherers. I question whether I should find any in Iceland +forming part of the vernacular. I certainly never found a French or even +a German word in an old Icelandic saga. Why this partiality everywhere +for Spanish words? the question is puzzling; at any rate it puts me out—” + +“Yes, it puts me out!” I exclaimed aloud, striking my fist on the table +with a vehemence which caused the good folks to start half up from their +seats—before they could say anything, however, a vehicle drove up to the +door, and a man, getting out, came into the room. He had a glazed hat on +his head, and was dressed something like the guard of a mail. He touched +his hat to me, and called for a glass of whiskey. I gave him the sele of +the evening, and entered into conversation with him in English. In the +course of discourse I learned that he was the postman, and was going his +rounds in his cart—he was more than respectful to me, he was fawning and +sycophantic. The whiskey was brought, and he stood with the glass in his +hand. Suddenly he began speaking Welsh to the people; before, however, +he had uttered two sentences, the woman lifted her hands with an alarmed +air, crying “Hush! he understands.” The fellow was turning me to +ridicule. I flung my head back, closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and +laughed aloud. The fellow stood aghast; his hand trembled, and he spilt +the greater part of the whiskey upon the ground. At the end of about +half-a-minute I got up, asked what I had to pay, and on being told two +pence, I put down the money. Then going up to the man, I put my right +fore-finger very near to his nose, and said, “Dwy o iaith dwy o wyneb; +two languages, two faces, friend!” Then after leering at him for a +moment, I wished the people of the house good evening, and departed. + +Walking rapidly on towards the east, I soon drew near the termination of +the valley. The valley terminates in a deep gorge, or pass, between +Mount Eilio—which, by the bye, is part of the chine of Snowdon—and Pen +Drws Coed. The latter, that couchant elephant with its head turned to +the north-east, seems as if it wished to bar the pass with its trunk; by +its trunk I mean a kind of jaggy ridge which descends down to the road. +I entered the gorge, passing near a little waterfall which with much +noise runs down the precipitous side of Mount Eilio—presently I came to a +little mill by the side of a brook running towards the east. I asked the +miller-woman, who was standing near the mill, with her head turned +towards the setting sun, the name of the mill and the stream. “The mill +is called the mill of the river of Lake Cwellyn,” said she, “and the +river is called the river of Lake Cwellyn.” + +“And who owns the land?” said I. + +“Sir Richard,” said she. “I Sir Richard yw yn perthyn y tîr. Mr. +Williams, however, possesses some part of Mount Eilio.” + +“And who is Mr. Williams?” said I. + +“Who is Mr. Williams?” said the miller’s wife. “Ho, ho! what a stranger +you must be to ask me who is Mr. Williams.” + +I smiled and passed on. The mill was below the level of the road, and +its wheel was turned by the water of a little conduit supplied by the +brook at some distance above the mill. I had observed similar conduits +employed for similar purposes in Cornwall. A little below the mill was a +weir, and a little below the weir the river ran frothing past the extreme +end of the elephant’s snout. Following the course of the river, I at +last emerged with it from the pass into a valley surrounded by enormous +mountains. Extending along it from west to east, and occupying its +entire southern part, lay an oblong piece of water, into which the +streamlet of the pass discharged itself. This was one of the many +beautiful lakes, which a few days before I had seen from the Wyddfa. As +for the Wyddfa, I now beheld it high above me in the north-east, looking +very grand indeed, shining like a silver helmet whilst catching the +glories of the setting sun. + +I proceeded slowly along the road, the lake below me on my right hand, +whilst the shelvy side of Snowdon rose above me on the left. The evening +was calm and still, and no noise came upon my ear save the sound of a +cascade falling into the lake from a black mountain, which frowned above +it on the south, and cast a gloomy shadow far over it. + +This cataract was in the neighbourhood of a singular-looking rock, +projecting above the lake from the mountain’s side. I wandered a +considerable way without meeting or seeing a single human being. At +last, when I had nearly gained the eastern end of the valley, I saw two +men seated on the side of the hill, on the verge of the road, in the +vicinity of a house which stood a little way up the hill. The lake here +was much wider than I had hitherto seen it, for the huge mountain on the +south had terminated, and the lake expanded considerably in that quarter, +having instead of the black mountain a beautiful hill beyond it. + +I quickened my steps, and soon came up to the two individuals. One was +an elderly man, dressed in a smock frock, and with a hairy cap on his +head. The other was much younger, wore a hat, and was dressed in a +coarse suit of blue, nearly new, and doubtless his Sunday’s best. He was +smoking a pipe. I greeted them in English, and sat down near them. They +responded in the same language, the younger man with considerable +civility and briskness, the other in a tone of voice denoting some +reserve. + +“May I ask the name of this lake?” said I, addressing myself to the young +man, who sat between me and the elderly one. + +“Its name is Llyn Cwellyn, sir,” said he, taking the pipe out of his +mouth. “And a fine lake it is.” + +“Plenty of fish in it?” I demanded. + +“Plenty, sir; plenty of trout and pike and char.” + +“Is it deep?” said I. + +“Near the shore it is shallow, sir, but in the middle and near the other +side it is deep, so deep that no one knows how deep it is.” + +“What is the name,” said I, “of the great black mountain there on the +other side?” + +“It is called Mynydd Mawr, or the Great Mountain. Yonder rock, which +bulks out from it, down the lake yonder, and which you passed as you came +along, is called Castell Cidwm, which means Wolf’s rock or castle.” + +“Did a wolf ever live there?” I demanded. + +“Perhaps so,” said the man, “for I have heard say that there were wolves +of old in Wales.” + +“And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us across the +water?” + +“That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed,” said the man. + +“The stone heap of the gate of the wood,” said I. + +“Are you Welsh, sir?” said the man. + +“No,” said I, “but I know something of the language of Wales. I suppose +you live in that house?” + +“Not exactly, sir; my father-in-law here lives in that house, and my wife +with him. I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at my mine, but +every Sunday I come here, and pass the day with my wife and him.” + +“And what profession does he follow?” said I; “is he a fisherman?” + +“Fisherman!” said the elderly man contemptuously, “not I. I am the +Snowdon Ranger.” + +“And what is that?” said I. + +The elderly man tossed his head proudly, and made no reply. + +“A ranger means a guide, sir,” said the younger man—“my father-in-law is +generally termed the Snowdon Ranger because he is a tip-top guide, and he +has named the house after him the Snowdon Ranger. He entertains +gentlemen in it who put themselves under his guidance in order to ascend +Snowdon and to see the country.” + +“There is some difference in your professions,” said I; “he deals in +heights, you in depths; both, however, are break-necky trades.” + +“I run more risk from gunpowder than anything else,” said the younger +man. “I am a slate-miner, and am continually blasting. I have, however, +had my falls. Are you going far to-night, sir?” + +“I am going to Bethgelert,” said I. + +“A good six miles, sir, from here. Do you come from Caernarvon?” + +“Farther than that,” said I. “I come from Bangor.” + +“To-day, sir, and walking?” + +“To-day, and walking.” + +“You must be rather tired, sir; you came along the valley very slowly.” + +“I am not in the slightest degree tired,” said I; “when I start from +here, I shall put on my best pace, and soon get to Bethgelert.” + +“Anybody can get along over level ground,” said the old man, laconically. + +“Not with equal swiftness,” said I. “I do assure you, friend, to be able +to move at a good swinging pace over level ground is something not to be +sneezed at. Not,” said I, lifting up my voice, “that I would for a +moment compare walking on the level ground to mountain ranging, pacing +along the road to springing up crags like a mountain goat, or assert that +even Powell himself, the first of all road walkers, was entitled to so +bright a wreath of fame as the Snowdon Ranger.” + +“Won’t you walk in, sir?” said the elderly man. + +“No, I thank you,” said I; “I prefer sitting out here, gazing on the lake +and the noble mountains.” + +“I wish you would, sir,” said the elderly man, “and take a glass of +something; I will charge you nothing.” + +“Thank you,” said I—“I am in want of nothing, and shall presently start. +Do many people ascend Snowdon from your house?” + +“Not so many as I could wish,” said the ranger; “people in general prefer +ascending Snowdon from that trumpery place Bethgelert; but those who do +are fools—begging your honour’s pardon. The place to ascend Snowdon from +is my house. The way from my house up Snowdon is wonderful for the +romantic scenery which it affords; that from Bethgelert can’t be named in +the same day with it for scenery; moreover, from my house you may have +the best guide in Wales; whereas the guides of Bethgelert—but I say +nothing. If your honour is bound for the Wyddfa, as I suppose you are, +you had better start from my house to-morrow under my guidance.” + +“I have already been up the Wyddfa from Llanberis,” said I, “and am now +going through Bethgelert to Llangollen, where my family are; were I going +up Snowdon again, I should most certainly start from your house under +your guidance, and were I not in a hurry at present, I would certainly +take up my quarters here for a week, and every day make excursions with +you into the recesses of Eryri. I suppose you are acquainted with all +the secrets of the hills?” + +“Trust the old ranger for that, your honour. I would show your honour +the black lake in the frightful hollow, in which the fishes have +monstrous heads and little bodies, the lake on which neither swan, duck +nor any kind of wildfowl was ever seen to light. Then I would show your +honour the fountain of the hopping creatures, where, where—” + +“Were you ever at that Wolf’s crag, that Castell y Cidwm?” said I. + +“Can’t say I ever was, your honour. You see it lies so close by, just +across the lake, that—” + +“You thought you could see it any day, and so never went,” said I. “Can +you tell me whether there are any ruins upon it?” + +“I can’t, your honour.” + +“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if in old times it was the stronghold of +some robber-chieftain; cidwm in the old Welsh is frequently applied to a +ferocious man. Castell Cidwm, I should think, rather ought to be +translated the robber’s castle, than the wolf’s rock. If I ever come +into these parts again, you and I will visit it together, and see what +kind of a place it is. Now farewell! It is getting late.” I then +departed. + +“What a nice gentleman!” said the younger man, when I was a few yards +distant. + +“I never saw a nicer gentleman,” said the old ranger. + +I sped along, Snowdon on my left, the lake on my right, and the tip of a +mountain peak right before me in the east. After a little time I looked +back; what a scene! The silver lake and the shadowy mountain over its +southern side looking now, methought, very much like Gibraltar. I +lingered and lingered, gazing and gazing, and at last only by an effort +tore myself away. The evening had now become delightfully cool in this +land of wonders. On I sped, passing by two noisy brooks coming from +Snowdon to pay tribute to the lake. And now I had left the lake and the +valley behind, and was ascending a hill. As I gained its summit, up rose +the moon to cheer my way. In a little time, a wild stony gorge +confronted me, a stream ran down the gorge with hollow roar, a bridge lay +across it. I asked a figure whom I saw standing by the bridge the +place’s name. “Rhyd du”—the black ford—I crossed the bridge. The voice +of the Methodist was yelling from a little chapel on my left. I went to +the door and listened: “When the sinner takes hold of God, God takes hold +of the sinner.” The voice was frightfully hoarse. I passed on; night +fell fast around me, and the mountain to the south-east, towards which I +was tending, looked blackly grand. And now I came to a milestone, on +which I read with difficulty: “Three miles to Bethgelert.” The way for +some time had been upward, but now it was downward. I reached a torrent, +which, coming from the north-west, rushed under a bridge, over which I +passed. The torrent attended me on my right hand the whole way to +Bethgelert. The descent now became very rapid. I passed a pine wood on +my left, and proceeded for more than two miles at a tremendous rate. I +then came to a wood—this wood was just above Bethgelert—proceeding in the +direction of a black mountain, I found myself amongst houses, at the +bottom of a valley. I passed over a bridge, and inquiring of some +people, whom I met, the way to the inn, was shown an edifice brilliantly +lighted up, which I entered. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + + +Inn at Bethgelert—Delectable Company—Lieutenant P—. + +The inn, or hotel, at Bethgelert, was a large and commodious building, +and was anything but thronged with company; what company, however, there +was, was disagreeable enough, perhaps more so than that in which I had +been the preceding evening, which was composed of the scum of Manchester +and Liverpool; the company amongst which I now was consisted of some +seven or eight individuals, two of them were military puppies, one a +tallish fellow, who, though evidently upwards of thirty, affected the +airs of a languishing girl, and would fain have made people believe that +he was dying of ennui and lassitude. The other was a short spuddy +fellow, with a broad, ugly face, and with spectacles on his nose, who +talked very consequentially about “the service” and all that, but whose +tone of voice was coarse, and his manner that of an under-bred person; +then there was an old fellow about sixty-five, a civilian, with a red, +carbuncled face; he was father of the spuddy military puppy, on whom he +occasionally cast eyes of pride and almost adoration, and whose sayings +he much applauded, especially certain double entendres, to call them by +no harsher term, directed to a fat girl, weighing some fifteen stone, who +officiated in the coffee-room as waiter. Then there was a creature to do +justice to whose appearance would require the pencil of a Hogarth. He +was about five feet three inches and a quarter high, and might have +weighed, always provided a stone weight had been attached to him, about +half as much as the fat girl. His countenance was cadaverous, and was +eternally agitated, by something between a grin and a simper. He was +dressed in a style of superfine gentility, and his skeleton fingers were +bedizened with tawdry rings. His conversation was chiefly about his bile +and his secretions, the efficacy of licorice in producing a certain +effect, and the expediency of changing one’s linen at least three times a +day; though had he changed his six I should have said that the +purification of the last shirt would have been no sinecure to the +laundress. His accent was decidedly Scotch: he spoke familiarly of +Scott, and one or two other Scotch worthies, and more than once +insinuated that he was a member of Parliament. With respect to the rest +of the company I say nothing, and for the very sufficient reason that, +unlike the above described batch, they did not seem disposed to be +impertinent towards me. + +Eager to get out of such society, I retired early to bed. As I left the +room the diminutive Scotch individual was describing to the old +simpleton, who, on the ground of the other’s being a “member,” was +listening to him with extreme attention, how he was labouring under an +excess of bile, owing to his having left his licorice somewhere or other. +I passed a quiet night, and in the morning breakfasted, paid my bill, and +departed. As I went out of the coffee-room, the spuddy, broad-faced +military puppy with spectacles was vociferating to the languishing +military puppy, and to his old simpleton of a father, who was listening +to him with his usual look of undisguised admiration, about the absolute +necessity of kicking Lieutenant P— out of the army for having disgraced +“the service.” Poor P—, whose only crime was trying to defend himself +with fist and candlestick from the manual attacks of his brutal +messmates. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + + +The Valley of Gelert—Legend of the Dog—Magnificent Scenery—The +Knicht—Goats in Wales—The Frightful Crag—Temperance House—Smile and +Curtsey. + +Bethgelert is situated in a valley surrounded by huge hills, the most +remarkable of which are Moel Hebog and Cerrig Llan; the former fences it +on the south, and the latter, which is quite black and nearly +perpendicular, on the east. A small stream rushes through the valley, +and sallies forth by a pass at its south-eastern end. The valley is said +by some to derive its name of Beddgelert, which signifies the grave of +Celert, from being the burial-place of Celert, a British saint of the +sixth century, to whom Llangeler in Carmarthenshire is believed to have +been consecrated; but the popular and most universally received tradition +is that it has its name from being the resting-place of a faithful dog +called Celert, or Gelert, killed by his master, the warlike and +celebrated Llywelyn ab Jorwerth, from an unlucky misapprehension. Though +the legend is known to most people, I shall take the liberty of relating +it. + +Llywelyn, during his contests with the English, had encamped with a few +followers in the valley, and one day departed with his men on an +expedition, leaving his infant son in a cradle in his tent, under the +care of his hound Gelert, after giving the child its fill of goat’s milk. +Whilst he was absent, a wolf from the neighbouring mountains, in quest of +prey, found its way into the tent, and was about to devour the child, +when the watchful dog interfered, and after a desperate conflict, in +which the tent was torn down, succeeded in destroying the monster. +Llywelyn, returning at evening, found the tent on the ground, and the +dog, covered with blood, sitting beside it. Imagining that the blood +with which Gelert was besmeared was that of his own son, devoured by the +animal to whose care he had confided him, Llywelyn, in a paroxysm of +natural indignation, forthwith transfixed the faithful creature with his +spear. Scarcely, however, had he done so, when his ears were startled by +the cry of a child from beneath the fallen tent, and hastily removing the +canvas, he found the child in its cradle quite uninjured, and the body of +an enormous wolf, frightfully torn and mangled, lying near. His breast +was now filled with conflicting emotions; joy for the preservation of his +son, and grief for the fate of his dog, to whom he forthwith hastened. +The poor animal was not quite dead, but presently expired, in the act of +licking its master’s hand. Llywelyn mourned over him as over a brother, +buried him with funeral honours in the valley, and erected a tomb over +him as over a hero. From that time the valley was called Bethgelert. + +Such is the legend, which, whether true or fictitious, is singularly +beautiful and affecting. + +The tomb, or what is said to be the tomb, of Gelert, stands in a +beautiful meadow just below the precipitous side of Cerrig Llan; it +consists of a large slab lying on its side, and two upright stones. It +is shaded by a weeping willow, and is surrounded by a hexagonal paling. +Who is there acquainted with the legend, whether he believes that the dog +lies beneath those stones or not, can visit them without exclaiming, with +a sigh, “Poor Gelert!” + +After wandering about the valley for some time, and seeing a few of its +wonders, I inquired my way for Festiniog, and set off for that place. +The way to it is through the pass at the south-east end of the valley. +Arrived at the entrance of the pass, I turned round to look at the +scenery I was leaving behind me; the view which presented itself to my +eyes was very grand and beautiful. Before me lay the meadow of Gelert, +with the river flowing through it towards the pass. Beyond the meadow +the Snowdon range; on the right the mighty Cerrig Llan; on the left the +equally mighty, but not quite so precipitous, Hebog. Truly, the valley +of Gelert is a wondrous valley—rivalling for grandeur and beauty any vale +either in the Alps or Pyrenees. After a long and earnest view, I turned +round again, and proceeded on my way. + +Presently I came to a bridge bestriding the stream, which a man told me +was called Pont Aber Glâs Lyn, or the bridge of the debouchement of the +grey lake. I soon emerged from the pass, and after proceeding some way, +stopped again to admire the scenery. To the west was the Wyddfa; full +north was a stupendous range of rocks; behind them a conical peak, +seemingly rivalling the Wyddfa itself in altitude; between the rocks and +the road, where I stood, was beautiful forest scenery. I again went on, +going round the side of a hill by a gentle ascent. After a little time I +again stopped to look about me. There was the rich forest scenery to the +north, behind it were the rocks, and behind the rocks rose the wonderful +conical hill impaling heaven; confronting it to the south-east was a huge +lumpish hill. As I stood looking about me, I saw a man coming across a +field which sloped down to the road from a small house. He presently +reached me, stopped and smiled. A more open countenance than his I never +saw in all the days of my life. + +“Dydd dachwi, sir,” said the man of the open countenance, “the weather is +very showy.” + +“Very showy, indeed,” said I; “I was just now wishing for somebody, of +whom I might ask a question or two.” + +“Perhaps I can answer those questions, sir?” + +“Perhaps you can. What is the name of that wonderful peak sticking up +behind the rocks to the north?” + +“Many people have asked that question, sir, and I have given them the +answer which I now give you. It is called the ‘Knicht,’ sir; and a +wondrous hill it is.” + +“And what is the name of yonder hill opposite to it, to the south, rising +like one big lump?” + +“I do not know the name of that hill, sir, farther than that I have heard +it called the Great Hill.” + +“And a very good name for it,” said I; “do you live in that house?” + +“I do, sir, when I am at home.” + +“And what occupation do you follow?” + +“I am a farmer, though a small one.” + +“Is your farm your own?” + +“It is not, sir; I am not so far rich.” + +“Who is your landlord?” + +“Mr. Blicklin, sir. He is my landlord.” + +“Is he a good landlord?” + +“Very good, sir; no one can wish for a better landlord.” + +“Has he a wife?” + +“In truth, sir, he has; and a very good wife she is.” + +“Has he children?” + +“Plenty, sir; and very fine children they are.” + +“Is he Welsh?” + +“He is, sir! Cumro pur iawn.” + +“Farewell,” said I; “I shall never forget you; you are the first tenant I +ever heard speak well of his landlord, or any one connected with him.” + +“Then you have not spoken to the other tenants of Mr. Blicklin, sir. +Every tenant of Mr. Blicklin would say the same of him as I have said, +and of his wife and his children too. Good day, sir!” + +I wended on my way; the sun was very powerful; saw cattle in a pool on my +right, maddened with heat and flies, splashing and fighting. Presently I +found myself with extensive meadows on my right, and a wall of rocks on +my left, on a lofty bank below which I saw goats feeding; beautiful +creatures they were, white and black, with long, silky hair, and long, +upright horns. They were of large size, and very different in appearance +from the common race. These were the first goats which I had seen in +Wales; for Wales is not at present the land of goats, whatever it may +have been. + +I passed under a crag, exceedingly lofty, and of very frightful +appearance. It hung menacingly over the road. With this crag the wall +of rocks terminated; beyond it lay an extensive strath, meadow, or marsh, +bounded on the east by a lofty hill. The road lay across the marsh. I +went forward, crossed a bridge over a beautiful streamlet, and soon +arrived at the foot of the hill. The road now took a turn to the right, +that is, to the south, and seemed to lead round the hill. Just at the +turn of the road stood a small, neat cottage. There was a board over the +door with an inscription. I drew nigh and looked at it, expecting that +it would tell me that good ale was sold within, and read “Tea made here, +the draught which cheers but not inebriates.” I was before what is +generally termed a temperance house. + +“The bill of fare does not tempt you, sir,” said a woman, who made her +appearance at the door, just as I was about to turn away with an +exceedingly wry face. + +“It does not,” said I, “and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to have +nothing better to offer a traveller than a cup of tea. I am faint; and I +want good ale to give me heart, not wishy-washy tea to take away the +little strength I have.” + +“What would you have me do, sir? Glad should I be to have a cup of ale +to offer you, but the magistrates, when I applied to them for a license, +refused me one; so I am compelled to make a cup of tea in order to get a +crust of bread. And if you choose to step in, I will make you a cup of +tea, not wishy-washy, I assure you, but as good as ever was brewed.” + +“I had tea for my breakfast at Bethgelert,” said I, “and want no more +till to-morrow morning. What’s the name of that strange-looking crag +across the valley?” + +“We call it Craig yr hyll ddrem, sir; which means— I don’t know what it +means in English.” + +“Does it mean the Crag of the frightful look?” + +“It does, sir,” said the woman; “ah, I see you understand Welsh. +Sometimes it is called Allt Traeth.” + +“The high place of the sandy channel,” said I. “Did the sea ever come up +here?” + +“I can’t say, sir; perhaps it did; who knows?” + +“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if there was once an arm of the sea +between that crag and this hill. Thank you! Farewell!” + +“Then you won’t walk in, sir?” + +“Not to drink tea,” said I; “tea is a good thing at a proper time, but +were I to drink it now it would make me ill.” + +“Pray, sir, walk in,” said the woman, “and perhaps I can accommodate +you.” + +“Then you have ale?” said I. + +“No, sir; not a drop; but perhaps I can set something before you which +you will like as well.” + +“That I question,” said I; “however, I will walk in.” + +The woman conducted me into a nice little parlour, and, leaving me, +presently returned with a bottle and tumbler on a tray. + +“Here, sir,” said she, “is something which, though not ale, I hope you +will be able to drink.” + +“What is it?” said I. + +“It is—, sir; and better never was drunk.” + +I tasted it; it was terribly strong. Those who wish for either whiskey +or brandy far above proof should always go to a temperance house. + +I told the woman to bring me some water, and she brought me a jug of +water cold from the spring. With a little of the contents of the bottle, +and a deal of the contents of the jug, I made myself a beverage tolerable +enough; a poor substitute, however, to a genuine Englishman for his +proper drink, the liquor which, according to the Edda, is called by men +ale, and by the gods, beer. + +I asked the woman whether she could read; she told me that she could, +both Welsh and English; she likewise informed me that she had several +books in both languages. I begged her to show me some, whereupon she +brought me some half-dozen, and placing them on the table, left me to +myself. Amongst the books was a volume of poems in Welsh, written by +Robert Williams of Betws Fawr, styled in poetic language, Gwilym Du O +Eifion. The poems were chiefly on religious subjects. The following +lines, which I copied from “Pethau a wnaed mewn Gardd,” or things written +in a garden, appeared to me singularly beautiful:— + + “Mewn gardd y cafodd dyn ei dwyllo; + Mewn gardd y rhoed oddewid iddo; + Mewn gardd bradychwyd Iesu hawddgar; + Mewn gardd amdowyd ef mewn daeār.” + + “In a garden the first of our race was deceived; + In a garden the promise of grace he received; + In a garden was Jesus betray’d to His doom; + In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.” + +Having finished my glass of “summut” and my translation, I called to the +woman and asked her what I had to pay. + +“Nothing,” said she; “if you had had a cup of tea I should have charged +sixpence.” + +“You make no charge,” said I, “for what I have had.” + +“Nothing, sir; nothing.” + +“But suppose,” said I, “I were to give you something by way of present, +would you—” and here I stopped. + +The woman smiled. + +“Would you fling it in my face?” said I. + +“O dear, no, sir,” said the woman, smiling more than before. + +I gave her something—it was not a sixpence—at which she not only smiled, +but curtseyed; then bidding her farewell I went out of the door. + +I was about to take the broad road, which led round the hill, when she +inquired of me where I was going, and on my telling her to Festiniog, she +advised me to go by a by-road behind the house, which led over the hill. + +“If you do, sir,” said she, “you will see some of the finest prospects in +Wales, get into the high road again, and save a mile and a half of way.” + +I told the temperance woman I would follow her advice, whereupon she led +me behind the house, pointed to a rugged path, which with a considerable +ascent seemed to lead towards the north, and after, giving certain +directions, not very intelligible, returned to her temperance temple. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + + +Spanish Proverb—The Short Cut—Predestination—Rhys Goch—Old +Crusty—Undercharging—The Cavalier. + +The Spaniards have a proverb: “No hay atajo sin trabajo,” there is no +short cut without a deal of labour. This proverb is very true, as I know +by my own experience, for I never took a short cut in my life, and I have +taken many in my wanderings, without falling down, getting into a slough, +or losing my way. On the present occasion I lost my way, and wandered +about for nearly two hours amidst rocks, thickets, and precipices, +without being able to find it. The temperance woman, however, spoke +nothing but the truth, when she said I should see some fine scenery. +From a rock I obtained a wonderful view of the Wyddfa towering in sublime +grandeur in the west, and of the beautiful, but spectral, Knicht shooting +up high in the north; and from the top of a bare hill I obtained a +prospect to the south, noble indeed—waters, forests, hoary mountains, and +in the far distance the sea. But all these fine prospects were a poor +compensation for what I underwent: I was scorched by the sun, which was +insufferably hot, and my feet were bleeding from the sharp points of the +rocks, which cut through my boots like razors. At length, coming to a +stone wall, I flung myself down under it, and almost thought that I +should give up the ghost. After some time, however, I recovered, and, +getting up, tried to find my way out of the anialwch. Sheer good fortune +caused me to stumble upon a path, by following which I came to a lone +farm-house, where a good-natured woman gave me certain directions, by +means of which I at last got out of the hot, stony wilderness—for such it +was—upon a smooth, royal road. + +“Trust me again taking any short cuts,” said I, “after the specimen I +have just had.” This, however, I had frequently said before, and have +said since after taking short cuts—and probably shall often say again +before I come to my great journey’s end. + +I turned to the east, which I knew to be my proper direction, and being +now on smooth ground, put my legs to their best speed. The road by a +rapid descent conducted me to a beautiful valley, with a small town at +its southern end. I soon reached the town, and on inquiring its name, +found I was in Tan y Bwlch, which interpreted signifieth “Below the +Pass.” Feeling much exhausted, I entered the Grapes Inn. + +On my calling for brandy-and-water, I was shown into a handsome parlour. +The brandy-and-water soon restored the vigour which I had lost in the +wilderness. In the parlour was a serious-looking gentleman, with a glass +of something before him. With him, as I sipped my brandy-and-water, I +got into discourse. The discourse soon took a religious turn, and +terminated in a dispute. He told me he believed in Divine +predestination; I told him I did not, but that I believed in divine +prescience. He asked me whether I hoped to be saved; I told him I did, +and asked him whether he hoped to be saved. He told me he did not, and +as he said so, he tapped with a silver tea-spoon on the rim of his glass. +I said that he seemed to take very coolly the prospect of damnation; he +replied that it was of no use taking what was inevitable otherwise than +coolly. I asked him on what ground he imagined he should be lost; he +replied on the ground of being predestined to be lost. I asked him how +he knew he was predestined to be lost; whereupon he asked me how I knew I +was to be saved; I told him I did not know I was to be saved, but trusted +I should be so by belief in Christ, who came into the world to save +sinners, and that if he believed in Christ he might be as easily saved as +myself, or any other sinner who believed in Him. Our dispute continued a +considerable time longer; at last, finding him silent, and having +finished my brandy-and-water, I got up, rang the bell, paid for what I +had had, and left him looking very miserable, perhaps at finding that he +was not quite so certain of eternal damnation as he had hitherto +supposed. There can be no doubt that the idea of damnation is anything +but disagreeable to some people; it gives them a kind of gloomy +consequence in their own eyes. We must be something particular, they +think, or God would hardly think it worth His while to torment us for +ever. + +I inquired the way to Festiniog, and finding that I had passed by it on +my way to the town, I went back, and, as directed, turned to the east up +a wide pass, down which flowed a river. I soon found myself in another +and very noble valley intersected by the river, which was fed by numerous +streams rolling down the sides of the hills. The road which I followed +in the direction of the east, lay on the southern side of the valley, and +led upward by a steep ascent. On I went, a mighty hill close on my +right. My mind was full of enthusiastic fancies; I was approaching +Festiniog, the birthplace of Rhys Goch, who styled himself Rhys Goch of +Eryri, or Red Rhys of Snowdon, a celebrated bard, and a partisan of Owen +Glendower, who lived to an immense age, and who, as I had read, was in +the habit of composing his pieces seated on a stone which formed part of +a Druidical circle, for which reason the stone was called the chair of +Rhys Goch; yes, my mind was full of enthusiastic fancies, all connected +with this Rhys Goch, and as I went along slowly I repeated stanzas of +furious war songs of his, exciting his countrymen to exterminate the +English, and likewise snatches of an abusive ode composed by him against +a fox who had run away with his favourite peacock, a piece so abounding +with hard words, that it was termed the Drunkard’s chokepear, as no +drunkard was ever able to recite it, and ever and anon I wished I could +come in contact with some native of the region, with whom I could talk +about Rhys Goch, and who could tell me whereabouts stood his chair. + +Strolling along in this manner, I was overtaken by an old fellow with a +stick in his hand, walking very briskly. He had a crusty, and rather +conceited look. I spoke to him in Welsh, and he answered in English, +saying, that I need not trouble myself by speaking Welsh, as he had +plenty of English, and of the very best. We were from first to last at +cross purposes. I asked him about Rhys Goch and his chair. He told me +that he knew nothing of either, and began to talk of Her Majesty’s +ministers, and the fine sights of London. I asked him the name of a +stream which, descending a gorge on our right, ran down the side of a +valley, to join the river at its bottom. He told me that he did not +know, and asked me the name of the Queen’s eldest daughter. I told him I +did not know, and remarked that it was very odd that he could not tell me +the name of a stream in his own vale. He replied that it was not a bit +more odd than that I could not tell him the name of the eldest daughter +of the Queen of England; I told him that when I was in Wales I wanted to +talk about Welsh matters, and he told me that when he was with English he +wanted to talk about English matters. I returned to the subject of Rhys +Goch and his chair, and he returned to the subject of Her Majesty’s +ministers, and the fine folks of London. I told him that I cared not a +straw about Her Majesty’s ministers and the fine folks of London, and he +replied that he cared not a straw for Rhys Goch, his chair, or old +women’s stories of any kind. + +Regularly incensed against the old fellow, I told him he was a bad +Welshman, and he retorted by saying I was a bad Englishman. I said he +appeared to know next to nothing. He retorted by saying I knew less than +nothing, and, almost inarticulate with passion, added that he scorned to +walk in such illiterate company, and suiting the action to the word, +sprang up a steep and rocky footpath on the right, probably a short cut +to his domicile, and was out of sight in a twinkling. We were both +wrong; I most so. He was crusty and conceited, but I ought to have +humoured him, and then I might have got out of him anything he knew, +always supposing that he knew anything. + +About an hour’s walk from Tan y Bwlch brought me to Festiniog, which is +situated on the top of a lofty hill looking down from the south-east, on +the valley which I have described, and which, as I know not its name, I +shall style the Valley of the numerous streams. I went to the inn, a +large old-fashioned house, standing near the church; the mistress of it +was a queer-looking old woman, antiquated in her dress, and rather blunt +in her manner. Of her, after ordering dinner, I made inquiries +respecting the chair of Rhys Goch, but she said that she had never heard +of such a thing; and after glancing at me askew for a moment, with a +curiously formed left eye which she had, went away muttering chair, +chair, leaving me in a large and rather dreary parlour, to which she had +shown me. I felt very fatigued, rather I believe from that unlucky short +cut than from the length of the way, for I had not come more than +eighteen miles. Drawing a chair towards a table, I sat down, and placing +my elbows upon the board, I leaned my face upon my upturned hands, and +presently fell into a sweet sleep, from which I awoke exceedingly +refreshed, just as a maid opened the room door to lay the cloth. + +After dinner I got up, went out, and strolled about the place. It was +small, and presented nothing very remarkable. Tired of strolling, I went +and leaned my back against the wall of the churchyard, and enjoyed the +cool of the evening, for evening, with its coolness and shadows, had now +come on. + +As I leaned against the wall, an elderly man came up and entered into +discourse with me. He told me he was a barber by profession, had +travelled all over Wales, and had seen London. I asked him about the +chair of Rhys Goch. He told me that he had heard of some such chair a +long time ago, but could give me no information as to where it stood. I +know not how it happened that he came to speak about my landlady, but +speak about her he did. He said that she was a good kind of woman, but +totally unqualified for business, as she knew not how to charge. On my +observing that that was a piece of ignorance with which few landladies, +or landlords either, were taxable, he said that, however other publicans +might overcharge, undercharging was her foible, and that she had brought +herself very low in the world by it—that to his certain knowledge she +might have been worth thousands instead of the trifle which she was +possessed of, and that she was particularly notorious for undercharging +the English, a thing never before dreamt of in Wales. I told him that I +was very glad that I had come under the roof of such a landlady; the old +barber, however, said that she was setting a bad example, that such +goings on could not last long, that he knew how things would end, and +finally working himself up into a regular tiff, left me abruptly without +wishing me good night. + +I returned to the inn, and called for lights; the lights were placed upon +the table in the old-fashioned parlour, and I was left to myself. I +walked up and down the room some time, at length, seeing some old books +lying in a corner, I laid hold of them, carried them to the table, sat +down, and began to inspect them; they were the three volumes of Scott’s +“Cavalier”—I had seen this work when a youth, and thought it a tiresome, +trashy publication. Looking over it now, when I was grown old, I thought +so still, but I now detected in it what from want of knowledge I had not +detected in my early years, what the highest genius, had it been +manifested in every page, could not have compensated for—base, fulsome +adulation of the worthless great, and most unprincipled libelling of the +truly noble ones of the earth, because they, the sons of peasants and +handycraftsmen, stood up for the rights of outraged humanity, and +proclaimed that it is worth makes the man, and not embroidered clothing. +The heartless, unprincipled son of the tyrant was transformed, in that +worthless book, into a slightly dissipated, it is true, but upon the +whole brave, generous, and amiable being; and Harrison, the English +Regulus, honest, brave, unflinching Harrison, into a pseudo-fanatic, a +mixture of the rogue and fool, Harrison probably the man of the most +noble and courageous heart that England ever produced; who, when all was +lost, scorned to flee, like the second Charles from Worcester, but braved +infamous judges and the gallows; who, when reproached on his mock trial +with complicity in the death of the king, gave the noble answer that “It +was a thing not done in a corner,” and when in the cart on the way to +Tyburn, on being asked jeeringly by a lord’s bastard in the crowd, “Where +is the good old cause now?” thrice struck his strong fist on the breast +which contained his courageous heart, exclaiming, “Here, here, here!” +Yet for that “Cavalier,” that trumpery publication, the booksellers of +England, on its first appearance, gave an order to the amount of six +thousand pounds. But they were wise in their generation; they knew that +the book would please the base, slavish taste of the age, a taste which +the author of the work had had no slight share in forming. + +Tired after a while with turning over the pages of the trashy “Cavalier,” +I returned the volumes to their place in the corner, blew out one candle, +and taking the other in my hand marched off to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + + +The Bill—The Two Mountains—Sheet of Water—The Afanc-Crocodile—The +Afanc-Beaver—Tai Hirion—Kind Woman—Arenig Vawr—The Beam and Mote—Bala. + +After breakfasting I demanded my bill. I was curious to see how little +the amount would be, for after what I had heard from the old barber the +preceding evening about the utter ignorance of the landlady in making a +charge, I naturally expected that I should have next to nothing to pay. +When it was brought, however, and the landlady brought it herself, I +could scarcely believe my eyes. Whether the worthy woman had lately come +to a perception of the folly of undercharging, and had determined to +adopt a different system; whether it was that, seeing me the only guest +in the house, she had determined to charge for my entertainment what she +usually charged for that of two or three—strange, by the bye, that I +should be the only guest in a house notorious for undercharging—I know +not, but certain it is the amount of the bill was far, far from the next +to nothing which the old barber had led me to suppose I should have to +pay, who, perhaps, after all had very extravagant ideas with respect to +making out a bill for a Saxon. It was, however, not a very +unconscionable bill, and merely amounted to a trifle more than I had paid +at Bethgelert for somewhat better entertainment. + +Having paid the bill without demur, and bidden the landlady farewell, who +displayed the same kind of indifferent bluntness which she had manifested +the day before, I set off in the direction of the east, intending that my +next stage should be Bala. Passing through a toll-gate I found myself in +a kind of suburb consisting of a few cottages. Struck with the +neighbouring scenery, I stopped to observe it. A mighty mountain rises +in the north almost abreast of Festiniog; another towards the east +divided into two of unequal size. Seeing a woman of an interesting +countenance seated at the door of a cottage, I pointed to the hill +towards the north, and speaking the Welsh language, inquired its name. + +“That hill, sir,” said she, “is called Moel Wyn.” + +Now Moel Wyn signifies the white, bare hill. + +“And how do you call those two hills towards the east?” + +“We call one, sir, Mynydd Mawr, the other Mynydd Bach.” + +Now Mynydd Mawr signifies the great mountain, and Mynydd Bach the little +one. + +“Do any people live in those hills?” + +“The men who work the quarries, sir, live in those hills. They and their +wives and their children. No other people.” + +“Have you any English?” + +“I have not, sir. No people who live on this side the talcot (tollgate) +for a long way have any English.” + +I proceeded on my journey. The country for some way eastward of +Festiniog is very wild and barren, consisting of huge hills without trees +or verdure. About three miles’ distance, however, there is a beautiful +valley, which you look down upon from the southern side of the road, +after having surmounted a very steep ascent. This valley is fresh and +green, and the lower parts of the hills on its farther side are, here and +there, adorned with groves. At the eastern end is a deep, dark gorge, or +ravine, down which tumbles a brook in a succession of small cascades. +The ravine is close by the road. The brook, after disappearing for a +time, shows itself again far down in the valley, and is doubtless one of +the tributaries of the Tan y Bwlch river, perhaps the very same brook the +name of which I could not learn the preceding day in the vale. + +As I was gazing on the prospect, an old man driving a peat cart came from +the direction in which I was going. I asked him the name of the ravine, +and he told me it was Ceunant Coomb, or hollow-dingle coomb. I asked the +name of the brook, and he told me that it was called the brook of the +hollow-dingle coomb, adding that it ran under Pont Newydd, though where +that was I knew not. Whilst he was talking with me he stood uncovered. +Yes, the old peat driver stood with his hat in his hand whilst answering +the questions of the poor, dusty foot-traveller. What a fine thing to be +an Englishman in Wales! + +In about an hour I came to a wild moor; the moor extended for miles and +miles. It was bounded on the east and south by immense hills and moels. +On I walked at a round pace, the sun scorching me sore, along a dusty, +hilly road, now up, now down. Nothing could be conceived more cheerless +than the scenery around. The ground on each side of the road was mossy +and rushy—no houses—instead of them were peat stacks, here and there, +standing in their blackness. Nothing living to be seen except a few +miserable sheep picking the wretched herbage, or lying panting on the +shady side of the peat clumps. At length I saw something which appeared +to be a sheet of water at the bottom of a low ground on my right. It +looked far off—“Shall I go and see what it is?” thought I to myself. +“No,” thought I. “It is too far off”—so on I walked till I lost sight of +it, when I repented and thought I would go and see what it was. So I +dashed down the moory slope on my right, and presently saw the object +again—and now I saw that it was water. I sped towards it through gorse +and heather, occasionally leaping a deep drain. At last I reached it. +It was a small lake. Wearied and panting, I flung myself on its bank, +and gazed upon it. + +There lay the lake in the low bottom, surrounded by the heathery +hillocks; there it lay quite still, the hot sun reflected upon its +surface, which shone like a polished blue shield. Near the shore it was +shallow, at least near that shore upon which I lay. But farther on, my +eye, practised in deciding upon the depths of waters, saw reason to +suppose that its depth was very great. As I gazed upon it my mind +indulged in strange musings. I thought of the afanc, a creature which +some have supposed to be the harmless and industrious beaver, others the +frightful and destructive crocodile. I wondered whether the afanc was +the crocodile or the beaver, and speedily had no doubt that the name was +originally applied to the crocodile. + +“O, who can doubt,” thought I, “that the word was originally intended for +something monstrous and horrible? Is there not something horrible in the +look and sound of the word afanc, something connected with the opening +and shutting of immense jaws, and the swallowing of writhing prey? Is +not the word a fitting brother of the Arabic timsah, denoting the dread +horny lizard of the waters? Moreover, have we not the voice of tradition +that the afanc was something monstrous? Does it not say that Hu the +Mighty, the inventor of husbandry, who brought the Cumry from the +summer-country, drew the old afanc out of the lake of lakes with his four +gigantic oxen? Would he have had recourse to them to draw out the little +harmless beaver? O, surely not. Yet have I no doubt that, when the +crocodile had disappeared from the lands where the Cumric language was +spoken, the name afanc was applied to the beaver, probably his successor +in the pool; the beaver now called in Cumric Llostlydan, or the +broad-tailed, for tradition’s voice is strong that the beaver has at one +time been called the afanc.” Then I wondered whether the pool before me +had been the haunt of the afanc, considered both as crocodile and beaver. +I saw no reason to suppose that it had not. “If crocodiles,” thought I, +“ever existed in Britain, and who shall say that they have not? seeing +that their remains have been discovered, why should they not have haunted +this pool? If beavers ever existed in Britain, and do not tradition and +Giraldus say that they have? why should they not have existed in this +pool? + +“At a time almost inconceivably remote, when the hills around were +covered with woods, through which the elk and the bison and the wild cow +strolled, when men were rare throughout the lands, and unlike in most +things to the present race—at such a period—and such a period there has +been—I can easily conceive that the afanc-crocodile haunted this pool, +and that when the elk or bison or wild cow came to drink of its waters, +the grim beast would occasionally rush forth, and seizing his bellowing +victim, would return with it to the deeps before me to luxuriate at his +ease upon its flesh. And at a time less remote, when the crocodile was +no more, and though the woods still covered the hills, and wild cattle +strolled about, men were more numerous than before, and less unlike the +present race, I can easily conceive this lake to have been the haunt of +the afanc-beaver, that he here built cunningly his house of trees and +clay, and that to this lake the native would come with his net and his +spear to hunt the animal for his precious fur. Probably if the depths of +that pool were searched, relics of the crocodile and the beaver might be +found, along with other strange things connected with the periods in +which they respectively lived. Happy were I if for a brief space I could +become a Cingalese, that I might swim out far into that pool, dive down +into its deepest part, and endeavour to discover any strange things which +beneath its surface may lie.” Much in this guise rolled my thoughts as I +lay stretched on the margin of the lake. + +Satiated with musing, I at last got up, and endeavoured to regain the +road. I found it at last, though not without considerable difficulty. I +passed over moors, black and barren, along a dusty road till I came to a +valley; I was now almost choked with dust and thirst, and longed for +nothing in the world so much as for water; suddenly I heard its blessed +sound, and perceived a rivulet on my left hand. It was crossed by two +bridges, one immensely old and terribly dilapidated, the other old +enough, but in better repair—went and drank under the oldest bridge of +the two. The water tasted of the peat of the moors, nevertheless I drank +greedily of it, for one must not be over-delicate upon the moors. + +Refreshed with my draught, I proceeded briskly on my way, and in a little +time saw a range of white buildings, diverging from the road on the right +hand, the gable of the first abutting upon it. A kind of farmyard was +before them. A respectable-looking woman was standing in the yard. I +went up to her and inquired the name of the place. + +“These houses, sir,” said she, “are called Tai Hirion Mignaint. Look +over that door and you will see T. H., which letters stand for Tai +Hirion. Mignaint is the name of the place where they stand.” + +I looked, and upon a stone which formed the lintel of the middlemost door +I read T. H. 1630. + +The words Tai Hirion, it will be as well to say, signify the long houses. + +I looked long and steadfastly at the inscription, my mind full of +thoughts of the past. + +“Many a year has rolled by since these houses were built,” said I, as I +sat down on a stepping-stone. + +“Many, indeed, sir,” said the woman, “and many a strange thing has +happened.” + +“Did you ever hear of one Oliver Cromwell?” said I. + +“O yes, sir, and of King Charles too. The men of both have been in this +yard and have baited their horses; aye, and have mounted their horses +from the stone on which you sit.” + +“I suppose they were hardly here together?” said I. + +“No, no, sir,” said the woman, “they were bloody enemies, and could never +set their horses together.” + +“Are these long houses,” said I, “inhabited by different families?” + +“Only by one, sir; they make now one farm-house.” + +“Are you the mistress of it?” said I. + +“I am, sir, and my husband is the master. Can I bring you anything, +sir?” + +“Some water,” said I, “for I am thirsty, though I drank under the old +bridge.” + +The good woman brought me a basin of delicious milk and water. + +“What are the names of the two bridges,” said I, “a little way from +here?” + +“They are called, sir, the old and new bridge of Tai Hirion; at least we +call them so.” + +“And what do you call the ffrwd that runs beneath them?” + +“I believe, sir, it is called the river Twerin.” + +“Do you know a lake far up there amidst the moors?” + +“I have seen it, sir; they call it Llyn Twerin.” + +“Does the river Twerin flow from it?” + +“I believe it does, sir; but I do not know.” + +“Is the lake deep?” + +“I have heard that it is very deep, sir; so much so, that nobody knows +its depth.” + +“Are there fish in it?” + +“Digon, sir, digon iawn, and some very large. I once saw a Pen-hwyad +from that lake which weighed fifty pounds.” + +After a little farther conversation I got up, and, thanking the kind +woman, departed. I soon left the moors behind me, and continued walking +till I came to a few houses on the margin of a meadow or fen in a valley, +through which the way trended to the east. They were almost overshadowed +by an enormous mountain, which rose beyond the fen on the south. Seeing +a house which bore a sign, and at the door of which a horse stood tied, I +went in, and a woman coming to meet me in a kind of passage, I asked her +if I could have some ale. + +“Of the best, sir,” she replied, and conducted me down the passage into a +neat room, partly kitchen, partly parlour, the window of which looked out +upon the fen. A rustic-looking man sat smoking at a table, with a jug of +ale before him. I sat down near him, and the good woman brought me a +similar jug of ale, which on tasting I found excellent. My spirits, +which had been for some time very flagging, presently revived, and I +entered into conversation with my companion at the table. From him I +learned that he was a farmer of the neighbourhood, that the horse tied +before the door belonged to him, that the present times were very bad for +the producers of grain, with very slight likelihood of improvement; that +the place at which we were was called Rhyd y fen, or the ford across the +fen; that it was just half-way between Festiniog and Bala, that the +clergyman of the parish was called Mr. Pughe, a good kind of man, but +very purblind in a spiritual sense; and finally that there was no safe +religion in the world, save that of the Calvinistic Methodists, to which +my companion belonged. + +Having finished my ale, I paid for it, and leaving the Calvinistic farmer +still smoking, I departed from Rhyd y fen. On I went along the valley, +the enormous hill on my right, a moel of about half its height on my +left, and a tall hill bounding the prospect in the east, the direction in +which I was going. After a little time, meeting two women, I asked them +the name of the mountain to the south. + +“Arenig Vawr,” they replied, or something like it. + +Presently meeting four men, I put the same question to the foremost, a +stout, burly, intelligent-looking fellow, of about fifty. He gave me the +same name as the women. I asked if anybody lived upon it. + +“No,” said he, “too cold for man.” + +“Fox?” said I. + +“No! too cold for fox.” + +“Crow?” said I. + +“No; too cold for crow; crow would be starved upon it.” He then looked +me in the face, expecting probably that I should smile. + +I, however, looked at him with all the gravity of a judge, whereupon he +also observed the gravity of a judge, and we continued looking at each +other with all the gravity of judges till we both simultaneously turned +away, he followed by his companions going his path, and I going mine. + +I subsequently remembered that Arenig is mentioned in a Welsh poem, +though in anything but a flattering and advantageous manner. The writer +calls it Arenig ddiffaith, or barren Arenig, and says that it intercepts +from him the view of his native land. Arenig is certainly barren enough, +for there is neither tree nor shrub upon it, but there is something +majestic in its huge bulk. Of all the hills which I saw in Wales, none +made a greater impression upon me. + +Towards evening I arrived at a very small and pretty village, in the +middle of which was a toll-gate—seeing an old woman seated at the door of +the gate-house, I asked her the name of the village. “I have no +Saesneg!” she screamed out. + +“I have plenty of Cumraeg,” said I, and repeated my question. Whereupon +she told me that it was called Tref y Talcot—the village of the +toll-gate. That it was a very nice village, and that she was born there. +She then pointed to two young women who were walking towards the gate at +a very slow pace, and told me they were English. “I do not know them,” +said I. The old lady, who was somewhat deaf, thinking that I said I did +not know English, leered at me complacently, and said that in that case I +was like herself, for she did not speak a word of English, adding that a +body should not be considered a fool for not speaking English. She then +said that the young women had been taking a walk together, and that they +were much in each other’s company for the sake of conversation, and no +wonder, as the poor simpletons could not speak a word of Welsh. I +thought of the beam and mote mentioned in Scripture, and then cast a +glance of compassion on the two poor young women. For a moment I fancied +myself in the times of Owen Glendower, and that I saw two females, whom +his marauders had carried off from Cheshire or Shropshire to toil and +slave in the Welshery, walking together after the labours of the day were +done, and bemoaning their misfortunes in their own homely English. + +Shortly after leaving the village of the toll-gate I came to a beautiful +valley. On my right hand was a river, the farther bank of which was +fringed with trees; on my left was a gentle ascent, the lower part of +which was covered with rich grass, and the upper with yellow, luxuriant +corn; a little farther on was a green grove, behind which rose up a moel. +A more bewitching scene I never beheld. Ceres and Pan seemed in this +place to have met to hold their bridal. The sun now descending shone +nobly upon the whole. After staying for some time to gaze, I proceeded, +and soon met several carts, from the driver of one of which I learned +that I was yet three miles from Bala. I continued my way and came to a +bridge, a little way beyond which I overtook two men, one of whom, an old +fellow, held a very long whip in his hand, and the other, a much younger +man with a cap on his head, led a horse. When I came up the old fellow +took off his hat to me, and I forthwith entered into conversation with +him. I soon gathered from him that he was a horse-dealer from Bala, and +that he had been out on the road with his servant to break a horse. I +astonished the old man with my knowledge of Welsh and horses, and learned +from him, for conceiving I was one of the right sort, he was very +communicative, two or three curious particulars connected with the Welsh +mode of breaking horses. Discourse shortened the way to both of us, and +we were soon in Bala. In the middle of the town he pointed to a large +old-fashioned house on the right hand, at the bottom of a little square, +and said, “Your honour was just asking me about an inn. That is the best +inn in Wales, and if your honour is as good a judge of an inn as of a +horse, I think you will say so when you leave it. Prydnawn da ’chwi!” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX + + +Tom Jenkins—Ale of Bala—Sober Moments—Local Prejudices—The +States—Unprejudiced Man—Welsh Pensilvanian Settlers—Drapery Line—Evening +Saunter. + +Scarcely had I entered the door of the inn when a man presented himself +to me with a low bow. He was about fifty years of age, somewhat above +the middle size, and had grizzly hair, and a dark, freckled countenance, +in which methought I saw a considerable dash of humour. He wore brown +clothes, had no hat on his head, and held a napkin in his hand. “Are you +the master of this hotel?” said I. + +“No, your honour,” he replied, “I am only the waiter, but I officiate for +my master in all things; my master has great confidence in me, sir.” + +“And I have no doubt,” said I, “that he could not place his confidence in +any one more worthy.” + +With a bow yet lower than the preceding one the waiter replied with a +smirk and a grimace, “Thank, your honour, for your good opinion. I +assure your honour that I am deeply obliged.” + +His air, manner, and even accent, were so like those of a Frenchman, that +I could not forbear asking him whether he was one. + +He shook his head and replied, “No, your honour, no, I am not a +Frenchman, but a native of this poor country, Tom Jenkins by name.” + +“Well,” said I, “you really look and speak like a Frenchman, but no +wonder; the Welsh and French are much of the same blood. Please now to +show me into the parlour.” + +He opened the door of a large apartment, placed a chair by a table which +stood in the middle, and then with another bow requested to know my +farther pleasure. After ordering dinner I said that, as I was thirsty, I +should like to have some ale forthwith. + +“Ale you shall have, your honour,” said Tom, “and some of the best ale +that can be drunk. This house is famous for ale.” + +“I suppose you get your ale from Llangollen,” said I, “which is +celebrated for its ale over Wales.” + +“Get our ale from Llangollen?” said Tom, with a sneer of contempt, “no, +nor anything else. As for the ale, it was brewed in this house by your +honour’s humble servant.” + +“Oh,” said I, “if you brewed it, it must of course be good. Pray bring +me some immediately, for I am anxious to drink ale of your brewing.” + +“Your honour shall be obeyed,” said Tom, and disappearing, returned in a +twinkling with a tray, on which stood a jug filled with liquor, and a +glass. He forthwith filled the glass, and pointing to its contents, +said— + +“There, your honour, did you ever see such ale? Observe its colour! +Does it not look for all the world as pale and delicate as cowslip wine?” + +“I wish it may not taste like cowslip wine,” said I; “to tell you the +truth, I am no particular admirer of ale that looks pale and delicate; +for I always think there is no strength in it.” + +“Taste it, your honour,” said Tom, “and tell me if you ever tasted such +ale.” + +I tasted it, and then took a copious draught. The ale was indeed +admirable, equal to the best that I had ever before drunk—rich and +mellow, with scarcely any smack of the hop in it, and though so pale and +delicate to the eye, nearly as strong as brandy. I commended it highly +to the worthy Jenkins, who exultingly exclaimed— + +“That Llangollen ale indeed! no, no! ale like that, your honour, was +never brewed in that trumpery hole Llangollen.” + +“You seem to have a very low opinion of Llangollen?” said I. + +“How can I have anything but a low opinion of it, your honour? A +trumpery hole it is, and ever will remain so.” + +“Many people of the first quality go to visit it,” said I. + +“That is because it lies so handy for England, your honour. If it did +not, nobody would go to see it. What is there to see in Llangollen?” + +“There is not much to see in the town, I admit,” said I, “but the scenery +about it is beautiful; what mountains!” + +“Mountains, your honour, mountains! well, we have mountains too, and as +beautiful as those of Llangollen. Then we have our lake, our Llyn Tegid, +the lake of beauty. Show me anything like that near Llangollen!” + +“Then,” said I, “there is your mound, your Tomen Bala. The Llangollen +people can show nothing like that.” + +Tom Jenkins looked at me for a moment with some surprise, and then said: +“I see you have been here before, sir.” + +“No,” said I, “never, but I have read about the Tomen Bala in books, both +Welsh and English.” + +“You have, sir?” said Tom. “Well, I am rejoiced to see so book-learned a +gentleman in our house. The Tomen Bala has puzzled many a head. What do +the books which mention it say about it, your honour?” + +“Very little,” said I, “beyond mentioning it; what do the people here say +of it?” + +“All kinds of strange things, your honour.” + +“Do they say who built it?” + +“Some say the Tylwyth Teg built it, others that it was cast up over a +dead king by his people. The truth is, nobody here knows who built it, +or anything about it, save that it is a wonder. Ah, those people of +Llangollen can show nothing like it.” + +“Come,” said I, “you must not be so hard upon the people of Llangollen. +They appear to me, upon the whole, to be an eminently respectable body.” + +The Celtic waiter gave a genuine French shrug. “Excuse me, your honour, +for being of a different opinion. They are all drunkards.” + +“I have occasionally seen drunken people at Llangollen,” said I, “but I +have likewise seen a great many sober.” + +“That is, your honour, you have seen them in their sober moments; but if +you had watched, your honour, if you had kept your eye on them, you would +have seen them reeling too.” + +“That I can hardly believe,” said I. + +“Your honour can’t! but I can who know them. They are all drunkards, and +nobody can live among them without being a drunkard. There was my +nephew—” + +“What of him?” said I. + +“Why, he went to Llangollen, your honour, and died of a drunken fever in +less than a month.” + +“Well, but might he not have died of the same, if he had remained at +home?” + +“No, your honour, no! he lived here many a year, and never died of a +drunken fever; he was rather fond of liquor, it is true, but he never +died at Bala of a drunken fever; but when he went to Llangollen he did. +Now, your honour, if there is not something more drunken about Llangollen +than about Bala, why did my nephew die at Llangollen of a drunken fever?” + +“Really,” said I, “you are such a close reasoner, that I do not like to +dispute with you. One observation, however, I wish to make: I have lived +at Llangollen without, I hope, becoming a drunkard.” + +“Oh, your honour is out of the question,” said the Celtic waiter, with a +strange grimace. “Your honour is an Englishman, an English gentleman, +and of course could live all the days of your life at Llangollen without +being a drunkard, he he! Who ever heard of an Englishman, especially an +English gentleman, being a drunkard, he he he! And now, your honour, +pray excuse me, for I must go and see that your honour’s dinner is being +got ready in a suitable manner.” + +Thereupon he left me, with a bow yet lower than any I had previously seen +him make. If his manners put me in mind of those of a Frenchman, his +local prejudices brought powerfully to my recollection those of a +Spaniard. Tom Jenkins swears by Bala and abuses Llangollen, and calls +its people drunkards, just as a Spaniard exalts his own village, and +vituperates the next and its inhabitants, whom, though he will not call +them drunkards, unless, indeed, he happens to be a Gallegan, he will not +hesitate to term “una caterva de pillos y embusteros.” + +The dinner when it appeared was excellent, and consisted of many more +articles than I had ordered. After dinner, as I sat “trifling” with my +cold brandy-and-water, an individual entered—a short, thick, dumpy man +about thirty, with brown clothes and a broad hat, and holding in his hand +a large leather bag. He gave me a familiar nod, and passing by the +table, at which I sat, to one near the window, he flung the bag upon it, +and seating himself in the chair with his profile towards me, he untied +the bag, from which he poured a large quantity of sovereigns upon the +table, and fell to counting them. After counting them three times, he +placed them again in the bag, which he tied up; then taking a small book, +seemingly an account-book, out of his pocket, he wrote something in it +with a pencil; then putting it in his pocket, he took the bag, and +unlocking a beaufet which stood at some distance behind him against the +wall, he put the bag into a drawer; then again locking the beaufet, he +sat down in the chair, then tilting the chair back upon its hind legs, he +kept swaying himself backwards and forwards upon it, his toes sometimes +upon the ground, sometimes mounting until they tapped against the nether +side of the table, surveying me all the time with a queer kind of a side +glance, and occasionally ejecting saliva upon the carpet in the direction +of the place where I sat. + +“Fine weather, sir,” said I at last, rather tired of being skewed and +spit at in this manner. + +“Why yaas,” said the figure; “the day is tolerably fine, but I have seen +a finer.” + +“Well, I don’t remember to have seen one,” said I; “it is as fine a day +as I have seen during the present season, and finer weather than I have +seen during this season I do not think I ever saw before.” + +“The weather is fine enough for Britain,” said the figure, “but there are +other countries besides Britain.” + +“Why,” said I, “there’s the States, ’tis true.” + +“Ever been in the States, Mr.?” said the figure quickly. + +“Have I ever been in the States,” said I, “have I ever been in the +States?” + +“Perhaps you are of the States, Mr.; I thought so from the first.” + +“The States are fine countries,” said I. + +“I guess they are, Mr.” + +“It would be no easy matter to whip the States.” + +“So I should guess, Mr.” + +“That is single-handed,” said I. + +“Single-handed, no, nor double-handed either. Let England and France and +the State which they are now trying to whip without being able to do it, +that’s Russia, all unite in a union to whip the Union, and if instead of +whipping the States they don’t get a whipping themselves, call me a +braying jackass—” + +“I see, Mr.,” said I, “that you are a sensible man, because you speak +very much my own opinion. However, as I am an unprejudiced person, like +yourself, I wish to do justice to other countries—the States are fine +countries—but there are other fine countries in the world. I say nothing +of England; catch me saying anything good of England; but I call Wales a +fine country: gainsay it who may, I call Wales a fine country.” + +“So it is, Mr.” + +“I’ll go farther,” said I; “I wish to do justice to everything: I call +the Welsh a fine language.” + +“So it is, Mr. Ah, I see you are an unprejudiced man. You don’t +understand Welsh, I guess.” + +“I don’t understand Welsh,” said I; “I don’t understand Welsh. That’s +what I call a good one.” + +“Medrwch siarad Cumraeg?” said the short figure, spitting upon the +carpet. + +“Medraf,” said I. + +“You can, Mr.! Well, if that don’t whip the Union. But I see: you were +born in the States of Welsh parents.” + +“No harm in being born in the States of Welsh parents,” said I. + +“None at all, Mr.; I was myself, and the first language I learnt to speak +was Welsh. Did your people come from Bala, Mr.?” + +“Why no! Did yourn?” + +“Why yaas—at least from the neighbourhood. What State do you come from? +Virginny?” + +“Why no!” + +“Perhaps Pensilvany country?” + +“Pensilvany is a fine state,” said I. + +“So it is, Mr. O, that is your state, is it? I come from Varmont.” + +“You do, do you? Well, Varmont is not a bad state, but not equal to +Pensilvany, and I’ll tell you two reasons why; first, it has not been so +long settled, and second, there is not so much Welsh blood in it as there +is in Pensilvany.” + +“Is there much Welsh blood in Pensilvany, then?” + +“Plenty, Mr., plenty. Welsh flocked over to Pensilvany even as far back +as the time of William Penn, who, as you know, Mr., was the first founder +of the Pensilvany State. And that puts me in mind that there is a +curious account extant of the adventures of one of the old Welsh settlers +in Pensilvania. It is to be found in a letter in an old Welsh book. The +letter is dated 1705, and is from one Huw Jones, born of Welsh parents in +Pensilvany country to a cousin of his of the same name, residing in the +neighbourhood of this very town of Bala in Merionethshire where you and +I, Mr., now are. It is in answer to certain inquiries made by the +cousin, and is written in pure old Welsh language. It gives an account +of how the writer’s father left this neighbourhood to go to Pensilvania; +how he embarked on board the ship _William Pen_; how he was thirty weeks +on the voyage from the Thames to the Delaware. Only think, Mr., of a +ship now-a-days being thirty weeks on the passage from the Thames to the +Delaware river; how he learnt the English language on the voyage; how he +and his companions nearly perished with hunger in the wild wood after +they landed; how Pensilvania city was built; how he became a farmer and +married a Welsh woman, the widow of a Welshman from shire Denbigh, by +whom he had the writer and several other children; how the father used to +talk to his children about his native region, and the places round about +Bala, and fill their breasts with longing for the land of their fathers; +and finally how the old man died, leaving his children and their mother +in prosperous circumstances. It is a wonderful letter, Mr., all written +in the pure old Welsh language.” + +“I say, Mr., you are a cute one, and know a thing or two. I suppose +Welsh was the first language you learnt, like myself?” + +“No, it wasn’t—I like to speak the truth—never took to either speaking or +reading the Welsh language till I was past sixteen.” + +“’Stonishing! but see the force of blood at last. In any line of +business?” + +“No, Mr., can’t say I am.” + +“Have money in your pocket, and travel for pleasure. Come to see +father’s land.” + +“Come to see old Wales. And what brings you here, Hiraeth?” + +“That’s longing. No, not exactly. Came over to England to see what I +could do. Got in with house at Liverpool in the drapery business. +Travel for it hereabouts, having connections and speaking the language. +Do branch business here for a banking-house besides. Manage to get on +smartly.” + +“You look a smart un. But don’t you find it sometimes hard to compete +with English travellers in the drapery line?” + +“I guess not. English travellers! set of nat’rals. Don’t know the +language and nothing else. Could whip a dozen any day. Regularly +flummox them.” + +“You do, Mr.? Ah, I see you’re a cute un. Glad to have met you.” + +“I say, Mr., you have not told me from what county your forefathers +were.” + +“From Norfolk and Cornwall counties.” + +“Didn’t know there were such counties in Wales.” + +“But there are in England.” + +“Why, you told me you were of Welsh parents.” + +“No, I didn’t. You told yourself so.” + +“But how did you come to know Welsh?” + +“Why, that’s my bit of a secret.” + +“But you are of the United States?” + +“Never knew that before.” + +“Mr., you flummox me.” + +“Just as you do the English drapery travellers. Ah, you’re a cute un—but +do you think it altogether a cute trick to stow all those sovereigns in +that drawer?” + +“Who should take them out, Mr.?” + +“Who should take them out? Why, any of the swell mob, that should chance +to be in the house, might unlock the drawer with their flash keys as soon +as your back is turned, and take out all the coin.” + +“But there are none of the swell mob here.” + +“How do you know that?” said I; “the swell mob travel wide about—how do +you know that I am not one of them?” + +“The swell mob don’t speak Welsh, I guess.” + +“Don’t be too sure of that,” said I—“the swell coves spare no expense for +their education—so that they may be able to play parts according to +circumstances. I strongly advise you, Mr., to put that bag somewhere +else, lest something should happen to it.” + +“Well, Mr., I’ll take your advice. These are my quarters, and I was +merely going to keep the money here for convenience’ sake. The money +belongs to the bank, so it is but right to stow it away in the bank safe. +I certainly should be loth to leave it here with you in the room, after +what you have said.” He then got up, unlocked the drawer, took out the +bag, and with a “good night, Mr.,” left the room. + +I “trifled” over my brandy-and-water till I finished it, and then walked +forth to look at the town. I turned up a street, which led to the east, +and soon found myself beside the lake at the north-west extremity of +which Bala stands. It appeared a very noble sheet of water, stretching +from north to south for several miles. As, however, night was fast +coming on, I did not see it to its full advantage. After gazing upon it +for a few minutes, I sauntered back to the square, or market-place, and +leaning my back against a wall, listened to the conversation of two or +three groups of people who were standing near, my motive for doing so +being a desire to know what kind of Welsh they spoke. Their language, as +far as I heard it, differed in scarcely any respect from that of +Llangollen. I, however, heard very little of it, for I had scarcely kept +my station a minute when the good folks became uneasy, cast side-glances +at me, first dropped their conversation to whispers, next held their +tongues altogether, and finally moved off, some going to their homes, +others moving to a distance, and then grouping together—even certain +ragged boys who were playing and chattering near me became uneasy, first +stood still, then stared at me, and then took themselves off and played +and chattered at a distance. Now what was the cause of all this? Why, +suspicion of the Saxon. The Welsh are afraid lest an Englishman should +understand their language, and, by hearing their conversation, become +acquainted with their private affairs; or, by listening to it, pick up +their language, which they have no mind that he should know—and their +very children sympathise with them. All conquered people are suspicious +of their conquerors. The English have forgot that they ever conquered +the Welsh, but some ages will elapse before the Welsh forget that the +English have conquered them. + + + + +CHAPTER L + + +The Breakfast—The Tomen Bala—El Punto de la Vana. + +I slept soundly that night, as well I might, my bed being good and my +body weary. I arose about nine, dressed and went down to the parlour, +which was vacant. I rang the bell, and on Tom Jenkins making his +appearance, I ordered breakfast, and then asked for the Welsh American, +and learned that he had breakfasted very early, and had set out in a gig +on a journey to some distance. In about twenty minutes after I had +ordered it, my breakfast made its appearance. A noble breakfast it was; +such, indeed, as I might have read of, but had never before seen. There +was tea and coffee, a goodly white loaf and butter; there were a couple +of eggs and two mutton chops. There was broiled and pickled salmon—there +was fried trout—there were also potted trout and potted shrimps. Mercy +upon me! I had never previously seen such a breakfast set before me, +nor, indeed, have I subsequently. Yes, I have subsequently, and at that +very house, when I visited it some months after. + +After breakfast I called for the bill. I forget the exact amount of the +bill, but remember that it was very moderate. I paid it, and gave the +noble Thomas a shilling, which he received with a bow and truly French +smile—that is, a grimace. When I departed the landlord and landlady, +highly respectable-looking elderly people, were standing at the door, one +on each side, and dismissed me with suitable honour, he with a low bow, +she with a profound curtsey. + +Having seen little of the town on the preceding evening, I determined +before setting out for Llangollen to become better acquainted with it, +and accordingly took another stroll about it. + +Bala is a town containing three or four thousand inhabitants, situated +near the northern end of an oblong valley, at least two-thirds of which +are occupied by Llyn Tegid. It has two long streets, extending from +north to south, a few narrow cross ones, an ancient church, partly +overgrown with ivy, with a very pointed steeple, and a town-hall of some +antiquity, in which Welsh interludes used to be performed. After +gratifying my curiosity with respect to the town, I visited the mound—the +wondrous Tomen Bala. + +The Tomen Bala stands at the northern end of the town. It is apparently +formed of clay, is steep and of difficult ascent. In height it is about +thirty feet, and in diameter at the top about fifty. On the top grows a +gwern, or alder-tree, about a foot thick, its bark terribly scotched with +letters and uncouth characters, carved by the idlers of the town, who are +fond of resorting to the top of the mound in fine weather, and lying down +on the grass which covers it. The Tomen is about the same size as +Glendower’s Mount on the Dee, which it much resembles in shape. Both +belong to that brotherhood of artificial mounds of unknown antiquity, +found scattered, here and there, throughout Europe and the greater part +of Asia, the most remarkable specimen of which is, perhaps, that which +stands on the right side of the way from Adrianople to Stamboul, and +which is called by the Turks Mourad Tepehsi, or the tomb of Mourad. +Which mounds seem to have been originally intended as places of +sepulture, but in many instances were afterwards used as strongholds, +bonhills or beacon-heights, or as places on which adoration was paid to +the host of heaven. + +From the Tomen there is a noble view of the Bala valley, the Lake of +Beauty up to its southern extremity, and the neighbouring and distant +mountains. Of Bala, its lake, and Tomen, I shall have something to say +on a future occasion. + +Leaving Bala, I passed through the village of Llanfair, and found myself +by the Dee, whose course I followed for some way. Coming to the northern +extremity of the Bala valley, I entered a pass tending due north. Here +the road slightly diverged from the river. I sped along, delighted with +the beauty of the scenery. On my left was a high bank covered with +trees, on my right a grove, through openings in which I occasionally +caught glimpses of the river, over whose farther side towered noble +hills. An hour’s walking brought me into a comparatively open country, +fruitful and charming. At about one o’clock I reached a large village, +the name of which, like those of most Welsh villages, began with Llan. +There I refreshed myself for an hour or two in an old-fashioned inn, and +then resumed my journey. + +I passed through Corwen; again visited Glendower’s monticle upon the Dee, +and reached Llangollen shortly after sunset, where I found my beloved two +well and glad to see me. + +That night, after tea, Henrietta played on the guitar the old muleteer +tune of “El Punto de la Vana,” or the main point at the Havanna, whilst I +sang the words:— + + “Never trust the sample when you go your cloth to buy: + The woman’s most deceitful that’s dressed most daintily, + The lasses of Havanna ride to mass in coaches yellow, + But ere they go they ask if the priest’s a handsome fellow. + The lasses of Havanna as mulberries are dark, + And try to make them fairer by taking Jesuit’s bark.” + + + + +CHAPTER LI + + +The Ladies of Llangollen—Sir Alured—Eisteddfodau—“Pleasure and Care.” + +Shortly after my return I paid a visit to my friends at the vicarage, who +were rejoiced to see me back, and were much entertained with the account +I gave of my travels. I next went to visit the old church clerk of whom +I had so much to say on a former occasion. After having told him some +particulars of my expedition, to all of which he listened with great +attention, especially to that part which related to the church of +Penmynydd and the tomb of the Tudors, I got him to talk about the ladies +of Llangollen, of whom I knew very little save what I had heard from +general report. I found he remembered their first coming to Llangollen, +their living in lodgings, their purchasing the ground called Pen y maes, +and their erecting upon it the mansion to which the name of Plas Newydd +was given. He said they were very eccentric, but good and kind, and had +always shown most particular favour to himself; that both were highly +connected, especially Lady Eleanor Butler, who was connected by blood +with the great Duke of Ormond, who commanded the armies of Charles in +Ireland in the time of the great rebellion, and also with the Duke of +Ormond who succeeded Marlborough in the command of the armies in the Low +Countries in the time of Queen Anne, and who fled to France shortly after +the accession of George the First to the throne, on account of being +implicated in the treason of Harley and Bolingbroke; and that her +ladyship was particularly fond of talking of both those dukes, and +relating anecdotes concerning them. He said that the ladies were in the +habit of receiving the very first people in Britain, “amongst whom,” said +the old church clerk, “was an ancient gentleman of most engaging +appearance and captivating manners, called Sir Alured C—. He was in the +army, and in his youth, owing to the beauty of his person, was called +‘the handsome captain.’ It was said that one of the royal princesses was +desperately in love with him, and that on that account George the Third +insisted on his going to India. Whether or not there was truth in the +report, to India he went, where he served with distinction for a great +many years. On his return, which was not till he was upwards of eighty, +he was received with great favour by William the Fourth, who amongst +other things made him a field-marshal. As often as October came round +did this interesting and venerable gentleman make his appearance at +Llangollen to pay his respects to the ladies, especially to Lady Eleanor, +whom he had known at Court as far back, they say, as the American war. +It was rumoured at Llangollen that Lady Eleanor’s death was a grievous +blow to Sir Alured, and that he would never be seen there again. +However, when October came round he made his appearance at the vicarage, +where he had always been in the habit of taking up his quarters, and +called on and dined with Miss Ponsonby at Plas Newydd, but it was +observed that he was not so gay as he had formerly been. In the evening, +on his taking leave of Miss Ponsonby, she said that he had used her ill. +Sir Alured coloured, and asked her what she meant, adding that he had not +to his knowledge used any person ill in the course of his life. ‘But I +say you have used me ill, very ill,’ said Miss Ponsonby, raising her +voice, and the words ‘very ill’ she repeated several times. At last the +old soldier, waxing rather warm, demanded an explanation. ‘I’ll give it +you,’ said Miss Ponsonby; ‘were you not going away after having only +kissed my hand?’ ‘O,’ said the general, ‘if that is my offence, I will +soon make you reparation,’ and instantly gave her a hearty smack on the +lips, which ceremony he never forgot to repeat after dining with her on +subsequent occasions.” + +We got on the subject of bards, and I mentioned to him Gruffydd +Hiraethog, the old poet buried in the chancel of Llangollen church. The +old clerk was not aware that he was buried there, and said that though he +had heard of him, he knew little or nothing about him. + +“Where was he born?” said he. + +“In Denbighshire,” I replied, “near the mountain Hiraethog, from which +circumstance he called himself in poetry Gruffydd Hiraethog.” + +“When did he flourish?” + +“About the middle of the sixteenth century.” + +“What did he write?” + +“A great many didactic pieces,” said I; “in one of which is a famous +couplet to this effect: + + ‘He who satire loves to sing + On himself will satire bring.’” + +“Did you ever hear of William Lleyn?” said the old gentleman. + +“Yes,” said I; “he was a pupil of Hiraethog, and wrote an elegy on his +death, in which he alludes to Gruffydd’s skill in an old Welsh metre, +called the Cross Consonancy, in the following manner: + + ‘In Eden’s grove from Adam’s mouth + Upsprang a muse of noble growth; + So from thy grave, O poet wise, + Cross Consonancy’s boughs shall rise.’” + +“Really,” said the old clerk, “you seem to know something about Welsh +poetry. But what is meant by a muse springing up from Adam’s mouth in +Eden?” + +“Why, I suppose,” said I, “that Adam invented poetry.” + +I made inquiries of him about the eisteddfodau, or sessions of bards, and +expressed a wish to be present at one of them. He said that they were +very interesting; that bards met at particular periods and recited poems +on various subjects which had been given out beforehand, and that prizes +were allotted to those whose compositions were deemed the best by the +judges. He said that he had himself won the prize for the best englyn on +a particular subject at an eisteddfod at which Sir Watkin Williams Wynn +presided, and at which Heber, afterwards Bishop of Calcutta, was present, +who appeared to understand Welsh well, and who took much interest in the +proceedings of the meeting. + +Our discourse turning on the latter Welsh poets, I asked him if he had +been acquainted with Jonathan Hughes, who, the reader will remember, was +the person whose grandson I met, and in whose arm-chair I sat at Ty yn y +pistyll, shortly after my coming to Llangollen. He said that he had been +well acquainted with him, and had helped to carry him to the grave, +adding, that he was something of a poet, but that he had always +considered his forte lay in strong good sense rather than poetry. I +mentioned Thomas Edwards, whose picture I had seen in Valle Crucis Abbey. +He said that he knew him tolerably well, and that the last time he saw +him was when he, Edwards, was about seventy years of age, when he sent +him in a cart to the house of a great gentleman near the aqueduct, where +he was going to stay on a visit. That Tom was about five feet eight +inches high, lusty and very strongly built; that he had something the +matter with his right eye; that he was very satirical and very clever; +that his wife was a very clever woman and satirical; his two daughters +both clever and satirical, and his servant-maid remarkably satirical and +clever, and that it was impossible to live with Twm O’r Nant without +learning to be clever and satirical; that he always appeared to be +occupied with something, and that he had heard him say there was +something in him that would never let him be idle; that he would walk +fifteen miles to a place where he was to play an interlude, and that as +soon as he got there he would begin playing it at once, however tired he +might be. The old gentleman concluded by saying that he had never read +the works of Twm O’r Nant, but that he had heard that his best piece was +the interlude called “Pleasure and Care.” + + + + +CHAPTER LII + + +The Treachery of the Long Knives—The North Briton—The Wounded Butcher—The +Prisoner. + +On the tenth of September our little town was flung into some confusion +by one butcher having attempted to cut the throat of another. The +delinquent was a Welshman, who it was said had for some time past been +somewhat out of his mind; the other party was an Englishman, who escaped +without further injury than a deep gash in the cheek. The Welshman might +be mad, but it appeared to me that there was some method in his madness. +He tried to cut the throat of a butcher; didn’t this look like wishing to +put a rival out of the way? and that butcher an Englishman; didn’t this +look like wishing to pay back upon the Saxon what the Welsh call +bradwriaeth y cyllyll hirion, the treachery of the long knives? So +reasoned I to myself. But here perhaps the reader will ask what is meant +by “the treachery of the long knives?” whether he does or not I will tell +him. + +Hengist, wishing to become paramount in Southern Britain, thought that +the easiest way to accomplish his wish would be by destroying the South +British chieftains. Not believing that he should be able to make away +with them by open force, he determined to see what he could do by +treachery. Accordingly he invited the chieftains to a banquet, to be +held near Stonehenge, or the Hanging Stones, on Salisbury Plain. The +unsuspecting chieftains accepted the invitation, and on the appointed day +repaired to the banquet, which was held in a huge tent. Hengist received +them with a smiling countenance, and every appearance of hospitality, and +caused them to sit down to table, placing by the side of every Briton one +of his own people. The banquet commenced, and all seemingly was mirth +and hilarity. Now Hengist had commanded his people that, when he should +get up and cry “nemet eoure saxes,” that is, take your knives, each Saxon +should draw his long sax, or knife, which he wore at his side, and should +plunge it into the throat of his neighbour. The banquet went on, and in +the midst of it, when the unsuspecting Britons were revelling on the good +cheer which had been provided for them, and half-drunken with the mead +and beer which flowed in torrents, uprose Hengist, and with a voice of +thunder uttered the fatal words, “nemet eoure saxes;” the cry was obeyed, +each Saxon grasped his knife, and struck with it at the throat of his +defenceless neighbour. Almost every blow took effect; only three British +chieftains escaping from the banquet of blood. This infernal carnage the +Welsh have appropriately denominated the treachery of the long knives. +It will be as well to observe that the Saxons derived their name from the +saxes, or long knives, which they wore at their sides, and at the use of +which they were terribly proficient. + +Two or three days after the attempt at murder at Llangollen, hearing that +the Welsh butcher was about to be brought before the magistrates, I +determined to make an effort to be present at the examination. +Accordingly I went to the police station and inquired of the +superintendent whether I could be permitted to attend. He was a North +Briton, as I have stated somewhere before, and I had scraped acquaintance +with him, and had got somewhat into his good graces by praising Dumfries, +his native place, and descanting to him upon the beauties of the poetry +of his celebrated countryman, my old friend, Allan Cunningham, some of +whose works he had perused, and with whom, as he said, he had once the +honour of shaking hands. In reply to my question he told me that it was +doubtful whether any examination would take place, as the wounded man was +in a very weak state, but that if I would return in half-an-hour he would +let me know. I went away, and at the end of the half-hour returned, when +he told me that there would be no public examination, owing to the +extreme debility of the wounded man, but that one of the magistrates was +about to proceed to his house and take his deposition in the presence of +the criminal, and also of the witnesses of the deed, and that if I +pleased I might go along with him, and he had no doubt that the +magistrate would have no objection to my being present. We set out +together; as we were going along I questioned him about the state of the +country, and gathered from him that there was occasionally a good deal of +crime in Wales. + +“Are the Welsh a clannish people?” I demanded. + +“Very,” said he. + +“As clannish as the Highlanders?” said I. + +“Yes,” said he, “and a good deal more.” + +We came to the house of the wounded butcher, which was some way out of +the town in the north-western suburb. The magistrate was in the lower +apartment with the clerk, one or two officials, and the surgeon of the +town. He was a gentleman of about two or three-and-forty, with a +military air and large moustaches, for besides being a justice of the +peace, and a landed proprietor, he was an officer in the army. He made +me a polite bow when I entered, and I requested of him permission to be +present at the examination. He hesitated a moment, and then asking me my +motive for wishing to be present at it. + +“Merely curiosity,” said I. + +He then observed that, as the examination would be a private one, my +being permitted or not was quite optional. + +“I am aware of that,” said I, “and if you think my remaining is +objectionable, I will forthwith retire.” He looked at the clerk, who +said there could be no objection to my staying, and turning round to his +superior, said something to him which I did not hear, whereupon the +magistrate again bowed, and said that he should be very happy to grant my +request. + +We went upstairs, and found the wounded man in bed, with a bandage round +his forehead, and his wife sitting by his bedside. The magistrate and +his officials took their seats, and I was accommodated with a chair. +Presently the prisoner was introduced under the charge of a policeman. +He was a fellow somewhat above thirty, of the middle size, and wore a +dirty white frock coat; his right arm was partly confined by a manacle—a +young girl was sworn, who deposed that she saw the prisoner run after the +other with something in his hand. The wounded man was then asked whether +he thought he was able to make a deposition; he replied in a very feeble +tone that he thought he was, and after being sworn, deposed that on the +preceding Saturday, as he was going to his stall, the prisoner came up to +him and asked whether he had ever done him any injury? he said no. “I +then,” said he, “observed the prisoner’s countenance undergo a change, +and saw him put his hand to his waistcoat pocket and pull out a knife. I +straight became frightened, and ran away as fast as I could; the prisoner +followed, and overtaking me, stabbed me in the face. I ran into the yard +of a public-house, and into the shop of an acquaintance, where I fell +down, the blood spouting out of my wound.” Such was the deposition of +the wounded butcher. He was then asked whether there had been any +quarrel between him and the prisoner? He said there had been no quarrel, +but that he had refused to drink with the prisoner when he requested him, +which he had done very frequently, and had more than once told him that +he did not wish for his acquaintance. The prisoner, on being asked, +after the usual caution, whether he had anything to say, said that he +merely wished to mark the man, but not to kill him. The surgeon of the +place deposed to the nature of the wound, and on being asked his opinion +with respect to the state of the prisoner’s mind, said that he believed +that he might be labouring under a delusion. After the prisoner’s bloody +weapon and coat had been produced, he was committed. + +It was generally said that the prisoner was disordered in his mind; I +held my tongue, but judging from his look and manner, I saw no reason to +suppose that he was any more out of his senses than I myself, or any +person present, and I had no doubt that what induced him to commit the +act was rage at being looked down upon by a quondam acquaintance, who was +rising a little in the world, exacerbated by the reflection that the +disdainful quondam acquaintance was one of the Saxon race, against which +every Welshman entertains a grudge more or less virulent, which, though +of course very unchristianlike, is really, brother Englishman, after the +affair of the long knives, and two or three other actions of a somewhat +similar character, of our noble Anglo-Saxon progenitors, with which all +Welshmen are perfectly well acquainted, not very much to be wondered at. + + + + +CHAPTER LIII + + +The Dylluan—The Oldest Creatures. + +Much rain fell about the middle of the month; in the intervals of the +showers I occasionally walked by the banks of the river, which speedily +became much swollen; it was quite terrible both to the sight and ear near +the “Robber’s Leap;” there were breakers above the higher stones at least +five feet high, and a roar around almost sufficient “to scare a hundred +men.” The pool of Catherine Lingo was strangely altered; it was no +longer the quiet pool which it was in summer, verifying the words of the +old Welsh poet that the deepest pool of the river is always the stillest +in the summer and of the softest sound, but a howling turbid gulf, in +which branches of trees, dead animals, and rubbish were whirling about in +the wildest confusion. The nights were generally less rainy than the +days, and sometimes by the pallid glimmer of the moon I would take a +stroll along some favourite path or road. One night, as I was wandering +slowly along the path leading through the groves of Pen y Coed, I was +startled by an unearthly cry—it was the shout of the dylluan, or owl, as +it flitted over the tops of the trees on its nocturnal business. + +Oh, that cry of the dylluan! what a strange, wild cry it is; how unlike +any other sound in nature! a cry which no combination of letters can give +the slightest idea of. What resemblance does Shakespear’s +to-whit-to-whoo bear to the cry of the owl? none whatever; those who hear +it for the first time never know what it is, however accustomed to talk +of the cry of the owl and to-whit-to-whoo. A man might be wandering +through a wood with Shakespear’s owl-chorus in his mouth, but were he +then to hear for the first time the real shout of the owl, he would +assuredly stop short and wonder whence that unearthly cry could proceed. + +Yet no doubt that strange cry is a fitting cry for the owl, the strangest +in its habits and look of all birds, the bird of whom by all nations the +strangest tales are told. Oh, what strange tales are told of the owl, +especially in connection with its long-lifedness; but of all the strange, +wild tales connected with the age of the owl, strangest of all is the old +Welsh tale. When I heard the owl’s cry in the groves of Pen y Coed, that +tale rushed into my mind. I had heard it from the singular groom, who +had taught me to gabble Welsh in my boyhood, and had subsequently read it +in an old tattered Welsh story-book, which by chance fell into my hands. +The reader will perhaps be obliged by my relating it. + +“The eagle of the alder grove, after being long married, and having had +many children by his mate, lost her by death, and became a widower. +After some time he took it into his head to marry the owl of the Cowlyd +Coomb; but fearing he should have issue by her, and by that means sully +his lineage, he went first of all to the oldest creatures in the world, +in order to obtain information about her age. First he went to the stag +of Ferny-side brae, whom he found sitting by the old stump of an oak, and +inquired the age of the owl. The stag said: ‘I have seen this oak an +acorn which is now lying on the ground without either leaves or bark: +nothing in the world wore it up but my rubbing myself against it once a +day when I got up, so I have seen a vast number of years, but I assure +you that I have never seen the owl older or younger than she is to-day. +However, there is one older than myself, and that is the salmon-trout of +Glyn Llifon.’ To him went the eagle, and asked him the age of the owl, +and got for answer: ‘I have a year over my head for every gem on my skin, +and for every egg in my roe, yet have I always seen the owl look the +same; but there is one older than myself, and that is the ousel of +Cilgwry.’ Away went the eagle to Cilgwry, and found the ousel standing +upon a little rock, and asked him the age of the owl. Quoth the ousel: +‘You see that the rock below me is not larger than a man can carry in one +of his hands: I have seen it so large that it would have taken a hundred +oxen to drag it, and it has never been worn save by my drying my beak +upon it once every night, and by my striking the tip of my wing against +it in rising in the morning, yet never have I known the owl older or +younger than she is to-day. However, there is one older than I, and that +is the toad of Cors Fochnod; and unless he knows her age no one knows +it.’ To him went the eagle, and asked the age of the owl, and the toad +replied: ‘I have never eaten anything save what I have sucked from the +earth, and have never eaten half my fill in all the days of my life; but +do you see those two great hills beside the cross? I have seen the place +where they stand level ground, and nothing produced those heaps save what +I discharged from my body, who have ever eaten so very little—yet never +have I known the owl anything else but an old hag who cried Too-hoo-hoo, +and scared children with her voice, even as she does at present.’ So the +eagle of Gwernabwy, the stag of Ferny-side brae, the salmon-trout of Glyn +Llifon, the ousel of Cilgwry, the toad of Cors Fochnod, and the owl of +Coomb Cowlyd, are the oldest creatures in the world, the oldest of them +all being the owl.” + + + + +CHAPTER LIV + + +Chirk—The Middleton Family—Castell y Waen—The Park—The Court Yard—The +Young Housekeeper—The Portraits—Melin y Castell—Humble Meal—Fine Chests +for the Dead—Hales and Hercules. + +The weather having become fine, myself and family determined to go and +see Chirk Castle, a mansion ancient and beautiful, and abounding with all +kinds of agreeable and romantic associations. It was founded about the +beginning of the fifteenth century by a St. John, Lord of Bletsa, from a +descendant of whom it was purchased in the year 1615 by Sir Thomas +Middleton, the scion of an ancient Welsh family who, following commerce, +acquired a vast fortune, and was Lord Mayor of London. In the time of +the great civil war it hoisted the banner of the king, and under Sir +Thomas, the son of the Lord Mayor, made a brave defence against Lambert, +the Parliamentary General, though eventually compelled to surrender. It +was held successively by four Sir Thomas Middletons, and if it acquired a +warlike celebrity under the second, it obtained a peculiarly hospitable +one under the fourth, whose daughter, the fruit of a second marriage, +became Countess of Warwick, and eventually the wife of the poet and +moralist, Addison. In his time the hospitality of Chirk became the theme +of many a bard, particularly of Huw Morris, who, in one of his songs, has +gone so far as to say that were the hill of Cefn Uchaf turned into beef +and bread, and the rill Ceiriog into beer or wine, they would be consumed +in half a year by the hospitality of Chirk. Though no longer in the +hands of one of the name of Middleton, Chirk Castle is still possessed by +one of the blood, the mother of the present proprietor being the eldest +of three sisters, lineal descendants of the Lord Mayor, between whom, in +default of an heir male, the wide possessions of the Middleton family +were divided. This gentleman, who bears the name of Biddulph, is Lord +Lieutenant of the county of Denbigh, and notwithstanding his +war-breathing name, which is Gothic, and signifies Wolf of Battle, is a +person of highly amiable disposition, and one who takes great interest in +the propagation of the Gospel of peace and love. + +To view this place which, though in English called Chirk Castle, is +styled in Welsh Castell y Waen, or the Castle of the Meadow, we started +on foot about ten o’clock of a fine bright morning, attended by John +Jones. There are two roads from Llangollen to Chirk, one the low or post +road, and the other leading over the Berwyn. We chose the latter. We +passed by the Yew cottage, which I have described on a former occasion, +and began to ascend the mountain, making towards its north-eastern +corner. The road at first was easy enough, but higher up became very +steep, and somewhat appalling, being cut out of the side of the hill +which shelves precipitously down towards the valley of the Dee. Near the +top of the mountain were three lofty beech trees, growing on the very +verge of the precipice. Here the road for about twenty yards is fenced +on its dangerous side by a wall, parts of which are built between the +stems of the trees. Just beyond the wall a truly noble prospect +presented itself to our eyes. To the north were bold hills, their sides +and skirts adorned with numerous woods and white farmhouses; a thousand +feet below us was the Dee, and its wondrous Pont y Cysultau. John Jones +said that if certain mists did not intervene we might descry “the sea of +Liverpool;” and perhaps the only thing wanting to make the prospect +complete was that sea of Liverpool. We were, however, quite satisfied +with what we saw, and turning round the corner of the hill, reached its +top, where for a considerable distance there is level ground, and where, +though at a great altitude, we found ourselves in a fair and fertile +region, and amidst a scene of busy rural life. We saw fields and +inclosures, and here and there corn-stacks, some made, and others not yet +completed, about which people were employed, and waggons and horses +moving. Passing over the top of the hill, we began to descend the +southern side, which was far less steep than the one we had lately +surmounted. After a little way the road descended through a wood, which +John Jones told us was the beginning of the “Park of Biddulph.” + +“There is plenty of game in this wood,” said he; “pheasant cocks and +pheasant hens, to say nothing of hares and coneys; and in the midst of it +there is a space sown with a particular kind of corn for the support of +the pheasant hens and pheasant cocks, which in the shooting-season afford +pleasant sport for Biddulph and his friends.” + +Near the foot of the descent, just where the road made a turn to the +east, we passed by a building which stood amidst trees, with a pond and +barns near it. + +“This,” said John Jones, “is the house where the bailiff lives, who farms +and buys and sells for Biddulph, and fattens the beeves and swine, and +the geese, ducks, and other poultry which Biddulph consumes at his +table.” + +The scenery was now very lovely, consisting of a mixture of hill and +dale, open space and forest, in fact the best kind of park scenery. We +caught a glimpse of a lake, in which John Jones said there were generally +plenty of swans, and presently saw the castle, which stands on a green +grassy slope, from which it derives its Welsh name of Castell y Waen; +gwaen in the Cumrian language signifying a meadow or unenclosed place. +It fronts the west, the direction from which we were coming; on each side +it shows five towers, of which the middlemost, which protrudes beyond the +rest, and at the bottom of which is the grand gate, is by far the +bulkiest. A noble edifice it looked, and to my eye bore no slight +resemblance to Windsor Castle. + +Seeing a kind of ranger, we inquired of him what it was necessary for us +to do, and by his direction proceeded to the southern side of the castle, +and rung the bell at a small gate. The southern side had a far more +antique appearance than the western; huge towers, with small windows, and +partly covered with ivy, frowned down upon us. A servant making his +appearance, I inquired whether we could see the house; he said we could, +and that the housekeeper would show it to us in a little time, but that +at present she was engaged. We entered a large quadrangular court; on +the left hand side was a door and staircase leading into the interior of +the building, and farther on was a gateway, which was no doubt the +principal entrance from the park. On the eastern side of the spacious +court was a kennel, chained to which was an enormous dog, partly of the +bloodhound, partly of the mastiff species, who occasionally uttered a +deep magnificent bay. As the sun was hot we took refuge from it under +the gateway, the gate of which, at the farther end, towards the park, was +closed. Here my wife and daughter sat down on a small brass cannon, +seemingly a six-pounder, which stood on a very dilapidated carriage; from +the appearance of the gun, which was of an ancient form and very much +battered, and that of the carriage, I had little doubt that both had been +in the castle at the time of the siege. As my two loved ones sat I +walked up and down, recalling to my mind all I had heard and read in +connection with this castle. I thought of its gallant defence against +the men of Oliver; I thought of its roaring hospitality in the time of +the fourth Sir Thomas; and I thought of the many beauties who had been +born in its chambers, had danced in its halls, had tripped across its +court, and had subsequently given heirs to illustrious families. + +At last we were told that the housekeeper was waiting for us. The +housekeeper, who was a genteel, good-looking young woman, welcomed us at +the door which led into the interior of the house. After we had written +our names, she showed us into a large room or hall on the right-hand side +on the ground floor, where were some helmets and ancient halberts, and +also some pictures of great personages. The floor was of oak, and so +polished and slippery that walking upon it was attended with some danger. +Wishing that John Jones, our faithful attendant, who remained timidly at +the doorway, should participate with us in the wonderful sights we were +about to see, I inquired of the housekeeper whether he might come with +us. She replied with a smile that it was not the custom to admit guides +into the apartments, but that he might come provided he chose to take off +his shoes; adding, that the reason she wished him to take off his shoes +was, an apprehension that if he kept them on he would injure the floors +with their rough nails. She then went to John Jones and told him in +English that he might attend us provided he took off his shoes; poor +John, however, only smiled, and said, “Dim Saesneg!” + +“You must speak to him in your native language,” said I, “provided you +wish him to understand you—he has no English.” + +“I am speaking to him in my native language,” said the young housekeeper, +with another smile; “and if he has no English, I have no Welsh.” + +“Then you are English?” said I. + +“Yes,” she replied, “a native of London.” + +“Dear me,” said I. “Well, it’s no bad thing to be English after all; and +as for not speaking Welsh, there are many in Wales who would be glad to +have much less Welsh than they have.” I then told John Jones the +condition on which he might attend us, whereupon he took off his shoes +with great glee and attended us, holding them in his hand. + +We presently went upstairs to what the housekeeper told us was the +principal drawing-room, and a noble room it was, hung round with the +portraits of kings and queens and the mighty of the earth. Here, on +canvas, was noble Mary the wife of William of Orange, and her consort by +her side, whose part like a true wife she always took. Here was wretched +Mary of Scotland, the murderess of her own lord. Here were the two +Charleses, and both the Dukes of Ormond—the great Duke who fought stoutly +in Ireland against Papist and Roundhead; and the Pretender’s Duke who +tried to stab his native land, and died a foreign colonel. And here, +amongst other daughters of the house, was the very proud daughter of the +house, the Warwick Dowager who married the Spectator, and led him the +life of a dog. She looked haughty and cold, and not particularly +handsome; but I could not help gazing with a certain degree of interest +and respect on the countenance of the vixen, who served out the gentility +worshipper in such prime style. Many were the rooms which we entered, of +which I shall say nothing, save that they were noble in size, and rich in +objects of interest. At last we came to what was called the picture +gallery. It was a long panelled room, extending nearly the whole length +of the northern side. The first thing which struck us on entering was +the huge skin of a lion stretched out upon the floor; the head, however, +which was towards the door, was stuffed, and with its monstrous teeth +looked so formidable and lifelike that we were almost afraid to touch it. +Against every panel was a portrait; amongst others was that of Sir Thomas +Middleton, the stout governor of the castle during the time of the siege. +Near to it was the portrait of his rib, Dame Middleton. Farther down on +the same side were two portraits of Nell Gwynn; the one painted when she +was a girl, the other when she had attained a more mature age. They were +both by Lely, the Apelles of the Court of wanton Charles. On the other +side was one of the Duke of Gloucester, the son of Queen Anne, who, had +he lived, would have kept the Georges from the throne. In this gallery, +on the southern side, was a cabinet of ebony and silver, presented by +Charles the Second to the brave warrior Sir Thomas, and which, according +to tradition, cost seven thousand pounds. This room, which was perhaps +the most magnificent in the castle, was the last we visited. The candle +of God whilst we wandered through these magnificent halls was flaming in +the firmament, and its rays penetrating through the long, narrow windows, +showed them off, and all the gorgeous things which they contained, to +great advantage. When we left the castle we all said, not excepting John +Jones, that we had never seen in our lives anything more princely and +delightful than the interior. + +After a little time my wife and daughter, complaining of being rather +faint, I asked John Jones whether there was an inn in the neighbourhood +where some refreshment could be procured. He said there was, and that he +would conduct us to it. We directed our course towards the east, rousing +successively, and setting a-scampering, three large herds of deer—the +common ones were yellow and of no particular size—but at the head of each +herd we observed a big old black fellow with immense antlers; one of +these was particularly large, indeed as huge as a bull. We soon came to +the verge of a steep descent, down which we went, not without some risk +of falling. At last we came to a gate; it was locked; however, on John +Jones shouting, an elderly man, with his right hand bandaged, came and +opened it. I asked him what was the matter with his hand, and he told me +that he had lately lost three fingers, whilst working at a saw-mill up at +the castle. On my inquiring about the inn, he said he was the master of +it, and led the way to a long, neat, low house nearly opposite to a +little bridge over a brook, which ran down the valley towards the north. +I ordered some ale and bread-and-butter, and whilst our repast was being +got ready, John Jones and I went to the bridge. + +“This bridge, sir,” said John, “is called Pont y Velin Castell, the +bridge of the Castle Mill; the inn was formerly the mill of the castle, +and is still called Melin y Castell. As soon as you are over the bridge +you are in shire Amwythig, which the Saxons call Shropshire. A little +way up on yon hill is Clawdd Offa, or Offa’s dyke, built of old by the +Brenin Offa in order to keep us poor Welsh within our bounds.” + +As we stood on the bridge, I inquired of Jones the name of the brook +which was running merrily beneath it. + +“The Ceiriog, sir,” said John; “the same river that we saw at Pont y +Meibion.” + +“The river,” said I, “which Huw Morris loved so well, whose praises he +has sung, and which he has introduced along with Cefn Uchaf in a stanza +in which he describes the hospitality of Chirk Castle in his day, and +which runs thus: + + ‘Pe byddai ’r Cefn Ucha, + Yn gig ac yn fara, + A Cheiriog fawr yma’n fir aml bob tro, + Rhy ryfedd fae iddyn’ + Barhâu hanner blwyddyn, + I wyr bob yn gan-nyn ar ginio.’” + +“A good penill that, sir,” said John Jones. “Pity that the halls of +great people no longer flow with rivers of beer, nor have mountains of +bread and beef for all comers.” + +“No pity at all,” said I; “things are better as they are. Those +mountains of bread and beef, and those rivers of ale merely encouraged +vassalage, fawning and idleness; better to pay for one’s dinner proudly +and independently at one’s inn, than to go and cringe for it at a great +man’s table.” + +We crossed the bridge, walked a little way up the hill, which was +beautifully wooded, and then retraced our steps to the little inn, where +I found my wife and daughter waiting for us, and very hungry. We sat +down, John Jones with us, and proceeded to despatch our bread-and-butter +and ale. The bread-and-butter were good enough, but the ale poorish. O, +for an Act of Parliament to force people to brew good ale! After +finishing our humble meal we got up, and having paid our reckoning, went +back into the park, the gate of which the landlord again unlocked for us. + +We strolled towards the north along the base of the hill. The +imagination of man can scarcely conceive a scene more beautiful than the +one which we were now enjoying. Huge oaks studded the lower side of the +hill, towards the top was a belt of forest, above which rose the eastern +walls of the castle; the whole forest, castle, and the green bosom of the +hill glorified by the lustre of the sun. As we proceeded we again roused +the deer, and again saw the three old black fellows, evidently the +patriarchs of the herds, with their white, enormous horns; with these +ancient gentlefolks I very much wished to make acquaintance, and tried to +get near them, but no! they would suffer no such thing; off they glided, +their white antlers, like the barked top boughs of old pollards, glancing +in the sunshine, the smaller dappled creatures following them bounding +and frisking. We had again got very near the castle, when John Jones +told me that if we would follow him, he would show us something very +remarkable: I asked him what it was. + +“Llun Cawr,” he replied. “The figure of a giant.” + +“What giant?” said I. + +But on this point he could give me no information. I told my wife and +daughter what he had said, and finding that they wished to see the +figure, I bade John Jones lead us to it. He led us down an avenue just +below the eastern side of the castle; noble oaks and other trees composed +it, some of them probably near a hundred feet high; John Jones observing +me looking at them with admiration, said: + +“They would make fine chests for the dead, sir.” + +What an observation! how calculated, amidst the most bounding joy and +bliss, to remind man of his doom! A moment before I had felt quite +happy, but now I felt sad and mournful. I looked at my wife and +daughter, who were gazing admiringly on the beauteous scenes around them, +and remembered that, in a few short years at most, we should all three be +laid in the cold, narrow house formed of four elm or oaken boards, our +only garment the flannel shroud, the cold, damp earth above us instead of +the bright, glorious sky. O, how sad and mournful I became! I soon +comforted myself, however, by reflecting that such is the will of Heaven, +and that Heaven is good. + +After we had descended the avenue some way, John Jones began to look +about him, and getting on the bank on the left side, disappeared. We +went on, and in a little time saw him again beckoning to us some way +farther down, but still on the bank. When we drew nigh to him, he bade +us get on the bank; we did so, and followed him some way amidst furze and +lyng. All of a sudden he exclaimed, “There it is!” We looked, and saw a +large figure standing on a pedestal. On going up to it we found it to be +a Hercules leaning on his club,—indeed a copy of the Farnese Hercules, as +we gathered from an inscription in Latin partly defaced. We felt rather +disappointed, as we expected that it would have turned out to be the +figure of some huge Welsh champion of old. We, however, said nothing to +our guide. John Jones, in order that we might properly appreciate the +size of the statue by contrasting it with his own body, got upon the +pedestal and stood up beside the figure, to the elbow of which his head +little more than reached. + +I told him that in my country, the eastern part of Lloegr, I had seen a +man quite as tall as the statue. + +“Indeed, sir,” said he; “who is it?” + +“Hales, the Norfolk giant,” I replied, “who has a sister seven inches +shorter than himself, who is yet seven inches taller than any man in the +county when her brother is out of it.” + +When John Jones got down he asked me who the man was whom the statue was +intended to represent. + +“Erchwl,” I replied, “a mighty man of old, who with his club cleared the +country of thieves, serpents, and monsters.” + +I now proposed that we should return to Llangollen, whereupon we retraced +our steps, and had nearly reached the farm-house of the castle, when John +Jones said that we had better return by the low road, by doing which we +should see the castle-lodge, and also its gate, which was considered one +of the wonders of Wales. We followed his advice, and passing by the +front of the castle northwards, soon came to the lodge. The lodge had +nothing remarkable in its appearance, but the gate, which was of iron, +was truly magnificent. + +On the top were two figures of wolves, which John Jones supposed to be +those of foxes. The wolf of Chirk is not intended to be expressive of +the northern name of its proprietor, but is the armorial bearing of his +family by the maternal side, and originated in one Ryred, surnamed +Blaidd, or Wolf, from his ferocity in war; from whom the family, which +only assumed the name of Middleton in the beginning of the thirteenth +century, on the occasion of its representative marrying a rich Shropshire +heiress of that name, traces descent. + +The wolf of Chirk is a Cambrian, not a Gothic wolf, and though “a wolf of +battle,” is the wolf not of Biddulph, but of Ryred. + + + + +CHAPTER LV + + +A Visitor—Apprenticeship to the Law—Croch Daranau Lope de Vega—No life +like the Traveller’s. + +One morning as I sat alone a gentleman was announced. On his entrance I +recognised in him the magistrate’s clerk, owing to whose good word, as it +appeared to me, I had been permitted to remain during the examination +into the affair of the wounded butcher. He was a stout, strong-made man, +somewhat under the middle height, with a ruddy face, and very clear, grey +eyes. I handed him a chair, which he took, and said that his name was +R—, and that he had taken the liberty of calling, as he had a great +desire to be acquainted with me. On my asking him his reason for that +desire, he told me that it proceeded from his having read a book of mine +about Spain, which had much interested him. + +“Good,” said I, “you can’t give an author a better reason for coming to +see him than being pleased with his book. I assure you that you are most +welcome.” + +After a little general discourse, I said that I presumed he was in the +law. + +“Yes,” said he, “I am a member of that much-abused profession.” + +“And unjustly abused,” said I; “it is a profession which abounds with +honourable men, and in which I believe there are fewer scamps than in any +other. The most honourable men I have ever known have been lawyers; they +were men whose word was their bond, and who would have preferred ruin to +breaking it. There was my old master, in particular, who would have died +sooner than broken his word. God bless him! I think I see him now, with +his bald, shining pate, and his finger on an open page of _Preston’s +Conveyancing_.” + +“Sure you are not a limb of the law?” said Mr. R—. + +“No,” said I, “but I might be, for I served an apprenticeship to it.” + +“I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. R—, shaking me by the hand. “Take my +advice, come and settle at Llangollen, and be my partner.” + +“If I did,” said I, “I am afraid that our partnership would be of short +duration; you would find me too eccentric and flighty for the law. Have +you a good practice?” I demanded after a pause. + +“I have no reason to complain of it,” said he, with a contented air. + +“I suppose you are married?” said I. + +“O yes,” said he, “I have both a wife and family.” + +“A native of Llangollen?” said I. + +“No,” said he; “I was born at Llan Silin, a place some way off across the +Berwyn.” + +“Llan Silin?” said I; “I have a great desire to visit it some day or +other.” + +“Why so?” said he; “it offers nothing interesting.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said I; “unless I am much mistaken, the tomb of the +great poet Huw Morris is in Llan Silin churchyard.” + +“Is it possible that you have ever heard of Huw Morris?” + +“O yes,” said I; “and I have not only heard of him, but am acquainted +with his writings; I read them when a boy.” + +“How very extraordinary,” said he; “well, you are quite right about his +tomb; when a boy I have played dozens of times on the flat stone with my +school-fellows.” + +We talked of Welsh poetry; he said he had not dipped much into it, owing +to its difficulty; that he was master of the colloquial language of +Wales, but understood very little of the language of Welsh poetry, which +was a widely different thing. I asked him whether he had seen Owen +Pugh’s translation of _Paradise Lost_. He said he had, but could only +partially understand it, adding, however, that those parts which he could +make out appeared to him to be admirably executed, that amongst these +there was one which had particularly struck him, namely: + + “Ar eu col o rygnu croch + Daranau.” + +The rendering of Milton’s + + “And on their hinges grate + Harsh thunder,” + +which, grand as it was, was certainly equalled by the Welsh version, and +perhaps surpassed, for that he was disposed to think that there was +something more terrible in “croch daranau” than in “harsh thunder.” + +“I am disposed to think so too,” said I. “Now can you tell me where Owen +Pugh is buried?” + +“I cannot,” said he; “but I suppose you can tell me; you, who know the +burying-place of Huw Morris, are probably acquainted with the +burying-place of Owen Pugh.” + +“No,” said I, “I am not. Unlike Huw Morris, Owen Pugh has never had his +history written, though perhaps quite as interesting a history might be +made out of the life of the quiet student as out of that of the popular +poet. As soon as ever I learn where his grave is, I shall assuredly make +a pilgrimage to it.” Mr. R— then asked me a good many questions about +Spain, and a certain singular race of people about whom I have written a +good deal. Before going away he told me that a friend of his, of the +name of J—, would call upon me, provided he thought I should not consider +his doing so an intrusion. “Let him come by all means,” said I; “I shall +never look upon a visit from a friend of yours in the light of an +intrusion.” + +In a few days came his friend, a fine, tall, athletic man of about forty. +“You are no Welshman,” said I, as I looked at him. + +“No,” said he, “I am a native of Lincolnshire, but I have resided in +Llangollen for thirteen years.” + +“In what capacity?” said I. + +“In the wine-trade,” said he. + +“Instead of coming to Llangollen,” said I, “and entering into the +wine-trade, you should have gone to London, and enlisted into the +life-guards.” + +“Well,” said he, with a smile, “I had once or twice thought of doing so. +However, fate brought me to Llangollen, and I am not sorry that she did, +for I have done very well here.” + +I soon found out that he was a well-read and indeed highly accomplished +man. Like his friend R—, Mr. J— asked me a great many questions about +Spain. By degrees we got on the subject of Spanish literature. I said +that the literature of Spain was a first-rate literature, but that it was +not very extensive. He asked me whether I did not think that Lope de +Vega was much overrated. + +“Not a bit,” said I; “Lope de Vega was one of the greatest geniuses that +ever lived. He was not only a great dramatist and lyric poet, but a +prose writer of marvellous ability, as he proved by several admirable +tales, amongst which is the best ghost story in the world.” + +Another remarkable person whom I got acquainted with about this time, was +A—, the innkeeper, who lived a little way down the road, of whom John +Jones had spoken. So highly, saying, amongst other things, that he was +the clebberest man in Llangollen. One day as I was looking in at his +gate, he came forth, took off his hat, and asked me to do him the honour +to come in and look at his grounds. I complied, and as he showed me +about he told me his history, in nearly the following words:— + +“I am a Devonian by birth. For many years I served a travelling +gentleman, whom I accompanied in all his wanderings. I have been five +times across the Alps, and in every capital of Europe. My master at +length dying, left me in his will something handsome, whereupon I +determined to be a servant no longer, but married, and came to +Llangollen, which I had visited long before with my master, and had been +much pleased with. After a little time, these premises becoming vacant, +I took them, and set up in the public line, more to have something to do, +than for the sake of gain, about which, indeed, I need not trouble myself +much; my poor dear master, as I said before, having done very handsomely +by me at his death. Here I have lived for several years, receiving +strangers, and improving my houses and grounds. I am tolerably +comfortable, but confess I sometimes look back to my former roving life +rather wistfully, for there is no life so merry as the traveller’s.” + +He was about the middle age, and somewhat under the middle size. I had a +good deal of conversation with him, and was much struck with his frank, +straightforward manner. He enjoyed a high character at Llangollen for +probity, and likewise for cleverness, being reckoned an excellent +gardener, and an almost unequalled cook. His master, the travelling +gentleman, might well leave him a handsome remembrance in his will, for +he had not only been an excellent and trusty servant to him, but had once +saved his life at the hazard of his own, amongst the frightful precipices +of the Alps. Such retired gentlemen’s servants, or such publicans +either, as honest A—, are not every day to be found. His grounds, +principally laid out by his own hands, exhibited an infinity of taste, +and his house, into which I looked, was a perfect picture of neatness. +Any tourist visiting Llangollen for a short period could do no better +than take up his abode at the hostelry of honest A—. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI + + +Ringing of Bells—Battle of Alma—The Brown Jug—Ale of Llangollen—Reverses. + +On the third of October—I think that was the date—as my family and +myself, attended by trusty John Jones, were returning on foot from +visiting a park not far from Rhiwabon, we heard, when about a mile from +Llangollen, a sudden ringing of the bells of the place, and a loud +shouting. Presently we observed a postman hurrying in a cart from the +direction of the town. “Peth yw y matter?” said John Jones. “Y matter, +y matter!” said the postman, in a tone of exultation. “Sebastopol wedi +cymmeryd Hurrah!” + +“What does he say?” said my wife anxiously to me. + +“Why, that Sebastopol is taken,” said I. + +“Then you have been mistaken,” said my wife, smiling, “for you always +said that the place would either not be taken at all, or would cost the +allies to take it a deal of time, and an immense quantity of blood and +treasure, and here it is taken at once, for the allies only landed the +other day. Well, thank God, you have been mistaken!” + +“Thank God, indeed,” said I, “always supposing that I have been +mistaken—but I hardly think, from what I have known of the Russians, that +they would let their town—however, let us hope that they have let it be +taken, Hurrah!” + +We reached our dwelling. My wife and daughter went in. John Jones +betook himself to his cottage, and I went into the town, in which there +was a great excitement; a wild running troop of boys was shouting +“Sebastopol wedi cymmeryd Hurrah! Hurrah!” Old Mr. Jones was standing +bareheaded at his door. “Ah,” said the old gentleman, “I am glad to see +you. Let us congratulate each other,” he added, shaking me by the hand. +“Sebastopol taken, and in so short a time. How fortunate!” + +“Fortunate indeed,” said I, returning his hearty shake; “I only hope it +may be true.” + +“O, there can be no doubt of its being true,” said the old gentleman. +“The accounts are most positive. Come in, and I will tell you all the +circumstances.” I followed him into his little back parlour, where we +both sat down. + +“Now,” said the old church-clerk, “I will tell you all about it. The +allies landed about twenty miles from Sebastopol, and proceeded to march +against it. When nearly half way, they found the Russians posted on a +hill. Their position was naturally very strong, and they had made it +more so by means of redoubts and trenches. However, the allies, +undismayed, attacked the enemy, and after a desperate resistance, drove +them over the hill, and following fast at their heels, entered the town +pell-mell with them, taking it and all that remained alive of the Russian +army. And what do you think? The Welsh highly distinguished themselves. +The Welsh fusileers were the first to mount the hill. They suffered +horribly—indeed, almost the whole regiment was cut to pieces; but what of +that? they showed that the courage of the Ancient Britons still survives +in their descendants. And now I intend to stand beverage. I assure you +I do. No words! I insist upon it. I have heard you say you are fond of +good ale, and I intend to fetch you a pint of such ale as I am sure you +never drank in your life.” Thereupon he hurried out of the room, and +through the shop into the street. + +“Well,” said I, when I was by myself, “if this news does not regularly +surprise me! I can easily conceive that the Russians would be beaten in +a pitched battle by the English and French—but that they should have been +so quickly followed up by the allies as not to be able to shut their +gates and man their walls is to me inconceivable. Why, the Russians +retreat like the wind, and have a thousand ruses at command, in order to +retard an enemy. So at least I thought, but it is plain that I know +nothing about them, nor indeed much of my own countrymen; I should never +have thought that English soldiers could have marched fast enough to +overtake Russians, more especially with such a being to command them, as +—, whom I, and indeed almost every one else, have always considered a +dead weight on the English service. I suppose, however, that both they +and their commander were spurred on by the active French.” + +Presently the old church clerk made his appearance, with a glass in one +hand, and a brown jug of ale in the other. + +“Here,” said he, filling the glass, “is some of the real Llangollen ale; +I got it from the little inn, the Eagle, over the way, which was always +celebrated for its ale. They stared at me when I went in and asked for a +pint of ale, as they knew that for twenty years I have drunk no liquor +whatever, owing to the state of my stomach, which will not allow me to +drink anything stronger than water and tea. I told them, however, it was +for a gentleman, a friend of mine, whom I wished to treat in honour of +the fall of Sebastopol.” + +I would fain have excused myself, but the old gentleman insisted on my +drinking. + +“Well,” said I, taking the glass, “thank God that our gloomy forebodings +are not likely to be realised. Oes y byd i’r glôd Frythoneg! May +Britain’s glory last as long as the world!” + +Then, looking for a moment at the ale, which was of a dark-brown colour, +I put the glass to my lips, and drank. + +“Ah,” said the old church clerk, “I see you like it, for you have emptied +the glass at a draught.” + +“It is good ale,” said I. + +“Good,” said the old gentleman rather hastily, “good; did you ever taste +any so good in your life?” + +“Why, as to that,” said I, “I hardly know what to say; I have drunk some +very good ale in my day. However, I’ll trouble you for another glass.” + +“O ho, you will,” said the old gentleman; “that’s enough; if you did not +think it first-rate you would not ask for more. This,” said he, as he +filled the glass again, “is genuine malt and hop liquor, brewed in a way +only known, they say, to some few people in this place. You must, +however, take care how much you take of it. Only a few glasses will make +you dispute with your friends, and a few more quarrel with them. 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—Pentré 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 Pentré 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 farmhouse, to which it probably +pertained. On the northwest 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 Pentré y Dwr. He replied that I must +follow the path up the hill towards the house, behind which I should find +a road which would lead me through the wood to Pentré Dwr. As he spoke +very good English, I asked where he had learnt it. + +“Chiefly in South Wales,” said he, “where they speak less Welsh than +here.” + +I gathered from him that he lived in the house on the hill, and was a +farmer. I asked him to what place the road up the valley to the north +led. + +“We generally go by that road to Wrexham,” he replied; “it is a short but +a wild road through the hills.” + +After a little discourse on the times, which he told me were not quite so +bad for farmers as they had been, I bade, him farewell. + +Mounting the hill, I passed round the house, as the farmer had directed +me, and turned to the west along a path on the side of the mountain. A +deep valley was on my left, and on my right above me a thick wood, +principally of oak. About a mile farther on the path winded down a +descent, at the bottom of which I saw a brook and a number of cottages +beyond it. + +I passed over the brook by means of a long slab laid across, and reached +the cottages. I was now, as I supposed, in Pentré y Dwr, and a pentré y +dwr most truly it looked, for those Welsh words signify in English the +village of the water, and the brook here ran through the village, in +every room of which its pretty murmuring sound must have been audible. I +looked about me in the hope of seeing somebody of whom I could ask a +question or two, but seeing no one, I turned to the south, intending to +regain Llangollen by the way of the monastery. Coming to a cottage, I +saw a woman, to all appearance very old, standing by the door, and asked +her in Welsh where I was. + +“In Pentré Dwr,” said she. “This house and those yonder,” pointing to +the cottages past which I had come, “are Pentré y Dwr. There is, +however, another Pentré Dwr up the glen yonder,” said she, pointing +towards the north—“which is called Pentré Dwr uchaf (the upper)—this is +called Pentré Dwr isaf (the lower).” + +“Is it called Pentré Dwr,” said I, “because of the water of the brook?” + +“Likely enough,” said she, “but I never thought of the matter before.” + +She was blear-eyed, and her skin, which seemed drawn tight over her +forehead and cheek-bones, was of the colour of parchment. I asked her +how old she was. + +“Fifteen after three twenties,” she replied; meaning that she was +seventy-five. + +From her appearance, I should almost have guessed that she had been +fifteen after four twenties. I, however, did not tell her so, for I am +always cautious not to hurt the feelings of anybody, especially of the +aged. + +Continuing my way, I soon overtook a man driving five or six very large +hogs. One of these, which was muzzled, was of a truly immense size, and +walked with considerable difficulty, on account of its fatness. I walked +for some time by the side of the noble porker, admiring it. At length a +man rode up on horseback from the way we had come; he said something to +the driver of the hogs, who instantly unmuzzled the immense creature, who +gave a loud grunt on finding his snout and mouth free. From the +conversation which ensued between the two men, I found that the driver +was the servant, and the other the master. + +“Those hogs are too fat to drive along the road,” said I at last to the +latter. + +“We brought them in a cart as far as the Pentré Dwr,” said the man on +horseback, “but as they did not like the jolting we took them out.” + +“And where are you taking them to?” said I. + +“To Llangollen,” said the man, “for the fair on Monday.” + +“What does that big fellow weigh?” said I, pointing to the largest hog. + +“He’ll weigh about eighteen score,” said the man. + +“What do you mean by eighteen score?” said I. + +“Eighteen score of pounds,” said the man. + +“And how much do you expect to get for him?” + +“Eight pounds; I shan’t take less.” + +“And who will buy him?” said I. + +“Some gent from Wolverhampton or about there,” said the man; “there will +be plenty of gents from Wolverhampton at the fair.” + +“And what do you fatten your hogs upon?” said I. + +“Oatmeal,” said the man. + +“And why not on barley-meal?” + +“Oatmeal is the best,” said the man; “the gents from Wolverhampton prefer +them fattened on oatmeal.” + +“Do the gents of Wolverhampton,” said I, “eat the hogs?” + +“They do not,” said the man; “they buy them to sell again; and they like +hogs fed on oatmeal best, because they are the fattest.” + +“But the pork is not the best,” said I; “all hog-flesh raised on oatmeal +is bitter and wiry; because, do you see—” + +“I see you are in the trade,” said the man, “and understand a thing or +two.” + +“I understand a thing or two,” said I, “but I am not in the trade. Do +you come from far?” + +“From Llandeglo,” said the man. + +“Are you a hog-merchant?” said I. + +“Yes,” said he, “and a horse-dealer, and a farmer, though rather a small +one.” + +“I suppose, as you are a horse-dealer,” said I, “you travel much about?” + +“Yes,” said the man, “I have travelled a good deal about Wales and +England.” + +“Have you been in Ynys Fon?” said I. + +“I see you are a Welshman,” said the man. + +“No,” said I, “but I know a little Welsh.” + +“Ynys Fon,” said the man. “Yes, I have been in Anglesey more times than +I can tell.” + +“Do you know Hugh Pritchard,” said I, “who lives at Pentraeth Coch?” + +“I know him well,” said the man, “and an honest fellow he is.” + +“And Mr. Bos?” said I. + +“What Bos?” said he. “Do you mean a lusty, red-faced man in top-boots +and grey coat?” + +“That’s he,” said I. + +“He’s a clever one,” said the man. “I suppose by your knowing these +people you are a drover or a horse-dealer. Yes,” said he, turning +half-round in his saddle and looking at me, “you are a horse-dealer. I +remember you well now, and once sold a horse to you at Chelmsford.” + +“I am no horse-dealer,” said I, “nor did I ever buy a horse at +Chelmsford. I see you have been about England. Have you ever been in +Norfolk or Suffolk?” + +“No,” said the man, “but I know something of Suffolk. I have an uncle +there.” + +“Whereabouts in Suffolk?” said I. + +“At a place called —,” said the man. + +“In what line of business?” said I. + +“In none at all; he is a clergyman.” + +“Shall I tell you his name?” said I. + +“It is not likely you should know his name,” said the man. + +“Nevertheless,” said I, “I will tell it you—his name was —.” + +“Well,” said the man, “sure enough that is his name.” + +“It was his name,” said I, “but I am sorry to tell you he is no more. +To-day is Saturday. He died last Tuesday week, and was probably buried +last Monday. An excellent man was Dr. H. O. A credit to his country and +to his order.” + +The man was silent for some time, and then said with a softer voice, and +a very different manner from that he had used before, “I never saw him +but once, and that was more than twenty years ago—but I have heard say +that he was an excellent man—I see, sir, that you are a clergyman.” + +“I am no clergyman,” said I, “but I knew your uncle and prized him. What +was his native place?” + +“Corwen,” said the man; then taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his +eyes, and said with a faltering voice, “This will be heavy news there.” + +We were now past the monastery, and bidding farewell, I descended to the +canal, and returned home by its bank, whilst the Welsh drover, the nephew +of the learned, eloquent and exemplary Welsh doctor, pursued with his +servant and animals his way by the high road to Llangollen. + +Many sons of Welsh yeomen brought up to the Church have become ornaments +of it in distant Saxon land, but few—very few—have by learning, eloquence +and Christian virtues, reflected so much lustre upon it as Hugh O— of +Corwen. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII + + +Sunday Night—Sleep, Sin, and Old Age—The Dream—Lanikin Figure—A Literary +Purchase. + +The Sunday morning was a gloomy one. I attended service at church with +my family. The service was in English, and the younger Mr. E— preached. +The text I have forgotten, but I remember perfectly well that the sermon +was scriptural and elegant. When we came out the rain was falling in +torrents. Neither I nor my family went to church in the afternoon. I, +however, attended the evening service, which is always in Welsh. The +elder Mr. E— preached. Text, 2 Cor. x. 5. The sermon was an admirable +one, admonitory, pathetic and highly eloquent; I went home very much +edified, and edified my wife and Henrietta, by repeating to them in +English the greater part of the discourse which I had been listening to +in Welsh. After supper, in which I did not join, for I never take +supper, provided I have taken dinner, they went to bed, whilst I remained +seated before the fire, with my back near the table, and my eyes fixed +upon the embers, which were rapidly expiring, and in this posture sleep +surprised me. Amongst the proverbial sayings of the Welsh, which are +chiefly preserved in the shape of triads, is the following one: “Three +things come unawares upon a man—sleep, sin, and old age.” This saying +holds sometimes good with respect to sleep and old age, but never with +respect to sin. Sin does not come unawares upon a man; God is just, and +would never punish a man as He always does for being overcome by sin, if +sin were able to take him unawares; and neither sleep nor old age always +come unawares upon a man. People frequently feel themselves going to +sleep, and feel old age stealing upon them; though there can be no doubt +that sleep and old age sometimes come unawares—old age came unawares upon +me; it was only the other day that I was aware that I was old, though I +had long been old, and sleep came unawares upon me in that chair in which +I had sat down without the slightest thought of sleeping. And there as I +sat I had a dream—what did I dream about? the sermon, musing upon which I +had been overcome by sleep? not a bit! I dreamt about a widely different +matter. Methought I was in Llangollen fair, in the place where the pigs +were sold, in the midst of Welsh drovers, immense hogs and immense men, +whom I took to be the gents of Wolverhampton. What huge fellows they +were! almost as huge as the hogs for which they higgled; the generality +of them dressed in brown sporting coats, drab breeches, yellow-topped +boots, splashed all over with mud, and with low-crowned, broad-brimmed +hats. One enormous fellow particularly caught my notice. I guessed he +must have weighed at least eleven score, he had a half-ruddy, +half-tallowy face, brown hair, and rather thin whiskers. He was higgling +with the proprietor of an immense hog, and as he higgled he wheezed as if +he had a difficulty of respiration, and frequently wiped off, with a +dirty-white pocket-handkerchief, drops of perspiration which stood upon +his face. At last methought he bought the hog for nine pounds, and had +no sooner concluded his bargain than, turning round to me, who was +standing close by staring at him, he slapped me on the shoulder with a +hand of immense weight, crying with a half-piping, half-wheezing voice, +“Coom, neighbour, coom, I and thou have often dealt; gi’ me noo a poond +for my bargain, and it shall be all thy own.” I felt in a great rage at +his unceremonious behaviour, and owing to the flutter of my spirits +whilst I was thinking whether or not I should try and knock him down, I +awoke, and found the fire nearly out, and the ecclesiastical cat seated +on my shoulders. The creature had not been turned out, as ought to have +been, before my wife and daughter retired, and feeling cold, had got upon +the table, and thence had sprung upon my back for the sake of the warmth +which it knew was to be found there; and no doubt the springing on my +shoulders by the ecclesiastical cat was what I took in my dream to be the +slap on my shoulders by the Wolverhampton gent. + +The day of the fair was dull and gloomy, an exact counterpart of the +previous Saturday. Owing to some cause, I did not go into the fair till +past one o’clock, and then, seeing neither immense hogs nor immense men, +I concluded that the gents of Wolverhampton had been there, and after +purchasing the larger porkers, had departed with their bargains to their +native district. After sauntering about a little time, I returned home. +After dinner I went again into the fair along with my wife; the stock +business had long been over, but I observed more stalls than in the +morning, and a far greater throng, for the country people for miles round +had poured into the little town. By a stall, on which were some poor +legs and shoulders of mutton, I perceived the English butcher, whom the +Welsh one had attempted to slaughter. I recognised him by a patch which +he wore on his cheek. My wife and I went up and inquired how he was. He +said that he still felt poorly, but that he hoped he should get round. I +asked him if he remembered me; and received for answer that he remembered +having seen me when the examination took place into “his matter.” I then +inquired what had become of his antagonist, and was told that he was in +prison awaiting his trial. I gathered from him that he was a native of +the Southdown country, and a shepherd by profession; that he had been +engaged by the squire of Porkington in Shropshire to look after his +sheep, and that he had lived there a year or two, but becoming tired of +his situation, he had come to Llangollen, where he had married a +Welshwoman, and set up as a butcher. We told him that, as he was our +countryman, we should be happy to deal with him sometimes; he, however, +received the information with perfect apathy, never so much as saying, +“Thank you.” He was a tall, lanikin figure, with a pair of large, +lack-lustre staring eyes, and upon the whole appeared to be good for very +little. Leaving him, we went some way up the principal street; presently +my wife turned into a shop, and I, observing a little bookstall, went up +to it, and began to inspect the books. They were chiefly in Welsh. +Seeing a kind of chap book, which bore on its title-page the name of Twm +O’r Nant, I took it up. It was called Y Llwyn Celyn, or the Holly Grove, +and contained the life and one of the interludes of Tom O’ the Dingle, or +Thomas Edwards. It purported to be the first of four numbers, each of +which, amongst other things, was to contain one of his interludes. The +price of the number was one shilling. I questioned the man of the stall +about the other numbers, but found that this was the only one which he +possessed. Eager, however, to read an interlude of the celebrated Tom, I +purchased it, and turned away from the stall. Scarcely had I done so, +when I saw a wild-looking woman, with two wild children, looking at me. +The woman curtseyed to me, and I thought I recognised the elder of the +two Irish females whom I had seen in the tent on the green meadow near +Chester. I was going to address her, but just then my wife called to me +from the shop, and I went to her, and when I returned to look for the +woman she and her children had disappeared, and though I searched about +for her, I could not see her, for which I was sorry, as I wished very +much to have some conversation with her about the ways of the Irish +wanderers. I was thinking of going to look for her up “Paddy’s dingle,” +but my wife, meeting me, begged me to go home with her, as it was getting +late. So I went home with my better half, bearing my late literary +acquisition in my hand. + +That night I sat up very late reading the life of Twm O’r Nant, written +by himself in choice Welsh, and his interlude, which was styled “Cyfoeth +a Thylody; or, Riches and Poverty.” The life I had read in my boyhood in +an old Welsh magazine, and I now read it again with great zest, and no +wonder, as it is probably the most remarkable autobiography ever penned. +The interlude I had never seen before, nor indeed any of the dramatic +pieces of Twm O’r Nant, though I had frequently wished to procure some of +them—so I read the present one with great eagerness. Of the life I shall +give some account, and also some extracts from it, which will enable the +reader to judge of Tom’s personal character, and also an abstract of the +interlude, from which the reader may form a tolerably correct idea of the +poetical powers of him whom his countrymen delight to call “the Welsh +Shakespear.” + + + + +CHAPTER LIX + + +History of Twm O’r Nant—Eagerness for Learning—The First Interlude—The +Cruel Fighter—Raising Wood—The Luckless Hour—Turnpike-Keeping—Death in +the Snow—Tom’s Great Feat—The Muse a Friend—Strength in Old +Age—Resurrection of the Dead. + +“I am the first-born of my parents,”—says Thomas Edwards. “They were +poor people, and very ignorant. I was brought into the world in a place +called Lower Pen Parchell, on land which once belonged to the celebrated +Iolo Goch. My parents afterwards removed to the Nant (or dingle) near +Nantglyn, situated in a place called Coom Pernant. The Nant was the +middlemost of three homesteads, which are in the Coom, and are called the +Upper, Middle, and Lower Nant; and it so happened that in the Upper Nant +there were people who had a boy of about the same age as myself, and +forasmuch as they were better to do in the world than my parents, they +having only two children, whilst mine had ten, I was called Tom of the +Dingle, whilst he was denominated Thomas Williams.” + +After giving some anecdotes of his childhood, he goes on thus:—“Time +passed on till I was about eight years old, and then in the summer I was +lucky enough to be sent to school for three weeks; and as soon as I had +learnt to spell and read a few words, I conceived a mighty desire to +learn to write; so I went in quest of elderberries to make me ink, and my +first essay in writing was trying to copy on the sides of the leaves of +books the letters of the words I read. It happened, however, that a shop +in the village caught fire, and the greater part of it was burnt, only a +few trifles being saved, and amongst the scorched articles my mother got +for a penny a number of sheets of paper burnt at the edges, and sewed +them together to serve as copybooks for me. Without loss of time I went +to the smith of Waendwysog, who wrote for me the letters on the upper +part of the leaves; and careful enough was I to fill the whole paper with +scrawlings, which looked for all the world like crows’ feet. I went on +getting paper and ink, and something to copy, now from this person, and +now from that, until I learned to read Welsh and to write it at the same +time.” + +He copied out a great many carols and songs, and the neighbours, +observing his fondness for learning, persuaded his father to allow him to +go to the village school to learn English. At the end of three weeks, +however, his father, considering that he was losing his time, would allow +him to go no longer, but took him into the fields, in order that the boy +might assist him in his labour. Nevertheless, Tom would not give up his +literary pursuits, but continued scribbling, and copying out songs and +carols. When he was about ten he formed an acquaintance with an old man, +chapel-reader in Pentré y Foelas, who had a great many old books in his +possession, which he allowed Tom to read; he then had the honour of +becoming amanuensis to a poet. + +“I became very intimate,” says he, “with a man who was a poet; he could +neither read nor write, but he was a poet by nature, having a muse +wonderfully glib at making triplets and quartets. He was nicknamed Tum +Tai of the Moor. He made an englyn for me to put in a book, in which I +was inserting all the verses I could collect: + + “‘Tom Evan’s the lad for hunting up songs, + Tom Evan to whom the best learning belongs; + Betwixt his two pasteboards he verses has got, + Sufficient to fill the whole country, I wot.’ + +“I was in the habit of writing my name Tom, or Thomas Evans, before I +went to school for a fortnight in order to learn English; but then I +altered it into Thomas Edwards, for Evan Edwards was the name of my +father, and I should have been making myself a bastard had I continued +calling myself by my first name. However, I had the honour of being +secretary to the old poet. When he had made a song, he would keep it in +his memory till I came to him. Sometimes after the old man had repeated +his composition to me, I would begin to dispute with him, asking whether +the thing would not be better another way, and he could hardly keep from +flying into a passion with me for putting his work to the torture.” + +It was then the custom for young lads to go about playing what were +called interludes, namely, dramatic pieces on religious or moral +subjects, written by rustic poets. Shortly after Tom had attained the +age of twelve he went about with certain lads of Nantglyn playing these +pieces, generally acting the part of a girl, because, as he says, he had +the best voice. About this time he wrote an interlude himself, founded +on “John Bunyan’s Spiritual Courtship,” which was, however, stolen from +him by a young fellow from Anglesey, along with the greater part of the +poems and pieces which he had copied. This affair at first very much +disheartened Tom; plucking up his spirits, however, he went on composing, +and soon acquired amongst his neighbours the title of “the poet,” to the +great mortification of his parents, who were anxious to see him become an +industrious husbandman. + +“Before I was quite fourteen,” says he, “I had made another interlude; +but when my father and mother heard about it, they did all they could to +induce me to destroy it. However, I would not burn it, but gave it to +Hugh of Llangwin, a celebrated poet of the time, who took it to +Llandyrnog, where he sold it for ten shillings to the lads of the place, +who performed it the following summer; but I never got anything for my +labour, save a sup of ale from the players when I met them. This at the +heel of other things would have induced me to give up poetry, had it been +in the power of anything to do so. I made two interludes,” he continues, +“one for the people of Llanbedr, in the Vale of Clwyd, and the other for +the lads of Llanarmon in Yale, one on the subject of Naaman’s leprosy, +and the other about hypocrisy, which was a refashionment of the work of +Richard Parry of Ddiserth. When I was young I had such a rage, or +madness, for poetising, that I would make a song on almost anything I +saw—and it was a mercy that many did not kill me, or break my bones, on +account of my evil tongue. My parents often told me I should have some +mischief done me if I went on in the way in which I was going. Once on a +time, being with some companions as bad as myself, I happened to use some +very free language in a place where three lovers were with a young lass +of my neighbourhood, who lived at a place called Ty Celyn, with whom they +kept company. I said in discourse that they were the cocks of Ty Celyn. +The girl heard me, and conceived a spite against me on account of my +scurrilous language. She had a brother, who was a cruel fighter; he took +the part of his sister, and determined to chastise me. One Sunday +evening he shouted to me as I was coming from Nantgyln—our ways were the +same till we got nearly home—he had determined to give me a thrashing, +and he had with him a piece of oak stick just suited for the purpose. +After we had taunted each other for some time, as we went along, he flung +his stick on the ground, and stripped himself stark naked. I took off my +hat and my neckcloth, and took his stick in my hand; whereupon, running +to the hedge, he took a stake, and straight we set to like two furies. +After fighting for some time, our sticks were shivered to pieces and +quite short; sometimes we were upon the ground, but did not give up +fighting on that account. Many people came up and would fain have parted +us, but we would by no means let them. At last we agreed to go and pull +fresh stakes, and then we went at it again, until he could no longer +stand. The marks of this battle are upon him and me to this day. At +last, covered with a gore of blood, he was dragged home by his +neighbours. He was in a dreadful condition, and many thought he would +die. On the morrow there came an alarm that he was dead, whereupon I +escaped across the mountain to Pentré y Foelas, to the old man Sion +Dafydd, to read his old books.” + +After staying there a little time, and getting his wounds tended by an +old woman, he departed, and skulked about in various places, doing now +and then a little work, until, hearing his adversary was recovering, he +returned to his home. He went on writing and performing interludes till +he fell in love with a young woman rather religiously inclined, whom he +married in the year 1763, when he was in his twenty-fourth year. The +young couple settled down on a little place near the town of Denbigh, +called Ale Fowlio. They kept three cows and four horses. The wife +superintended the cows, and Tom with his horses carried wood from +Gwenynos to Ruddlan, and soon excelled all other carters “in loading, and +in everything connected with the management of wood.” Tom, in the pride +of his heart, must needs be helping his fellow-carriers, whilst labouring +with them in the forests, till his wife told him he was a fool for his +pains, and advised him to go and load in the afternoon, when nobody would +be about, offering to go and help him. He listened to her advice, and +took her with him. + +“The dear creature,” says he, “assisted me for some time, but as she was +with child, and on that account not exactly fit to turn the roll of the +crane with levers of iron, I formed the plan of hooking the horses to the +rope, in order to raise up the wood which was to be loaded, and by long +teaching the horses to pull and to stop, I contrived to make loading a +much easier task, both to my wife and myself. Now this was the first +hooking of horses to the rope of the crane which was ever done either in +Wales or England. Subsequently I had plenty of leisure and rest, instead +of toiling amidst other carriers.” + +Leaving Ale Fowlio, he took up his abode nearer to Denbigh, and continued +carrying wood. Several of his horses died, and he was soon in +difficulties, and was glad to accept an invitation from certain miners of +the county of Flint to go and play them an interlude. As he was playing +them one called “A Vision of the Course of the World,” which he had +written for the occasion, and which was founded on, and named after, the +first part of the work of Master Ellis Wyn, he was arrested at the suit +of one Mostyn of Calcoed. He, however, got bail, and partly by carrying, +and partly by playing interludes, soon raised enough money to pay his +debt. He then made another interlude, called “Riches and Poverty,” by +which he gained a great deal of money. He then wrote two others, one +called “The Three Associates of Man, namely the World, Nature, and +Conscience;” the other entitled “The King, the Justice, the Bishop and +the Husbandman,” both of which he and certain of his companions acted +with great success. After he had made all that he could by acting these +pieces, he printed them. When printed, they had a considerable sale, and +Tom was soon able to set up again as a carter. He went on carting and +carrying for upwards of twelve years, at the end of which time he was +worth, with one thing and the other, upwards of three hundred pounds, +which was considered a very considerable property about ninety years ago +in Wales. He then, in a luckless hour, “when,” to use his own words, “he +was at leisure at home, like King David on the top of his house,” mixed +himself up with the concerns of an uncle of his, a brother of his father. +He first became bail for him, and subsequently made himself answerable +for the amount of a bill, due by his uncle to a lawyer. His becoming +answerable for the bill nearly proved the utter ruin of our hero. His +uncle failed, and left him to pay it. The lawyer took out a writ against +him. It would have been well for Tom if he had paid the money at once, +but he went on dallying and compromising with the lawyer, till he became +terribly involved in his web. To increase his difficulties, work became +slack; so at last he packed his things upon his carts, and with his +family, consisting of his wife and three daughters, fled into +Montgomeryshire. The lawyer, however, soon got information of his +whereabout, and threatened to arrest him. Tom, after trying in vain to +arrange matters with him, fled into South Wales, to Carmarthenshire, +where he carried wood for a timber-merchant, and kept a turnpike gate, +which belonged to the same individual. But the “old cancer” still +followed him, and his horses were seized for the debt. His neighbours, +however, assisted him, and bought the horses in at a low price when they +were put up for sale, and restored them to him, for what they had given. +Even then the matter was not satisfactorily settled, for, years +afterwards, on the decease of Tom’s father, the lawyer seized upon the +property, which by law descended to Tom O’r Nant, and turned his poor old +mother out upon the cold mountain side. + +Many strange adventures occurred to Tom in South Wales, but those which +befell him whilst officiating as a turnpike-keeper were certainly the +most extraordinary. If what he says be true, as of course it is—for who +shall presume to doubt Tom O’ the Dingle’s veracity?—whosoever fills the +office of turnpike-keeper in Wild Wales should be a person of very +considerable nerve. + +“We were in the habit of seeing,” says Tom, “plenty of passengers going +through the gate without paying toll; I mean such things as are called +phantoms, or illusions—sometimes there were hearses and mourning coaches, +sometimes funeral processions on foot, the whole to be seen as distinctly +as anything could be seen, especially at night-time. I saw myself on a +certain night a hearse go through the gate whilst it was shut; I saw the +horses and the harness, the postilion, and the coachman, and the tufts of +hair such as are seen on the tops of hearses, and I saw the wheels +scattering the stones in the road, just as other wheels would have done. +Then I saw a funeral of the same character, for all the world like a real +funeral; there was the bier and the black drapery. I have seen more than +one. If a young man was to be buried there would be a white sheet, or +something that looked like one—and sometimes I have seen a flaring candle +going past. + +“Once a traveller passing through the gate called out to me: ‘Look! +yonder is a corpse candle coming through the fields beside the highway.’ +So we paid attention to it as it moved, making apparently towards the +church from the other side. Sometimes it would be quite near the road, +another time some way into the fields. And sure enough after the lapse +of a little time a body was brought by exactly the same route by which +the candle had come, owing to the proper road being blocked up with snow. + +“Another time there happened a great wonder connected with an old man of +Carmarthen, who was in the habit of carrying fish to Brecon, Menny, and +Monmouth, and returning with the poorer kind of Gloucester cheese: my +people knew he was on the road, and had made ready for him, the weather +being dreadful, wind blowing and snow drifting. Well! in the middle of +the night my daughters heard the voice of the old man at the gate, and +their mother called to them to open it quick, and invite the old man to +come in to the fire! One of the girls got up forthwith, but when she +went out there was nobody to be seen. On the morrow, lo, and behold! the +body of the old man was brought past on a couch, he having perished in +the snow on the mountain of Tre’r Castell. Now this is the truth of the +matter.” + +Many wonderful feats did Tom perform connected with loading and carrying, +which acquired for him the reputation of being the best wood carter of +the south. His dexterity at moving huge bodies was probably never +equalled. Robinson Crusoe was not half so handy. Only see how he moved +a ship into the water, which a multitude of people were unable to do. + +“After keeping the gate for two or three years,” says he, “I took the +lease of a piece of ground in Llandeilo Fawr, and built a house upon it, +which I got licensed as a tavern for my daughters to keep. I myself went +on carrying wood as usual. Now it happened that my employer, the +merchant at Abermarlais, had built a small ship, of about thirty or forty +tons, in the wood, about a mile and a quarter from the river Towy, which +is capable of floating small vessels as far as Carmarthen. He had +resolved that the people should draw it to the river by way of sport, and +had caused proclamation to be made in four parish churches, that on such +a day a ship would be launched at Abermarlais, and that food and drink +would be given to any one who would come and lend a hand at the work. +Four hogsheads of ale were broached, a great oven full of bread was +baked, plenty of cheese and butter bought, and meat cooked for the more +respectable people. The ship was provided with four wheels, or rather +four great rolling stocks, fenced about with iron, with great big +axle-trees in them, well greased against the appointed day. I had been +loading in the wood that day, and sending the team forward, I went to see +the business—and a pretty piece of business it turned out. All the food +was eaten, the drink swallowed to the last drop, the ship drawn about +three roods, and then left in a deep ditch. By this time night was +coming on, and the multitude went away, some drunk, some hungry for want +of food, but the greater part laughing as if they would split their +sides. The merchant cried like a child, bitterly lamenting his folly, +and told me that he should have to take the ship to pieces before he +could ever get it out of the ditch. + +“I told him that I could take it to the river, provided I could but get +three or four men to help me; whereupon he said that if I could but get +the vessel to the water, he would give me anything I asked, and earnestly +begged me to come the next morning, if possible. I did come, with the +lad and four horses. I went before the team, and set the men to work to +break a hole through a great old wall, which stood as it were before the +ship. We then laid a piece of timber across the hole from which was a +chain, to which the tackle—that is, the rope and pulleys—was hooked. We +then hooked one end of the rope to the ship, and set the horses to pull +at the other. The ship came out of the hole prosperously enough, and +then we had to hook the tackle to a tree, which was growing near, and by +this means we got the ship forward; but when we came to soft ground we +were obliged to put planks under the wheels to prevent their sinking +under the immense weight; when we came to the end of the foremost planks, +we put the hinder ones before, and so on; when there was no tree at hand +to which we could hook the tackle, we were obliged to drive a post down +to hook it to. So from tree to post it got down to the river in a few +days. I was promised noble wages by the merchant, but I never got +anything from him but promises and praises. Some people came to look at +us, and gave us money to get ale, and that was all.” + +The merchant subsequently turned out a very great knave, cheating Tom on +various occasions, and finally broke, very much in his debt. Tom was +obliged to sell off everything, and left South Wales without horses or +waggon; his old friend the Muse, however, stood him in good stead. + +“Before I left,” says he, “I went to Brecon, and printed the ‘Interlude +of the King, the Justice, the Bishop, and the Husbandman,’ and got an old +acquaintance of mine to play it with me, and help me to sell the books. +I likewise busied myself in getting subscribers to a book of songs called +the ‘Garden of Minstrelsy.’ It was printed at Trefecca. The expense +attending the printing amounted to fifty-two pounds, but I was fortunate +enough to dispose of two thousand copies. I subsequently composed an +interlude called ‘Pleasure and Care,’ and printed it; and after that I +made an interlude called the ‘Three Powerful Ones of the World: Poverty, +Love, and Death.’” + +The poet’s daughters were not successful in the tavern speculation at +Llandeilo, and followed their father into North Wales. The second he +apprenticed to a milliner, the other two lived with him till the day of +his death. He settled at Denbigh in a small house, which he was enabled +to furnish by means of two or three small sums which he recovered for +work done a long time before. Shortly after his return, his father died, +and the lawyer seized the little property “for the old curse,” and turned +Tom’s mother out. + +After his return from the South, Tom went about for some time playing +interludes, and then turned his hand to many things. He learnt the trade +of stonemason, took jobs, and kept workmen. He then went amongst certain +bricklayers, and induced them to teach him their craft; “and shortly,” as +he says, “became a very lion at bricklaying. For the last four or five +years,” says he, towards the conclusion of his history, “my work has been +to put up iron ovens, and likewise furnaces of all kinds, also grates, +stoves and boilers, and not unfrequently I have practised as a smoke +doctor.” + +The following feats of strength he performed after his return from South +Wales, when he was probably about sixty years of age:— + +“About a year after my return from the South,” says he, “I met with an +old carrier of wood, who had many a time worked along with me. He and I +were at the Hand at Ruthyn, along with various others, and in the course +of discourse my friend said to me: ‘Tom, thou art much weaker than thou +wast when we carted wood together.’ I answered that in my opinion I was +not a bit weaker than I was then. Now it happened that at the moment we +were talking there were some sacks of wheat in the hall, which were going +to Chester by the carrier’s waggon. They might hold about three bushels +each, and I said that if I could get three of the sacks upon the table, +and had them tied together, I would carry them into the street and back +again; and so I did; many who were present tried to do the same thing, +but all failed. + +“Another time when I was at Chester I lifted a barrel of porter from the +street to the hinder part of the waggon, solely by strength of back and +arms.” + +He was once run over by a loaded waggon, but, strange to say, escaped +without the slightest injury. + +Towards the close of his life he had strong religious convictions, and +felt a loathing for the sins which he had committed. “On their account,” +says he, in the concluding page of his biography, “there is a strong +necessity for me to consider my ways, and to inquire about a Saviour, +since it is utterly impossible for me to save myself without obtaining +knowledge of the merits of the Mediator, in which I hope I shall +terminate my short time on earth in the peace of God enduring unto all +eternity.” + +He died in the year 1810, at the age of 71, shortly after the death of +his wife, who seems to have been a faithful, loving partner. By her side +he was buried in the earth of the graveyard of the White Church, near +Denbigh. There can be little doubt that the souls of both will be +accepted on the great day when, as Gronwy Owen says:— + +“Like corn from the belly of the ploughed field, in a thick crop, those +buried in the earth shall arise, and the sea shall cast forth a thousand +myriads of dead above the deep billowy way.” + + + + +CHAPTER LX + + +Mystery Plays—The Two Prime Opponents—Analysis of Interlude—“Riches and +Poverty”—Tom’s Grand Qualities. + +In the preceding chapter I have given an abstract of the life of Tom O’ +the Dingle; I will now give an analysis of his interlude; first, however, +a few words on interludes in general. It is difficult to say, with +anything like certainty, what is the meaning of the word interlude. It +may mean, as Warton supposes in his history of English Poetry, a short +play performed between the courses of a banquet, or festival; or it may +mean the playing of something by two or more parties, the interchange of +playing or acting which occurs when two or more people act. It was about +the middle of the fifteenth century that dramatic pieces began in England +to be called Interludes; for some time previous they had been styled +Moralities; but the earliest name by which they were known was Mysteries. +The first Mysteries composed in England were by one Ranald, or Ranulf, a +monk of Chester, who flourished about 1322, whose verses are mentioned +rather irreverently in one of the visions of Piers Plowman, who puts them +in the same rank as the ballads about Robin Hood and Maid Marion, making +Sloth say: + + “I cannot perfitly my Paternoster as the priest it singeth, + But I can rhymes of Robin Hood and Ranald of Chester.” + +Long, however, before the time of this Ranald, Mysteries had been +composed and represented both in Italy and France. The Mysteries were +very rude compositions; little more, as Warton says, than literal +representations of portions of Scripture. They derived their name of +Mysteries from being generally founded on the more mysterious parts of +Holy Writ—for example, the Incarnation, the Atonement and the +Resurrection. The Moralities displayed something more of art and +invention than the Mysteries; in them virtues, vices and qualities were +personified, and something like a plot was frequently to be discovered. +They were termed Moralities because each had its moral, which was spoken +at the end of the piece by a person called the Doctor. {349} Much that +has been said about the moralities holds good with respect to the +interludes. Indeed, for some time dramatic pieces were called moralities +and interludes indifferently. In both there is a mixture of allegory and +reality. The latter interludes, however, display more of everyday life +than was ever observable in the moralities, and more closely approximate +to modern plays. Several writers of genius have written interludes, +amongst whom are the English Skelton and the Scottish Lindsay, the latter +of whom wrote eight pieces of that kind, the most celebrated of which is +called “The Puir Man and the Pardonar.” Both of these writers flourished +about the same period, and made use of the interlude as a means of +satirising the vices of the popish clergy. In the time of Charles the +First the interlude went much out of fashion in England; in fact, the +play, or regular drama, had superseded it. In Wales, however, it +continued to the beginning of the present century, when it yielded to the +influence of Methodism. Of all Welsh interlude composers, Twm O’r Nant, +or Tom of the Dingle, was the most famous. Here follows the promised +analysis of his “Riches and Poverty.” + +The entire title of the interlude is to this effect. The two prime +opponents Riches and Poverty. A brief exposition of their contrary +effects on the world; with short and appropriate explanations of their +quality and substance, according to the rule of the four elements, Water, +Fire, Earth, and Air. + +First of all enter Fool, Sir Jemant Wamal, who in rather a foolish speech +tells the audience that they are about to hear a piece composed by Tom +the poet. Then appears Captain Riches, who makes a long speech about his +influence in the world, and the general contempt in which Poverty is +held; he is, however, presently checked by the Fool, who tells him some +home truths, and asks him, among other questions, whether Solomon did not +say that it is not meet to despise a poor man, who conducts himself +rationally. Then appears Howel Tightbelly, the miser, who in capital +verse, with very considerable glee and exultation, gives an account of +his manifold rascalities. Then comes his wife, Esther Steady, home from +the market, between whom and her husband there is a pithy dialogue. +Captain Riches and Captain Poverty then meet, without rancour, however, +and have a long discourse about the providence of God, whose agents they +own themselves to be. Enter then an old worthless scoundrel called +Diogyn Trwstan, or Luckless Lazybones, who is upon the parish, and who, +in a very entertaining account of his life, confesses that he was never +good for anything, but was a liar and an idler from his infancy. Enter +again the Miser along with poor Lowry, who asks the Miser for meal, and +other articles, but gets nothing but threatening language. There is then +a very edifying dialogue between Mr. Contemplation and Mr. Truth, who, +when they retire, are succeeded on the stage by the Miser and John the +Tavern-keeper. The publican owes the Miser money, and begs that he will +be merciful to him. The Miser, however, swears that he will be satisfied +with nothing but bond and judgment on his effects. The publican very +humbly says that he will go to a friend of his, in order to get the bond +made out; almost instantly comes the Fool, who reads an inventory of the +publican’s effects. The Miser then sings for very gladness, because +everything in the world has hitherto gone well with him; turning round, +however, what is his horror and astonishment to behold Mr. Death, close +by him. Death hauls the Miser away, and then appears the Fool to +moralise and dismiss the audience. + +The appropriate explanations mentioned in the title are given in various +songs which the various characters sing after describing themselves, or +after dialogues with each other. The announcement that the whole +exposition, etc., will be after the rule of the four elements, is rather +startling; the dialogue, however, between Captain Riches and Captain +Poverty shows that Tom was equal to his subject, and promised nothing +that he could not perform. + + _Enter_ CAPTAIN POVERTY. + + O Riches, thy figure is charming and bright, + And to speak in thy praise all the world doth delight, + But I’m a poor fellow all tatter’d and torn, + Whom all the world treateth with insult and scorn. + + RICHES. + + However mistaken the judgment may be + Of the world which is never from ignorance free, + The parts we must play, which to us are assign’d, + According as God has enlighten’d our mind. + + Of elements four did our Master create, + The earth and all in it with skill the most great; + Need I the world’s four materials declare— + Are they not water, fire, earth, and air? + + Too wise was the mighty Creator to frame + A world from one element, water or flame; + The one is full moist and the other full hot, + And a world made of either were useless, I wot. + + And if it had all of mere earth been compos’d, + And no water nor fire been within it enclos’d, + It could ne’er have produc’d for a huge multitude + Of all kinds of living things suitable food. + + And if God what was wanted had not fully known, + But created the world of these three things alone, + How would any creature the heaven beneath, + Without the blest air have been able to breathe? + + Thus all things created, the God of all grace, + Of four prime materials, each good in its place. + The work of His hands, when completed, He view’d, + And saw and pronounc’d that ’twas seemly and good. + + POVERTY. + + In the marvellous things, which to me thou hast told + The wisdom of God I most clearly behold, + And did He not also make man of the same + Materials He us’d when the world He did frame? + + RICHES. + + Creation is all, as the sages agree, + Of the elements four in man’s body that be; + Water’s the blood, and fire is the nature + Which prompts generation in every creature. + + The earth is the flesh which with beauty is rife, + The air is the breath, without which is no life; + So man must be always accounted the same + As the substances four which exist in his frame. + + And as in their creation distinction there’s none + ’Twixt man and the world, so the Infinite One + Unto man a clear wisdom did bounteously give + The nature of everything to perceive. + + POVERTY. + + But one thing to me passing strange doth appear: + Since the wisdom of man is so bright and so clear, + How comes there such jarring and warring to be + In the world betwixt Riches and Poverty? + + RICHES. + + That point we’ll discuss without passion or fear + With the aim of instructing the listeners here; + And haply some few who instruction require + May profit derive like the bee from the briar. + + Man as thou knowest, in his generation + Is a type of the world and of all the creation; + Difference there’s none in the manner of birth + ’Twixt the lowliest hinds and the lords of the earth. + + The world which the same thing as man we account + In one place is sea, in another is mount; + A part of it rock, and a part of it dale— + God’s wisdom has made every place to avail. + + There exist precious treasures of every kind + Profoundly in earth’s quiet bosom enshrin’d; + There’s searching about them, and ever has been, + And by some they are found, and by some never seen. + + With wonderful wisdom the Lord God on high + Has contriv’d the two lights which exist in the sky; + The sun’s hot as fire, and its ray bright as gold, + But the moon’s ever pale, and by nature is cold. + + The sun, which resembles a huge world of fire, + Would burn up full quickly creation entire + Save the moon with its temp’rament cool did assuage + Of its brighter companion the fury and rage. + + Now I beg you the sun and the moon to behold, + The one that’s so bright, and the other so cold, + And say if two things in creation there be + Better emblems of Riches and Poverty. + + POVERTY. + + In manner most brief, yet convincing and clear, + You have told the whole truth to my wond’ring ear, + And I see that ’twas God, who in all things is fair, + Has assign’d us the forms, in this world which we bear. + + In the sight of the world doth the wealthy man seem + Like the sun which doth warm everything with its beam; + Whilst the poor needy wight with his pitiable case + Resembles the moon which doth chill with its face. + + RICHES. + + You know that full oft, in their course as they run, + An eclipse cometh over the moon or the sun; + Certain hills of the earth with their summits of pride + The face of the one from the other do hide. + + The sun doth uplift his magnificent head, + And illumines the moon, which were otherwise dead, + Even as Wealth from its station on high, + Giveth work and provision to Poverty. + + POVERTY. + + I know, and the thought mighty sorrow instils, + The sins of the world are the terrible hills + An eclipse which do cause, or a dread obscuration, + To one or another in every vocation. + + RICHES. + + It is true that God gives unto each from his birth + Some task to perform whilst he wends upon earth, + But He gives correspondent wisdom and force + To the weight of the task, and the length of the course. + + [_Exit_. + + POVERTY. + + I hope there are some, who ’twixt me and the youth + Have heard this discourse, whose sole aim is the truth, + Will see and acknowledge, as homeward they plod, + Each thing is arrang’d by the wisdom of God. + +There can be no doubt that Tom was a poet, or he could never have treated +the hackneyed subjects of Riches and Poverty in a manner so original, and +at the same time so masterly, as he has done in the interlude above +analysed; I cannot, however, help thinking that he was greater as a man +than a poet, and that his fame depends more on the cleverness, courage +and energy, which it is evident by his biography that he possessed, than +on his interludes. A time will come when his interludes will cease to be +read, but his making ink out of elderberries, his battle with the “cruel +fighter,” his teaching his horses to turn the crane, and his getting the +ship to the water, will be talked of in Wales till the peak of Snowdon +shall fall down. + + + + +CHAPTER LXI + + +Set out for Wrexham—Craig y Forwyn—Uncertainty—The Collier—Cadogan +Hall—Methodistical Volume. + +Having learnt from a newspaper that a Welsh book on Welsh Methodism had +been just published at Wrexham, I determined to walk to that place and +purchase it. I could easily have procured the work through a bookseller +at Llangollen, but I wished to explore the hill-road which led to +Wrexham, what the farmer under the Eglwysig rocks had said of its +wildness having excited my curiosity, which the procuring of the book +afforded me a plausible excuse for gratifying. If one wants to take any +particular walk, it is always well to have some business, however +trifling, to transact at the end of it; so having determined to go to +Wrexham by the mountain road, I set out on the Saturday next after the +one on which I had met the farmer who had told me of it. + +The day was gloomy, with some tendency to rain. I passed under the hill +of Dinas Bran. About a furlong from its western base I turned round and +surveyed it—and perhaps the best view of the noble mountain is to be +obtained from the place where I turned round. How grand, though sad, +from there it looked, that grey morning, with its fine ruin on its brow, +above which a little cloud hovered! It put me in mind of some old king, +unfortunate and melancholy, but a king still, with the look of a king, +and the ancestral crown still on his furrowed forehead. I proceeded on +my way, all was wild and solitary, and the yellow leaves were falling +from the trees of the groves. I passed by the farmyard, where I had held +discourse with the farmer on the preceding Saturday, and soon entered the +glen, the appearance of which had so much attracted my curiosity. A +torrent, rushing down from the north, was on my right. It soon began to +drizzle, and mist so filled the glen that I could only distinguish +objects a short way before me, and on either side. I wandered on a +considerable way, crossing the torrent several times by rustic bridges. +I passed two lone farm-houses, and at last saw another on my left +hand—the mist had now cleared up, but it still slightly rained—the +scenery was wild to a degree—a little way before me was a tremendous +pass, near it an enormous crag, of a strange form, rising to the very +heavens, the upper part of it of a dull white colour. Seeing a +respectable-looking man near the house, I went up to him. “Am I in the +right way to Wrexham?” said I, addressing him in English. + +“You can get to Wrexham this way, sir,” he replied. + +“Can you tell me the name of that crag?” said I, pointing to the large +one. + +“That crag, sir, is called Craig y Forwyn.” + +“The maiden’s crag,” said I; “why is it called so?” + +“I do not know, sir; some people say that it is called so because its +head is like that of a woman, others because a young girl in love leaped +from the top of it and was killed.” + +“And what is the name of this house?” said I. + +“This house, sir, is called Plas Uchaf.” + +“Is it called Plas Uchaf,” said I, “because it is the highest house in +the valley?” + +“It is, sir; it is the highest of three homesteads; the next below it is +Plas Canol—and the one below that Plas Isaf.” + +“Middle place and lower place,” said I. “It is very odd that I know in +England three people who derive their names from places so situated. One +is Houghton, another Middleton, and the third Lowdon; in modern English, +Hightown, Middletown, and Lowtown.” + +“You appear to be a person of great intelligence, sir.” + +“No, I am not—but I am rather fond of analysing words, particularly the +names of persons and places. Is the road to Wrexham hard to find?” + +“Not very, sir; that is, in the day-time. Do you live at Wrexham?” + +“No,” I replied, “I am stopping at Llangollen.” + +“But you won’t return there to-night?” + +“O yes, I shall!” + +“By this road?” + +“No, by the common road. This is not a road to travel by night.” + +“Nor is the common road, sir, for a respectable person on foot; that is, +on a Saturday night. You will perhaps meet drunken colliers, who may +knock you down.” + +“I will take my chance for that,” said I, and bade him farewell. I +entered the pass, passing under the strange-looking crag. After I had +walked about half-a-mile the pass widened considerably, and a little way +farther on debouched on some wild, moory ground. Here the road became +very indistinct. At length I stopped in a state of uncertainty. A +well-defined path presented itself, leading to the east, whilst northward +before me there seemed scarcely any path at all. After some hesitation I +turned to the east by the well-defined path, and by so doing went wrong, +as I soon found. + +I mounted the side of a brown hill covered with moss-like grass, and here +and there heather. By the time I arrived at the top of the hill the sun +shone out, and I saw Rhiwabon and Cefn Mawr before me in the distance. +“I am going wrong,” said I; “I should have kept on due north. However, I +will not go back, but will steeplechase it across the country to Wrexham, +which must be towards the north-east.” So turning aside from the path, I +dashed across the hills in that direction; sometimes the heather was up +to my knees, and sometimes I was up to the knees in quags. At length I +came to a deep ravine, which I descended; at the bottom was a quagmire, +which, however, I contrived to cross by means of certain stepping-stones, +and came to a cart-path up a heathery hill, which I followed. I soon +reached the top of the hill, and the path still continuing, I followed it +till I saw some small grimy-looking huts, which I supposed were those of +colliers. At the door of the first I saw a girl. I spoke to her in +Welsh, and found she had little or none. I passed on, and seeing the +door of a cabin open, I looked in—and saw no adult person, but several +grimy but chubby children. I spoke to them in English, and found they +could only speak Welsh. Presently I observed a robust woman advancing +towards me; she was barefooted, and bore on her head an immense lump of +coal. I spoke to her in Welsh, and found she could only speak English. +“Truly,” said I to myself, “I am on the borders. What a mixture of races +and languages!” The next person I met was a man in a collier’s dress; he +was a stout-built fellow of the middle age, with a coal-dusty, surly +countenance. I asked him in Welsh if I was in the right direction for +Wrexham, he answered in a surly manner in English that I was. I again +spoke to him in Welsh, making some indifferent observation on the +weather, and he answered in English yet more gruffly than before. For +the third time I spoke to him in Welsh, whereupon, looking at me with a +grin of savage contempt, and showing a set of teeth like those of a +mastiff, he said, “How’s this? why, you haven’t a word of English! A +pretty fellow, you, with a long coat on your back, and no English on your +tongue; an’t you ashamed of yourself? Why, here am I in a short coat, +yet I’d have you to know that I can speak English as well as Welsh, aye, +and a good deal better.” “All people are not equally clebber,” said I, +still speaking Welsh. “Clebber,” said he, “clebber! what is clebber? why +can’t you say clever? Why, I never saw such a low, illiterate fellow in +my life;” and with these words he turned away, with every mark of +disdain, and entered a cottage near at hand. + +“Here I have had,” said I to myself, as I proceeded on my way, “to pay +for the over-praise which I lately received. The farmer on the other +side of the mountain called me a person of great intelligence, which I +never pretended to be, and now this collier calls me a low, illiterate +fellow, which I really don’t think I am. There is certainly a Nemesis +mixed up with the affairs of this world; every good thing which you get, +beyond what is strictly your due, is sure to be required from you with a +vengeance. A little over-praise by a great deal of under-rating—a gleam +of good fortune by a night of misery.” + +I now saw Wrexham Church at about the distance of three miles, and +presently entered a lane which led gently down from the hills, which were +the same heights I had seen on my right hand, some months previously, on +my way from Wrexham to Rhiwabon. The scenery now became very +pretty—hedge-rows were on either side, a luxuriance of trees, and plenty +of green fields. I reached the bottom of the lane, beyond which I saw a +strange-looking house upon a slope on the right hand. It was very large, +ruinous, and seemingly deserted. A little beyond it was a farm-house, +connected with which was a long row of farming buildings along the +roadside. Seeing a woman seated knitting at the door of a little +cottage, I asked her in English the name of the old ruinous house. + +“Cadogan Hall, sir,” she replied. + +“And whom does it belong to?” said I. + +“I don’t know exactly,” replied the woman, “but Mr. Morris at the farm +holds it, and stows his things in it.” + +“Can you tell me anything about it?” said I. + +“Nothing farther,” said the woman, “than that it is said to be haunted, +and to have been a barrack many years ago.” + +“Can you speak Welsh?” said I. + +“No,” said the woman; “I are Welsh, but have no Welsh language.” + +Leaving the woman, I put on my best speed, and in about half-an-hour +reached Wrexham. + +The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to the bookshop and +purchase the Welsh methodistic book. It cost me seven shillings, and was +a thick, bulky octavo, with a cut-and-come-again expression about it, +which was anything but disagreeable to me, for I hate your flimsy +publications. The evening was now beginning to set in, and feeling +somewhat hungry, I hurried off to the Wynstay Arms, through streets +crowded with market people. On arriving at the inn, I entered the grand +room and ordered dinner. The waiters, observing me splashed with mud +from head to foot, looked at me dubiously; seeing, however, the +respectable-looking volume which I bore in my hand—none of your railroad +stuff—they became more assured, and I presently heard one say to the +other, “It’s all right—that’s Mr. So-and-so, the great Baptist preacher. +He has been preaching amongst the hills—don’t you see his Bible?” + +Seating myself at a table, I inspected the volume. And here, perhaps, +the reader expects that I shall regale him with an analysis of the +methodistical volume at least as long as that of the life of Tom O’ the +Dingle. In that case, however, he will be disappointed; all that I shall +at present say of it is, that it contained a history of Methodism in +Wales, with the lives of the principal Welsh Methodists. That it was +fraught with curious and original matter, was written in a +straightforward, methodical style, and that I have no doubt it will some +day or other be extensively known and highly prized. + +After dinner I called for half a pint of wine. Whilst I was trifling +over it, a commercial traveller entered into conversation with me. After +some time he asked me if I was going further that night. + +“To Llangollen,” said I. + +“By the ten o’clock train?” said he. + +“No,” I replied, “I am going on foot.” + +“On foot!” said he; “I would not go on foot there this night for fifty +pounds.” + +“Why not?” said I. + +“For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all out and +drunk.” + +“If not more than two attack me,” said I, “I shan’t much mind. With this +book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can find play for the +other with my fists.” + +The commercial traveller looked at me. “A strange kind of Baptist +minister,” I thought I heard him say. + + + + +CHAPTER LXII + + +Rhiwabon Road—The Public-house Keeper—No Welsh—The Wrong Road—The Good +Wife. + +I paid my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing in. +I passed the toll-gate, and hurried along the Rhiwabon road, overtaking +companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many individuals, whom, +from their thick and confused speech, as well as from their staggering +gait, I judged to be intoxicated. As I passed a red public-house on my +right hand, at the door of which stood several carts, a scream of Welsh +issued from it. + +“Let any Saxon,” said I, “who is fond of fighting, and wishes for a +bloody nose, go in there.” + +Coming to the small village about a mile from Rhiwabon, I felt thirsty, +and seeing a public-house, in which all seemed to be quiet, I went in. A +thick-set man, with a pipe in his mouth, sat in the tap-room, and also a +woman. + +“Where is the landlord?” said I. + +“I am the landlord,” said the man huskily. “What do you want?” + +“A pint of ale,” said I. + +The man got up, and, with his pipe in his mouth, went staggering out of +the room. In about a minute he returned, holding a mug in his hand, +which he put down on a table before me, spilling no slight quantity of +the liquor as he did so. I put down three-pence on the table. He took +the money up slowly, piece by piece, looked at it, and appeared to +consider; then taking the pipe out of his mouth, he dashed it to seven +pieces against the table, then staggered out of the room into the +passage, and from thence apparently out of the house. I tasted the ale, +which was very good; then turning to the woman, who seemed about +three-and-twenty, and was rather good-looking, I spoke to her in Welsh. + +“I have no Welsh, sir,” said she. + +“How is that?” said I; “this village is, I think, in the Welshery.” + +“It is,” said she; “but I am from Shropshire.” + +“Are you the mistress of the house?” said I. + +“No,” said she, “I am married to a collier;” then getting up, she said, +“I must go and see after my husband.” + +“Won’t you take a glass of ale first?” said I, offering to fill a glass +which stood on the table. + +“No,” said she; “I am the worst in the world for a glass of ale;” and +without saying anything more she departed. + +“I wonder whether your husband is anything like you with respect to a +glass of ale?” said I to myself; then finishing my ale, I got up and left +the house, which, when I departed, appeared to be entirely deserted. + +It was now quite night, and it would have been pitchy-dark but for the +glare of the forges. There was an immense glare to the south-west, which +I conceived proceeded from those of Cefn Mawr. It lighted up the +south-western sky; then there were two other glares nearer to me, +seemingly divided by a lump of something, perhaps a grove of trees. + +Walking very fast, I soon overtook a man. I knew him at once by his +staggering gait. + +“Ah, landlord!” said I; “whither bound?” + +“To Rhiwabon,” said he, huskily, “for a pint.” + +“Is the ale so good at Rhiwabon,” said I, “that you leave home for it?” + +“No,” said he, rather shortly, “there’s not a glass of good ale in +Rhiwabon.” + +“Then why do you go thither?” said I. + +“Because a pint of bad liquor abroad is better than a quart of good at +home,” said the landlord, reeling against the hedge. + +“There are many in a higher station than you who act upon that +principle,” thought I to myself as I passed on. + +I soon reached Rhiwabon. There was a prodigious noise in the +public-houses as I passed through it. “Colliers carousing,” said I. +“Well, I shall not go amongst them to preach temperance, though perhaps +in strict duty I ought.” At the end of the town, instead of taking the +road on the left side of the church, I took that on the right. It was +not till I had proceeded nearly a mile that I began to be apprehensive +that I had mistaken the way. Hearing some people coming towards me on +the road, I waited till they came up; they proved to be a man and a +woman. On my inquiring whether I was right for Llangollen, the former +told me that I was not, and in order to get there it was necessary that I +should return to Rhiwabon. I instantly turned round. About half-way +back I met a man who asked me in English where I was hurrying to. I said +to Rhiwabon, in order to get to Llangollen. “Well, then,” said he, “you +need not return to Rhiwabon—yonder is a short cut across the fields,” and +he pointed to a gate. I thanked him, and said I would go by it; before +leaving him, I asked to what place the road led which I had been +following. + +“To Pentre Castren,” he replied. I struck across the fields, and should +probably have tumbled half-a-dozen times over pales and the like, but for +the light of the Cefn furnaces before me, which cast their red glow upon +my path. I debouched upon the Llangollen road near to the tramway +leading to the collieries. Two enormous sheets of flame shot up high +into the air from ovens, illumining two spectral chimneys as high as +steeples, also smoky buildings, and grimy figures moving about. There +was a clanging of engines, a noise of shovels and a falling of coals +truly horrible. The glare was so great that I could distinctly see the +minutest lines upon my hand. Advancing along the tramway, I obtained a +nearer view of the hellish buildings, the chimneys and the demoniac +figures. It was just such a scene as one of those described by Ellis +Wynn in his Vision of Hell. Feeling my eyes scorching, I turned away, +and proceeded towards Llangollen, sometimes on the muddy road, sometimes +on the dangerous causeway. For three miles at least I met nobody. Near +Llangollen, as I was walking on the causeway, three men came swiftly +towards me. I kept the hedge, which was my right; the two first brushed +roughly past me, the third came full upon me, and was tumbled into the +road. There was a laugh from the two first, and a loud curse from the +last as he sprawled in the mire. I merely said “Nos Da’ki,” and passed +on, and in about a quarter of an hour reached home, where I found my wife +awaiting me alone, Henrietta having gone to bed, being slightly +indisposed. My wife received me with a cheerful smile. I looked at her, +and the good wife of the Triad came to my mind. + +“She is modest, void of deceit, and obedient. + +“Pure of conscience, gracious of tongue, and true to her husband. + +“Her heart not proud, her manners affable, and her bosom full of +compassion for the poor. + +“Labouring to be tidy, skilful of hand, and fond of praying to God. + +“Her conversation amiable, her dress decent, and her house orderly. + +“Quick of hand, quick of eye, and quick of understanding. + +“Her person shapely, her manners agreeable, and her heart innocent. + +“Her face benignant, her head intelligent, and provident. + +“Neighbourly, gentle, and of a liberal way of thinking. + +“Able in directing, providing what is wanting, and a good mother to her +children. + +“Loving her husband, loving peace, and loving God. + +“Happy the man,” adds the Triad, “who possesses such a wife.” Very true, +O Triad, always provided he is in some degree worthy of her; but many a +man leaves an innocent wife at home for an impure Jezebel abroad, even as +many a one prefers a pint of hog’s wash abroad to a tankard of generous +liquor at home. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIII + + +Preparations for Departure—Cat provided for—A Pleasant Party—Last Night +at Llangollen. + +I was awakened early on the Sunday morning by the howling of wind. There +was a considerable storm throughout the day, but unaccompanied by rain. +I went to church both in the morning and the evening. The next day there +was a great deal of rain. It was now the latter end of October; winter +was coming on, and my wife and daughter were anxious to return home. +After some consultation, it was agreed that they should depart for +London, and that I should join them there after making a pedestrian tour +in South Wales. + +I should have been loth to quit Wales without visiting the Deheubarth, or +Southern Region, a land differing widely, as I had heard, both in +language and customs from Gwynedd, or the Northern—a land which had given +birth to the illustrious Ab Gwilym, and where the great Ryce family had +flourished, which very much distinguished itself in the Wars of the +Roses—a member of which, Ryce ap Thomas, placed Henry the Seventh on the +throne of Britain—a family of royal extraction, and which, after the +death of Roderic the Great, for a long time enjoyed the sovereignty of +the south. + +We set about making the necessary preparations for our respective +journeys. Those for mine were soon made. I bought a small leather +satchel with a lock and key, in which I placed a white linen shirt, a +pair of worsted stockings, a razor and a prayer-book. Along with it I +bought a leather strap with which to sling it over my shoulder; I got my +boots new soled, my umbrella, which was rather dilapidated, mended; put +twenty sovereigns into my purse, and then said I am all right for the +Deheubarth. + +As my wife and daughter required much more time in making preparations +for their journey than I for mine, and as I should only be in their way +whilst they were employed, it was determined that I should depart on my +expedition on Thursday, and that they should remain at Llangollen till +the Saturday. + +We were at first in some perplexity with respect to the disposal of the +ecclesiastical cat; it would, of course, not do to leave it in the +garden, to the tender mercies of the Calvinistic Methodists of the +neighbourhood, more especially those of the flannel manufactory, and my +wife and daughter could hardly carry it with them. At length we thought +of applying to a young woman of sound Church principles, who was lately +married, and lived over the water on the way to the railroad station, +with whom we were slightly acquainted, to take charge of the animal; and +she, on the first intimation of our wish, willingly acceded to it. So +with her poor puss was left, along with a trifle for its milk-money, and +with her, as we subsequently learned, it continued in peace and comfort, +till one morning it sprang suddenly from the hearth into the air, gave a +mew and died. So much for the ecclesiastical cat! + +The morning of Tuesday was rather fine, and Mr. Ebenezer E—, who had +heard of our intended departure, came to invite us to spend the evening +at the vicarage. His father had left Llangollen the day before for +Chester, where he expected to be detained some days. I told him we +should be most happy to come. He then asked me to take a walk. I agreed +with pleasure, and we set out, intending to go to Llansilio, at the +western end of the valley, and look at the church. The church was an +ancient building. It had no spire, but had the little erection on its +roof, so usual to Welsh churches, for holding a bell. + +In the churchyard is a tomb, in which an old squire of the name of Jones +was buried about the middle of the last century. There is a tradition +about this squire and tomb, to the following effect. After the squire’s +death there was a lawsuit about his property, in consequence of no will +having been found. It was said that his will had been buried with him in +the tomb, which after some time was opened, but with what success the +tradition sayeth not. + +In the evening we went to the vicarage. Besides the family and +ourselves, there was Mr. R—, and one or two more. We had a very pleasant +party; and as most of those present wished to hear something connected +with Spain, I talked much about that country, sang songs of Germania, and +related in an abridged form Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is +decidedly the best ghost story in the world. + +In the afternoon of Wednesday I went and took leave of certain friends in +the town; amongst others of old Mr. Jones. On my telling him that I was +about to leave Llangollen, he expressed considerable regret, but said +that it was natural for me to wish to return to my native country. I +told him that before returning to England I intended to make a pedestrian +tour in South Wales. He said that he should die without seeing the +south; that he had had several opportunities of visiting it when he was +young, which he had neglected, and that he was now too old to wander far +from home. He then asked me which road I intended to take. I told him +that I intended to strike across the Berwyn to Llan Rhyadr, then visit +Sycharth, once the seat of Owen Glendower, lying to the east of Llan +Rhyadr, then return to that place, and after seeing the celebrated +cataract, cross the mountains to Bala—whence I should proceed due south. +I then asked him whether he had ever seen Sycharth and the Rhyadr; he +told me that he had never visited Sycharth, but had seen the Rhyadr more +than once. He then smiled, and said that there was a ludicrous anecdote +connected with the Rhyadr, which he would relate to me. “A traveller +once went to see the Rhyadr, and whilst gazing at it a calf, which had +fallen into the stream above whilst grazing upon the rocks, came tumbling +down the cataract. ‘Wonderful!’ said the traveller, and going away, +reported that it was not only a fall of water, but of calves, and was +very much disappointed, on visiting the waterfall on another occasion, to +see no calf come tumbling down.” I took leave of the kind old gentleman +with regret, never expecting to see him again, as he was in his +eighty-fourth year—he was a truly excellent character, and might be +ranked amongst the venerable ornaments of his native place. + +About half-past eight o’clock at night John Jones came to bid me +farewell. I bade him sit down, and sent for a pint of ale to regale him +with. Notwithstanding the ale, he was very melancholy at the thought +that I was about to leave Llangollen, probably never to return. To +enliven him I gave him an account of my late expedition to Wrexham, which +made him smile more than once. When I had concluded, he asked me whether +I knew the meaning of the word Wrexham; I told him I believed I did, and +gave him the derivation which the reader will find in an early chapter of +this work. He told me that with all due submission he thought he could +give me a better, which he had heard from a very clever man, gwr deallus +iawn, who lived about two miles from Llangollen, on the Corwen road. In +the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at the +place where Wrexham now stands; when he died he left it to his wife, who +kept it after him, on which account the house was first called Tŷ wraig +Sam, the house of Sam’s wife, and then for shortness Wraig Sam, and a +town arising about it by degrees, the town, too, was called Wraig Sam, +which the Saxons corrupted into Wrexham. + +I was much diverted with this Welsh derivation of Wrexham, which I did +not attempt to controvert. After we had had some further discourse, John +Jones got up, shook me by the hand, gave a sigh, wished me a “taith +hyfryd,” and departed. Thus terminated my last day at Llangollen. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIV + + +Departure for South Wales—Tregeiriog—Pleasing Scene—Trying to Read—Garmon +and Lupus—The Cracked Voice—Effect of a Compliment—Llan Rhyadr. + +The morning of the 21st of October was fine and cold; there was a rime +frost on the ground. At about eleven o’clock I started on my journey for +South Wales, intending that my first stage should be Llan Rhyadr. My +wife and daughter accompanied me as far as Plas Newydd. As we passed +through the town I shook hands with honest A—, whom I saw standing at the +door of a shop, with a kind of Spanish hat on his head, and also with my +venerable friend old Mr. Jones, whom I encountered close beside his own +domicile. At the Plas Newydd I took an affectionate farewell of my two +loved ones, and proceeded to ascend the Berwyn. Near the top I turned +round to take a final look at the spot where I had lately passed many a +happy hour. There lay Llangollen far below me, with its chimneys +placidly smoking, its pretty church rising in its centre, its blue river +dividing it into two nearly equal parts, and the mighty hill of Brennus, +overhanging it from the north. I sighed, and repeating Einion Du’s verse + + “Tangnefedd i Llangollen!” + +turned away. + +I went over the top of the hill, and then began to descend its southern +side, obtaining a distant view of the plains of Shropshire on the east. +I soon reached the bottom of the hill, passed through Llansanfraid, and +threading the vale of the Ceiriog, at length found myself at Pont y +Meibion, in front of the house of Huw Morris, or rather of that which is +built on the site of the dwelling of the poet. I stopped, and remained +before the house, thinking of the mighty Huw, till the door opened, and +out came the dark-featured man, the poet’s descendant, whom I saw when +visiting the place in company with honest John Jones—he had now a spade +in his hand, and was doubtless going to his labour. As I knew him to be +of a rather sullen, unsocial disposition, I said nothing to him, but +proceeded on my way. As I advanced the valley widened, the hills on the +west receding to some distance from the river. Came to Tregeiriog, a +small village, which takes its name from the brook; Tregeiriog signifying +the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog. Seeing a bridge which crossed the +rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a little beyond the village, +I turned aside to look at it. The proper course of the Ceiriog is from +south to north; where it is crossed by the bridge, however, it runs from +west to east, returning to its usual course, a little way below the +bridge. The bridge was small, and presented nothing remarkable in +itself: I obtained, however, as I looked over its parapet towards the +west, a view of a scene, not of wild grandeur, but of something which I +like better, which richly compensated me for the slight trouble I had +taken in stepping aside to visit the little bridge. About a hundred +yards distant was a small watermill, built over the rivulet, the wheel +going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of pigs, the generality of +them brindled, were either browsing on the banks, or lying close to the +sides, half immersed in the water; one immense white hog, the monarch +seemingly of the herd, was standing in the middle of the current. Such +was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life +well suited to the brushes of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or +to those of men scarcely inferior to them in their own +style—Gainsborough, Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour +had been in a highly-excited state; I had been repeating verses of old +Huw Morris, brought to my recollection by the sight of his +dwelling-place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads. +I admired the vigour, but disliked the principles which they displayed; +and admiration on the one hand, and disapproval on the other, bred a +commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when tide runs one way +and wind blows another. The quiet scene from the bridge, however, +produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when I resumed my journey I +had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers. + +I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley, through +which the Ceiriog, or a river very similar to it, flows. It is half-way +between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles from each. I went to +a small inn, or public-house, sat down, and called for ale. A waggoner +was seated at a large table with a newspaper before him on which he was +intently staring. + +“What news?” said I in English. + +“I wish I could tell you,” said he in very broken English; “but I cannot +read.” + +“Then why are you looking at the paper?” said I. + +“Because,” said he, “by looking at the letters I hope in time to make +them out.” + +“You may look at them,” said I, “for fifty years without being able to +make out one. You should go to an evening school.” + +“I am too old,” said he, “to do so now; if I did the children would laugh +at me.” + +“Never mind their laughing at you,” said I, “provided you learn to read; +let them laugh who win!” + +“You give good advice, mester,” said he; “I think I shall follow it.” + +“Let me look at the paper,” said I. + +He handed it to me. It was a Welsh paper, and full of dismal accounts +from the seat of war. + +“What news, mester?” said the waggoner. + +“Nothing but bad,” said I; “the Russians are beating us and the French +too.” + +“If the Rusiaid beat us,” said the waggoner, “it is because the Francod +are with us. We should have gone alone.” + +“Perhaps you are right,” said I; “at any rate, we could not have fared +worse than we are faring now.” + +I presently paid for what I had had, inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr, and +departed. The village of Llanarmon takes its name from its church, which +is dedicated to Garmon, an Armorican bishop, who, with another called +Lupus, came over into Britain in order to preach against the heresy of +Pelagius. He and his colleague resided for some time in Flintshire, and +whilst there enabled, in a remarkable manner, the Britons to achieve a +victory over those mysterious people the Picts, who were ravaging the +country far and wide. Hearing that the enemy were advancing towards +Mold, the two bishops gathered together a number of the Britons, and +placed them in ambush in a dark valley, through which it was necessary +for the Picts to pass in order to reach Mold, strictly enjoining them to +remain quiet till all their enemies should have entered the valley, and +then do whatever they should see them, the two bishops, do. The Picts +arrived, and when they were about half-way through the valley, the two +bishops stepped forward from a thicket, and began crying aloud, +“Alleluia!” The Britons followed their example, and the wooded valley +resounded with cries of “Alleluia! alleluia!” The shouts and the +unexpected appearance of thousands of men caused such terror to the +Picts, that they took to flight in the greatest confusion, hundreds were +trampled to death by their companions, and not a few were drowned in the +river Alan {371} which runs through the valley. + +There are several churches dedicated to Garmon in Wales, but whether +there are any dedicated to Lupus I am unable to say. + +After leaving Llanarmon I found myself amongst lumpy hills, through which +the road led in the direction of the south. Arriving where several roads +met, I followed one, and became bewildered amidst hills and ravines. At +last I saw a small house close by a nant, or dingle, and turned towards +it for the purpose of inquiring my way. On my knocking at the door, a +woman made her appearance, of whom I asked in Welsh whether I was in the +road to Llan Rhyadr. She said that I was out of it, but that if I went +towards the south I should see a path on my left which would bring me to +it. I asked her how far it was to Llan Rhyadr. + +“Four long miles,” she replied. + +“And what is the name of the place where we are now?” said I. + +“Cae Hir” (the long inclosure), said she. + +“Are you alone in the house?” said I. + +“Quite alone,” said she; “but my husband and people will soon be home +from the field, for it is getting dusk.” + +“Have you any Saxon?” said I. + +“Not a word,” said she, “have I of the iaith dieithr, nor has my husband, +nor any one of my people.” + +I bade her farewell, and soon reached the road, which led south and +north. As I was bound for the south, I strode forward briskly in that +direction. The road was between romantic hills; heard Welsh songs +proceeding from the hill fields on my right, and the murmur of a brook +rushing down a deep nant on my left. I went on till I came to a +collection of houses which an old woman, with a cracked voice and a small +tin milk-pail, whom I assisted in getting over a stile into the road, +told me was called Pen Strit—probably the head of the street. She spoke +English, and on my asking her how she had learnt the English tongue, she +told me that she had learnt it of her mother, who was an English woman. +She said that I was two miles from Llan Rhyadr, and that I must go +straight forward. I did so, till I reached a place where the road +branched into two, one bearing somewhat to the left, and the other to the +right. After standing a minute in perplexity I took the right-hand road, +but soon guessed that I had taken the wrong one, as the road dwindled +into a mere footpath. Hearing some one walking on the other side of the +hedge, I inquired in Welsh whether I was going right for Llan Rhyadr, and +was answered by a voice in English, apparently that of a woman, that I +was not, and that I must go back. I did so, and presently a woman came +through a gate to me. + +“Are you the person,” said I, “who just now answered me in English after +I had spoken in Welsh?” + +“In truth I am,” said she, with a half laugh. + +“And how came you to answer me in English, after I had spoken to you in +Welsh?” + +“Because,” said she, “it was easy enough to know by your voice that you +were an Englishman.” + +“You speak English remarkably well,” said I. + +“And so do you Welsh,” said the woman; “I had no idea that it was +possible for any Englishman to speak Welsh half so well.” + +“I wonder,” thought I to myself, “what you would have answered if I had +said that you speak English execrably.” By her own account, she could +read both Welsh and English. She walked by my side to the turn, and then +up the left-hand road, which she said was the way to Llan Rhyadr. Coming +to a cottage, she bade me good-night, and went in. The road was horribly +miry; presently, as I was staggering through a slough, just after I had +passed a little cottage, I heard a cracked voice crying, “I suppose you +lost your way?” I recognised it as that of the old woman whom I had +helped over the stile. She was now standing behind a little gate, which +opened into a garden before the cottage. The figure of a man was +standing near her. I told her that she was quite right in her +supposition. + +“Ah,” said she, “you should have gone straight forward.” + +“If I had gone straight forward,” said I, “I must have gone over a hedge, +at the corner of a field which separated two roads; instead of bidding me +go straight forward, you should have told me to follow the left-hand +road.” + +“Well,” said she, “be sure you keep straight forward now.” + +I asked her who the man was standing near her. + +“It is my husband,” said she. + +“Has he much English?” said I. + +“None at all,” said she, “for his mother was not English, like mine.” I +bade her good-night, and went forward. Presently I came to a meeting of +roads, and to go straight forward it was necessary to pass through a +quagmire; remembering, however, the words of my friend the beldame, I +went straight forward, though in so doing I was sloughed up to the knees. +In a little time I came to a rapid descent, and at the bottom of it to a +bridge. It was now very dark; only the corner of the moon was casting a +faint light. After crossing the bridge I had one or two ascents and +descents. At last I saw lights before me, which proved to be those of +Llan Rhyadr. I soon found myself in a dirty little street, and, +inquiring for the inn, was kindly shown by a man to one which he said was +the best, and which was called the Wynstay Arms. + + + + +CHAPTER LXV + + +Inn at Llan Rhyadr—A Low Englishman—Enquiries—The Cook—A Precious Couple. + +The inn seemed very large, but did not look very cheerful. No other +guest than myself seemed to be in it, except in the kitchen, where I +heard a fellow talking English, and occasionally yelling an English song; +the master and mistress of the house were civil, and lighted me a fire in +what was called the Commercial Room, and putting plenty of coals in the +grate, soon made the apartment warm and comfortable. I ordered dinner, +or rather supper, which in about half-an-hour was brought in by the +woman. The supper, whether good or bad, I despatched with the appetite +of one who had walked twenty miles over hill and dale. + +Occasionally I heard a dreadful noise in the kitchen, and the woman told +me that the fellow there was making himself exceedingly disagreeable, +chiefly, she believed, because she had refused to let him sleep in the +house—she said that he was a low fellow, that went about the country with +fish, and that he was the more ready to insult her as the master of the +house was now gone out. I asked if he was an Englishman. “Yes,” said +she, “a low Englishman.” + +“Then he must be low indeed,” said I. “A low Englishman is the lowest of +the low.” After a little time I heard no more noise, and was told that +the fellow was gone away. I had a little whisky and water, and then went +to bed, sleeping in a tolerable chamber, but rather cold. There was much +rain during the night, and also wind; windows rattled, and I occasionally +heard the noise of falling tiles. + +I arose about eight. Notwithstanding the night had been so tempestuous, +the morning was sunshiny and beautiful. Having ordered breakfast, I +walked out in order to have a look at the town. Llan Rhyadr is a small +place, having nothing remarkable in it save an ancient church, and a +strange little antique market-house, standing on pillars. It is situated +at the western end of an extensive valley, and at the entrance of a glen. +A brook, or rivulet, runs through it, which comes down the glen from the +celebrated cataract, which is about four miles distant to the west. Two +lofty mountains form the entrance of the glen, and tower above the town, +one on the south and the other on the north. Their names, if they have +any, I did not learn. + +After strolling about the little place for about a quarter of an hour, +staring at the things and the people, and being stared at by the latter, +I returned to my inn, a structure built in the modern Gothic style, and +which stands nearly opposite to the churchyard. Whilst breakfasting, I +asked the landlady, who was bustling about the room, whether she had ever +heard of Owen Glendower. + +“In truth, sir, I have. He was a great gentleman who lived a long time +ago, and, and—” + +“Gave the English a great deal of trouble,” said I. + +“Just so, sir; at least, I dare say it is so, as you say it.” + +“And do you know where he lived?” + +“I do not, sir; I suppose a great way off, somewhere in the south.” + +“Do you mean South Wales?” + +“In truth, sir, I do.” + +“There you are mistaken,” said I; “and also in supposing he lived a great +way off. He lived in North Wales, and not far from this place.” + +“In truth, sir, you know more about him than I.” + +“Did you ever hear of a place called Sycharth?” + +“Sycharth! Sycharth! I never did, sir.” + +“It is the place where Glendower lived, and it is not far off. I want to +go there, but do not know the way.” + +“Sycharth! Sycharth!” said the landlady musingly; “I wonder if it is the +place we call Sychnant.” + +“Is there such a place?” + +“Yes, sure; about six miles from here, near Llangedwin.” + +“What kind of place is it?” + +“In truth, sir, I do not know, for I was never there. My cook, however, +in the kitchen, knows all about it, for she comes from there.” + +“Can I see her?” + +“Yes, sure; I will go at once and fetch her.” + +She then left the room, and presently returned with the cook, a short, +thick girl, with blue, staring eyes. + +“Here she is, sir,” said the landlady, “but she has no English.” + +“All the better,” said I. “So you come from a place called Sychnant?” +said I to the cook in Welsh. + +“In truth, sir, I do,” said the cook. + +“Did you ever hear of a gwr boneddig called Owen Glendower?” + +“Often, sir, often; he lived in our place.” + +“He lived in a place called Sycharth?” said I. + +“Well, sir, and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as Sychnant; +nay, oftener.” + +“Is his house standing?” + +“It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing.” + +“Is it a high hill?” + +“It is not; it is a small, light hill.” + +“A light hill!” said I to myself. “Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower’s bard, +said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.” + + “There dwells the chief we all extol + In timber house on lightsome knoll.” + +“Is there a little river near it,” said I to the cook—“a ffrwd?” + +“There is; it runs just under the hill.” + +“Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?” + +“There is not; that is, now,—but there was in the old time; a factory of +woollen stands now where the mill once stood.” + + “A mill, a rushing brook upon, + And pigeon tower fram’d of stone.” + +“So says Iolo Goch,” said I to myself, “in his description of Sycharth; I +am on the right road.” + +I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged, and was told +of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of Carabas of +Denbighshire. After a few more questions I thanked her and told her she +might go. I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and, after telling +the landlady that I should return at night, started for Llangedwin and +Sycharth. + +A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in which +I was proceeding. + +The valley was beautiful, and dotted with various farm-houses, and the +land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the soil of my +own Norfolk—that county so deservedly celebrated for its agriculture. +The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and towards the north the +vale is crossed by three rugged elevations, the middlemost of which, +called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas, terminates to the west in an +exceedingly high and picturesque crag. + +After an hour’s walking I overtook two people, a man and a woman laden +with baskets, which hung around them on every side. The man was a young +fellow of about eight-and-twenty, with a round face, fair flaxen hair, +and rings in his ears; the female was a blooming buxom lass of about +eighteen. After giving them the sele of the day, I asked them if they +were English. + +“Aye, aye, master,” said the man; “we are English.” + +“Where do you come from?” said I. + +“From Wrexham,” said the man. + +“I thought Wrexham was in Wales,” said I. + +“If it be,” said the man, “the people are not Welsh; a man is not a horse +because he happens to be born in a stable.” + +“Is that young woman your wife?” said I. + +“Yes,” said he, “after a fashion”—and then he leered at the lass, and she +leered at him. + +“Do you attend any place of worship?” said I. + +“A great many, master!” + +“What place do you chiefly attend?” said I. + +“The Chequers, master!” + +“Do they preach the best sermons there?” said I. + +“No, master! but they sells the best ale there.” + +“Do you worship ale?” said I. + +“Yes, master; I worships ale.” + +“Anything else?” said I. + +“Yes, master! I and my mort worships something besides good ale; don’t +we, Sue?” and then he leered at the mort, who leered at him, and both +made odd motions backwards and forwards, causing the baskets which hung +around them to creak and rustle, and uttering loud shouts of laughter, +which roused the echoes of the neighbouring hills. + +“Genuine descendants, no doubt,” said I to myself as I walked briskly on, +“of certain of the old heathen Saxons who followed Rag into Wales, and +settled down about the house which he built. Really, if these two are a +fair specimen of the Wrexham population, my friend the Scotch policeman +was not much out when he said that the people of Wrexham were the worst +people in Wales.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXVI + + +Sycharth—The kindly Welcome—Happy Couple—Sycharth—Recalling the Dead—Ode +to Sycharth. + +I was now at the northern extremity of the valley near a great house, +past which the road led in the direction of the north-east. Seeing a man +employed in breaking stones, I inquired the way to Sychnant. + +“You must turn to the left,” said he, “before you come to yon great +house, follow the path which you will find behind it, and you will soon +be in Sychnant.” + +“And to whom does the great house belong?” + +“To whom? why, to Sir Watkin.” + +“Does he reside there?” + +“Not often. He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes there +to hunt.” + +“What is the place’s name?” + +“Llan Gedwin.” + +I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me. The path led +upward behind the great house, round a hill thickly planted with trees. +Following it, I at length found myself on a broad road on the top +extending east and west, and having on the north and south beautiful +wooded hills. I followed the road, which presently began to descend. On +reaching level ground I overtook a man in a waggoner’s frock, of whom I +inquired the way to Sycharth. He pointed westward down the vale to what +appeared to be a collection of houses, near a singular-looking monticle, +and said, “That is Sycharth.” + +We walked together till we came to a road which branched off on the right +to a little bridge. + +“That is your way,” said he, and pointing to a large building beyond the +bridge, towering up above a number of cottages, he said, “that is the +factory of Sycharth;” he then left me, following the high road, whilst I +proceeded towards the bridge, which I crossed, and coming to the +cottages, entered one on the right-hand, of a remarkably neat appearance. + +In a comfortable kitchen, by a hearth on which blazed a cheerful billet, +sat a man and woman. Both arose when I entered; the man was tall, about +fifty years of age, and athletically built; he was dressed in a white +coat, corduroy breeches, shoes, and grey worsted stockings. The woman +seemed many years older than the man; she was tall also, and strongly +built, and dressed in the ancient Welsh female costume, namely, a kind of +round half-Spanish hat, long blue woollen kirtle, or gown, a crimson +petticoat, and white apron, and broad, stout shoes with buckles. + +“Welcome, stranger,” said the man, after looking me a moment or two full +in the face. + +“Croesaw, dyn dieithr—welcome, foreign man,” said the woman, surveying me +with a look of great curiosity. + +“Won’t you sit down?” said the man, handing me a chair. + +I sat down, and the man and woman resumed their seats. + +“I suppose you come on business connected with the factory?” said the +man. + +“No,” said I, “my business is connected with Owen Glendower.” + +“With Owen Glendower?” said the man, staring. + +“Yes,” said I; “I came to see his place.” + +“You will not see much of his house now,” said the man—“it is down; only +a few bricks remain.” + +“But I shall see the place where his house stood,” said I; “which is all +I expected to see.” + +“Yes; you can see that.” + +“What does the dyn dieithr say?” said the woman in Welsh, with an +inquiring look. + +“That he is come to see the place of Owen Glendower.” + +“Ah!” said the woman with a smile. + +“Is that good lady your wife?” said I. + +“She is.” + +“She looks much older than yourself.” + +“And no wonder. She is twenty-one years older.” + +“How old are you?” + +“Fifty-three.” + +“Dear me,” said I, “what a difference in your ages! how came you to +marry?” + +“She was a widow, and I had lost my wife. We were lone in the world, so +we thought we would marry.” + +“Do you live happily together?” + +“Very.” + +“Then you did quite right to marry. What is your name?” + +“David Robert.” + +“And that of your wife?” + +“Gwen Robert.” + +“Does she speak English?” + +“She speaks some, but not much.” + +“Is the place where Owen lived far from here?” + +“It is not. It is the round hill a little way above the factory.” + +“Is the path to it easy to find?” + +“I will go with you,” said the man. “I work at the factory, but I need +not go there for an hour at least.” + +He put on his hat, and bidding me follow him, went out. He led me over a +gush of water which, passing under the factory, turns the wheel; thence +over a field or two towards a house at the foot of the mountain, where he +said the steward of Sir Watkin lived, of whom it would be as well to +apply for permission to ascend the hill, as it was Sir Watkin’s ground. +The steward was not at home; his wife was, however, and she, when we told +her we wished to go to the top of Owain Glendower’s Hill, gave us +permission with a smile. We thanked her, and proceeded to mount the +hill, or monticle, once the residence of the great Welsh chieftain, whom +his own deeds and the pen of Shakespear have rendered immortal. + +Owen Glendower’s hill, or mount, at Sycharth, unlike the one bearing his +name on the banks of the Dee, is not an artificial hill, but the work of +nature, save and except that to a certain extent it has been modified by +the hand of man. It is somewhat conical, and consists of two steps, or +gradations, where two fosses scooped out of the hill go round it, one +above the other, the lower one embracing considerably the most space. +Both these fosses are about six feet deep, and at one time doubtless were +bricked, as stout, large, red bricks are yet to be seen, here and there, +in their sides. The top of the mount is just twenty-five feet across. +When I visited it, it was covered with grass, but had once been subjected +to the plough, as various furrows indicated. The monticle stands not far +from the western extremity of the valley, nearly midway between two hills +which confront each other north and south, the one to the south being the +hill which I had descended, and the other a beautiful wooded height which +is called in the parlance of the country Llwyn Sycharth, or the grove of +Sycharth, from which comes the little gush of water which I had crossed, +and which now turns the wheel of the factory, and once turned that of +Owen Glendower’s mill, and filled his two moats; part of the water, by +some mechanical means, having been forced up the eminence. On the top of +this hill, or monticle, in a timber house, dwelt the great Welshman, Owen +Glendower, with his wife, a comely, kindly woman, and his progeny, +consisting of stout boys and blooming girls, and there, though +wonderfully cramped for want of room, he feasted bards, who requited his +hospitality with alliterative odes very difficult to compose, and which +at the present day only a few bookworms understand. There he dwelt for +many years, the virtual, if not the nominal, king of North Wales; +occasionally, no doubt, looking down with self-complaisance from the top +of his fastness on the parks and fish-ponds, of which he had several; his +mill, his pigeon tower, his ploughed lands, and the cottages of a +thousand retainers, huddled round the lower part of the hill, or strewn +about the valley; and there he might have lived and died, had not events +caused him to draw the sword and engage in a war, at the termination of +which Sycharth was a fire-scathed ruin, and himself a broken-hearted old +man in anchorite’s weeds, living in a cave on the estate of Sir John +Scudamore, the great Herefordshire proprietor, who married his daughter +Elen, his only surviving child. + +After I had been a considerable time on the hill, looking about me and +asking questions of my guide, I took out a piece of silver and offered it +to him, thanking him at the same time for the trouble he had taken in +showing me the place. He refused it, saying that I was quite welcome. + +I tried to force it upon him. + +“I will not take it,” said he; “but if you come to my house and have a +cup of coffee, you may give sixpence to my old woman.” + +“I will come,” said I, “in a short time. In the meanwhile, do you go; I +wish to be alone.” + +“What do you want to do?” + +“To sit down and endeavour to recall Glendower, and the times that are +past.” + +The fine fellow looked puzzled; at last he said, “Very well,” shrugged +his shoulders, and descended the hill. + +When he was gone I sat down on the brow of the hill, and with my face +turned to the east, began slowly to chant a translation made by myself in +the days of my boyhood of an ode to Sycharth, composed by Iolo Goch when +upwards of a hundred years old, shortly after his arrival at that place, +to which he had been invited by Owen Glendower:— + + Twice have I pledg’d my word to thee + To come thy noble face to see; + His promises let every man + Perform as far as e’er he can! + Full easy is the thing that’s sweet, + And sweet this journey is and meet; + I’ve vowed to Owain’s court to go, + And I’m resolv’d to keep my vow; + So thither straight I’ll take my way + With blithesome heart, and there I’ll stay, + Respect and honour, whilst I breathe, + To find his honour’d roof beneath. + My chief of long lin’d ancestry + Can harbour sons of poesy; + I’ve heard, for so the muse has told, + He’s kind and gentle to the old; + Yes, to his castle I will hie; + There’s none to match it ’neath the sky: + It is a baron’s stately court, + Where bards for sumptuous fare resort; + There dwells the lord of Powis land, + Who granteth every just demand. + Its likeness now I’ll limn you out: + ’Tis water girdled wide about; + It shows a wide and stately door + Reached by a bridge the water o’er; + ’Tis form’d of buildings coupled fair, + Coupled is every couple there; + Within a quadrate structure tall + Muster the merry pleasures all. + Conjointly are the angles bound— + No flaw in all the place is found. + Structures in contact meet the eye + Upon the hillock’s top on high; + Into each other fastened they + The form of a hard knot display. + There dwells the chief we all extol + In timber house on lightsome knoll; + Upon four wooden columns proud + Mounteth his mansion to the cloud; + Each column’s thick and firmly bas’d, + And upon each a loft is plac’d; + In these four lofts, which coupled stand, + Repose at night the minstrel band; + Four lofts they were in pristine state, + But now partitioned form they eight. + Tiled is the roof, on each house-top + Rise smoke-ejecting chimneys up. + All of one form there are nine halls + Each with nine wardrobes in its walls + With linen white as well supplied + As fairest shops of fam’d Cheapside. + Behold that church with cross uprais’d + And with its windows neatly glaz’d; + All houses are in this comprest— + An orchard’s near it of the best, + Also a park where void of fear + Feed antler’d herds of fallow deer. + A warren wide my chief can boast, + Of goodly steeds a countless host. + Meads where for hay the clover grows, + Corn-fields which hedges trim inclose, + A mill a rushing brook upon, + And pigeon tower fram’d of stone; + A fish-pond deep and dark to see + To cast nets in when need there be, + Which never yet was known to lack + A plenteous store of perch and jack. + Of various plumage birds abound; + Herons and peacocks haunt around. + What luxury doth his hall adorn, + Showing of cost a sovereign scorn; + His ale from Shrewsbury town he brings; + His usquebaugh is drink for kings; + Bragget he keeps, bread white of look, + And, bless the mark! a bustling cook. + His mansion is the minstrels’ home, + You’ll find them there whene’er you come + Of all her sex his wife’s the best; + The household through her care is blest. + She’s scion of a knightly tree, + She’s dignified, she’s kind and free. + His bairns approach me, pair by pair, + O what a nest of chieftains fair! + Here difficult it is to catch + A sight of either bolt or latch; + The porter’s place here none will fill; + Here largess shall be lavish’d still, + And ne’er shall thirst or hunger rude + In Sycharth venture to intrude. + A noble leader, Cambria’s knight, + The lake possesses, his by right, + And midst that azure water plac’d, + The castle, by each pleasure grac’d. + +And when I had finished repeating these lines I said, “How much more +happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood, when I +translated Iolo’s ode, than I am at the present time!” Then covering my +face with my hands, I wept like a child. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVII + + +Cup of Coffee—Gwen—Bluff old Fellow—A Rabble Rout—All from Wrexham. + +After a while I arose from my seat, and descending the hill, returned to +the house of my honest friends, whom I found sitting by their fire, as I +had first seen them. + +“Well,” said the man, “did you bring back Owen Glendower?” + +“Not only him,” said I, “but his house, family, and all relating to him.” + +“By what means?” said the man. + +“By means of a song made a long time ago, which describes Sycharth as it +was in his time, and his manner of living there.” + +Presently Gwen, who had been preparing coffee in expectation of my +return, poured out a cupful, which she presented to me, at the same time +handing me some white sugar in a basin. + +I took the coffee, helped myself to some sugar, and returned her thanks +in her own language. + +“Ah,” said the man, in Welsh, “I see you are a Cumro. Gwen and I have +been wondering whether you were Welsh or English; but I see you are one +of ourselves.” + +“No,” said I in the same language, “I am an Englishman, born in a part of +England the farthest of any from Wales. In fact, I am a Carn Sais.” + +“And how came you to speak Welsh?” said the man. + +“I took it into my head to learn it when I was a boy,” said I. +“Englishmen sometimes do strange things.” + +“So I have heard,” said the man, “but I never heard before of an +Englishman learning Welsh.” + +I proceeded to drink my coffee, and having finished it, and had a little +more discourse, I got up, and having given Gwen a piece of silver, which +she received with a smile and a curtsey, I said I must now be going. + +“Won’t you take another cup?” said Gwen, “you are welcome.” + +“No, thank you,” said I; “I have had enough.” + +“Where are you going?” said the man in English. + +“To Llan Rhyadr,” said I, “from which I came this morning.” + +“Which way did you come?” said the man. + +“By Llan Gedwin,” I replied, “and over the hill. Is there another way?” + +“There is,” said the man; “by Llan Silin.” + +“Llan Silin!” said I; “is not that the place where Huw Morris is buried?” + +“It is,” said the man. + +“I will return by Llan Silin,” said I, “and in passing through pay a +visit to the tomb of the great poet. Is Llan Silin far off?” + +“About half-a-mile,” said the man. “Go over the bridge, turn to the +right, and you will be there presently.” + +I shook the honest couple by the hand, and bade them farewell. The man +put on his hat, and went with me a few yards from the door, and then +proceeded towards the factory. I passed over the bridge, under which was +a streamlet, which a little below the bridge received the brook which +once turned Owen Glendower’s corn-mill. I soon reached Llan Silin, a +village or townlet, having some high hills at a short distance to the +westward, which form part of the Berwyn. + +I entered the kitchen of an old-fashioned public-house, and sitting down +by a table, told the landlord, a red-nosed, elderly man, who came bowing +up to me, to bring me a pint of ale. The landlord bowed and departed. A +bluff-looking old fellow, somewhat under the middle size, sat just +opposite to me at the table. He was dressed in a white frieze coat, and +had a small hat on his head, set rather consequentially on one side. +Before him on the table stood a jug of ale, between which and him lay a +large crabstick. Three or four other people stood or sat in different +parts of the room. Presently the landlord returned with the ale. + +“I suppose you come on sessions business, sir?” said he, as he placed it +down before me. + +“Are the sessions being held here to-day?” said I. + +“They are,” said the landlord, “and there is plenty of business; two bad +cases of poaching. Sir Watkin’s keepers are up at court, and hope to +convict.” + +“I am not come on sessions business,” said I; “I am merely strolling a +little about to see the country.” + +“He is come from South Wales,” said the old fellow in the frieze coat to +the landlord, “in order to see what kind of country the north is. Well, +at any rate, he has seen a better country than his own.” + +“How do you know that I come from South Wales?” said I. + +“By your English,” said the old fellow; “anybody may know you are South +Welsh by your English; it is so cursedly bad! But let’s hear you speak a +little Welsh; then I shall be certain as to who you are.” + +I did as he bade me, saying a few words in Welsh. + +“There’s Welsh,” said the old fellow, “who but a South Welshman would +talk Welsh in that manner? It’s nearly as bad as your English.” + +I asked him if he had ever been in South Wales. + +“Yes,” said he; “and a bad country I found it; just like the people.” + +“If you take me for a South Welshman,” said I, “you ought to speak +civilly both of the South Welsh and their country.” + +“I am merely paying tit for tat,” said the old fellow. “When I was in +South Wales your people laughed at my folks and country, so when I meet +one of them here I serve him out as I was served out there.” + +I made no reply to him, but addressing myself to the landlord, inquired +whether Huw Morris was not buried in Llan Silin churchyard. He replied +in the affirmative. + +“I should like to see his tomb,” said I. + +“Well, sir,” said the landlord, “I shall be happy to show it to you +whenever you please.” + +Here again the old fellow put in his word. + +“You never had a prydydd like Huw Morris in South Wales,” said he; “nor +Twm o’r Nant either.” + +“South Wales has produced good poets,” said I. + +“No, it hasn’t,” said the old fellow; “it never produced one. If it had +you wouldn’t have needed to come here to see the grave of a poet; you +would have found one at home.” + +As he said these words he got up, took his stick, and seemed about to +depart. Just then in burst a rabble rout of gamekeepers and +river-watchers, who had come from the petty sessions, and were in high +glee, the two poachers whom the landlord had mentioned having been +convicted and heavily fined. Two or three of them were particularly +boisterous, running against some of the guests who were sitting or +standing in the kitchen, and pushing the landlord about, crying at the +same time that they would stand by Sir Watkin to the last, and would +never see him plundered. One of them, a fellow of about thirty, in a +hairy cap, black coat, dirty yellow breeches, and dirty-white top-boots, +who was the most obstreperous of them all, at last came up to the old +chap who disliked South Welshmen and tried to knock off his hat, swearing +that he would stand by Sir Watkin; he, however, met a Tartar. The enemy +of the South Welsh, like all crusty people, had lots of mettle, and with +the stick which he held in his hand forthwith aimed a blow at the +fellow’s poll, which, had he not jumped back, would probably have broken +it. + +“I will not be insulted by you, you vagabond,” said the old chap, “nor by +Sir Watkin either; go and tell him so.” + +The fellow looked sheepish, and turning away, proceeded to take liberties +with other people less dangerous to meddle with than old crabstick. He, +however, soon desisted, and sat down, evidently disconcerted. + +“Were you ever worse treated in South Wales by the people there than you +have been here by your own countrymen?” said I to the old fellow. + +“My countrymen?” said he; “this scamp is no countryman of mine; nor is +one of the whole kit. They are all from Wrexham, a mixture of broken +housekeepers, and fellows too stupid to learn a trade; a set of scamps +fit for nothing in the world but to swear bodily against honest men. +They say they will stand up for Sir Watkin, and so they will, but only in +a box in the Court to give false evidence. They won’t fight for him on +the banks of the river. Countrymen of mine, indeed! they are no +countrymen of mine; they are from Wrexham, where the people speak neither +English nor Welsh, not even South Welsh as you do.” + +Then giving a kind of flourish with his stick, he departed. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVIII + + +Llan Silin Church—Tomb of Huw Morris—Barbara and Richard—Welsh Country +Clergyman—The Swearing Lad—Anglo-Saxon Devils. + +Having discussed my ale, I asked the landlord if he would show me the +grave of Huw Morris. “With pleasure, sir,” said he; “pray follow me.” +He led me to the churchyard, in which several enormous yew trees were +standing, probably of an antiquity which reached as far back as the days +of Henry the Eighth, when the yew bow was still the favourite weapon of +the men of Britain. The church fronts the south, the portico being in +that direction. The body of the sacred edifice is ancient, but the +steeple, which bears a gilded cock on its top, is modern. The innkeeper +led me directly up to the southern wall, then pointing to a broad +discoloured slab, which lay on the ground just outside the wall, about +midway between the portico and the oriel end, he said: + +“Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir.” Forthwith taking off my +hat, I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering the cold +remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees, proceeded to +examine it attentively. It is covered over with letters three parts +defaced. All I could make out of the inscription was the date of the +poet’s death, 1709. “A great genius, a very great genius, sir,” said the +innkeeper, after I had got on my feet and put on my hat. + +“He was indeed,” said I; “are you acquainted with his poetry?” + +“O yes,” said the innkeeper, and then repeated the four lines composed by +the poet shortly before his death, which I had heard the intoxicated +stonemason repeat in the public-house of the Pandy, the day I went to +visit the poet’s residence with John Jones. + +“Do you know any more of Huw’s poetry?” said I. + +“No,” said the innkeeper. “Those lines, however, I have known ever since +I was a child, and repeated them, more particularly of late, since age +has come upon me, and I have felt that I cannot last long.” + +It was very odd how few of the verses of great poets are in people’s +mouths. Not more than a dozen of Shakespear’s lines are in people’s +mouths; of those of Pope not more than half that number. Of Addison’s +poetry, two or three lines may be in people’s mouths, though I have never +heard one quoted, the only line which I ever heard quoted as Addison’s +not being his, but Garth’s: + + “’Tis best repenting in a coach and six.” + +Whilst of the verses of Huw Morris I never knew any one but myself, who +am not a Welshman, who could repeat a line beyond the four which I have +twice had occasion to mention, and which seem to be generally known in +North, if not in South Wales. + +From the flagstone I proceeded to the portico, and gazed upon it +intensely. It presented nothing very remarkable, but it had the greatest +interest for me, for I remembered how many times Huw Morris had walked +out of that porch at the head of the congregation, the clergyman yielding +his own place to the inspired bard. I would fain have entered the +church, but the landlord had not the key, and told me that he imagined +there would be some difficulty in procuring it. I was therefore obliged +to content myself with peeping through a window into the interior, which +had a solemn and venerable aspect. + +“Within there,” said I to myself, “Huw Morris, the greatest songster of +the seventeenth century, knelt every Sunday during the latter thirty +years of his life, after walking from Pont y Meibion across the bleak and +savage Berwyn. Within there was married Barbara Wynn, the Rose of +Maelai, to Richard Middleton, the handsome cavalier of Maelor, and within +there she lies buried, even as the songster who lamented her untimely +death in immortal verse lies buried out here in the graveyard. What +interesting associations has this church for me, both outside and in; but +all connected with Huw; for what should I have known of Barbara the Rose +and gallant Richard but for the poem on their affectionate union and +untimely separation, the dialogue between the living and the dead, +composed by humble Huw, the farmer’s son of Pont y Meibion?” + +After gazing through the window till my eyes watered, I turned to the +innkeeper, and inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr. Having received from him +the desired information, I thanked him for his civility, and set out on +my return. + +Before I could get clear of the town, I suddenly encountered my friend +R—, the clever lawyer and magistrate’s clerk of Llangollen. + +“I little expected to see you here,” said he. + +“Nor I you,” I replied. + +“I came in my official capacity,” said he; “the petty sessions have been +held here to-day.” + +“I know they have,” I replied; “and that two poachers have been +convicted. I came here in my way to South Wales to see the grave of Huw +Morris, who, as you know, is buried in the churchyard.” + +“Have you seen the clergyman?” said R—. + +“No,” I replied. + +“Then come with me,” said he; “I am now going to call upon him. I know +he will be rejoiced to make your acquaintance.” + +He led me to the clergyman’s house, which stood at the south-west end of +the village within a garden fenced with iron paling. We found the +clergyman in a nice comfortable parlour, or study, the sides of which +were decorated with books. He was a sharp, clever-looking man, of about +the middle age. On my being introduced to him, he was very glad to see +me, as my friend R— told me he would be. He seemed to know all about me, +even that I understood Welsh. We conversed on various subjects: on the +power of the Welsh language; its mutable letters; on Huw Morris, and +likewise on ale, with an excellent glass of which he regaled me. I was +much pleased with him, and thought him a capital specimen of the Welsh +country clergyman. His name was Walter Jones. + +After staying about half-an-hour I took leave of the good kind man, who +wished me all kind of happiness, spiritual and temporal, and said that he +should always be happy to see me at Llan Silin. My friend R— walked with +me a little way and then bade me farewell. It was now late in the +afternoon, the sky was grey and gloomy, and a kind of half wintry wind +was blowing. In the forenoon I had travelled along the eastern side of +the valley, which I will call that of Llan Rhyadr, directing my course to +the north, but I was now on the western side of the valley journeying +towards the south. In about half-an-hour I found myself nearly parallel +with the high crag which I had seen from a distance in the morning. It +was now to the east of me. Its western front was very precipitous, but +on its northern side it was cultivated nearly to the summit. As I stood +looking at it from near the top of a gentle acclivity a boy with a team, +whom I had passed a little time before, came up. He was whipping his +horses, who were straining up the ascent, and was swearing at them most +frightfully in English. I addressed him in that language, inquiring the +name of the crag, but he answered Dim Saesneg, and then again fell to +cursing his horses in English. I allowed him and his team to get to the +top of the ascent, and then overtaking him I said in Welsh: “What do you +mean by saying you have no English? you were talking English just now to +your horses.” + +“Yes,” said the lad, “I have English enough for my horses, and that is +all.” + +“You seem to have plenty of Welsh,” said I; “why don’t you speak Welsh to +your horses?” + +“It’s of no use speaking Welsh to them,” said the boy; “Welsh isn’t +strong enough.” + +“Isn’t Myn Diawl tolerably strong?” said I. + +“Not strong enough for horses,” said the boy; “if I were to say Myn Diawl +to my horses, or even Cas András they would laugh at me.” + +“Do the other carters,” said I, “use the same English to their horses +which you do to yours?” + +“Yes,” said the boy, “they all use the same English words; if they didn’t +the horses wouldn’t mind them.” + +“What a triumph,” thought I, “for the English language that the Welsh +carters are obliged to have recourse to its oaths and execrations to make +their horses get on!” + +I said nothing more to the boy on the subject of language, but again +asked him the name of the crag. “It is called Craig y Gorllewin,” said +he. I thanked him, and soon left him and his team far behind. + +Notwithstanding what the boy said about the milk-and-water character of +native Welsh oaths, the Welsh have some very pungent execrations, quite +as efficacious, I should say, to make a horse get on as any in the +English swearing vocabulary. Some of their oaths are curious, being +connected with heathen times and Druidical mythology; for example that +Cas András mentioned by the boy, which means hateful enemy or horrible +András. András or Andraste was the fury or Demigorgon of the Ancient +Cumry, to whom they built temples and offered sacrifices out of fear. +Curious that the same oath should be used by the Christian Cumry of the +present day, which was in vogue amongst their pagan ancestors some three +thousand years ago. However, the same thing is observable amongst us +Christian English: we say the Duse take you! even as our heathen Saxon +forefathers did, who worshipped a kind of Devil so called and named a day +of the week after him, which name we still retain in our hebdomadal +calendar like those of several other Anglo-Saxon devils. We also say: Go +to old Nick! and Nick or Nikkur was a surname of Woden, and also the name +of a spirit which haunted fords and was in the habit of drowning +passengers. + +Night came quickly upon me after I had passed the swearing lad. However, +I was fortunate enough to reach Llan Rhyadr, without having experienced +any damage or impediment from Diawl, András, Duse or Nick. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIX + + +Church of Llan Rhyadr—The Clerk—The Tablet-Stone—First View of the +Cataract. + +The night was both windy and rainy like the preceding one, but the +morning which followed, unlike that of the day before, was dull and +gloomy. After breakfast I walked out to take another view of the little +town. As I stood looking at the church a middle-aged man of a remarkably +intelligent countenance came up and asked me if I should like to see the +inside. I told him I should, whereupon he said that he was the clerk and +would admit me with pleasure. Taking a key out of his pocket he unlocked +the door of the church and we went in. The inside was sombre, not so +much owing to the gloominess of the day as the heaviness of the +architecture. It presented something in the form of a cross. I soon +found the clerk, what his countenance represented him to be, a highly +intelligent person. His answers to my questions were in general ready +and satisfactory. + +“This seems rather an ancient edifice,” said I; “when was it built?” + +“In the sixteenth century,” said the clerk; “in the days of Harry Tudor.” + +“Have any remarkable men been clergymen of this church?” + +“Several, sir; amongst its vicars was Doctor William Morgan the great +South Welshman, the author of the old Welsh version of the Bible, who +flourished in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Then there was Doctor Robert +South, an eminent divine, who though not a Welshman spoke and preached +Welsh better than many of the native clergy. Then there was the last +vicar, Walter D—, a great preacher and writer, who styled himself in +print Gwalter Mechain.” + +“Are Morgan and South buried here?” said I. + +“They are not, sir,” said the clerk; “they had been transferred to other +benefices before they died.” + +I did not inquire whether Walter D— was buried there, for of him I had +never heard before, but demanded whether the church possessed any ancient +monuments. + +“This is the oldest which remains, sir,” said the clerk, and he pointed +with his finger to a tablet-stone over a little dark pew on the right +side of the oriel window. There was an inscription upon it, but owing to +the darkness I could not make out a letter. The clerk however read as +follows. + + 1694. 21 Octr. + Hic Sepultus Est. + Sidneus Bynner. + +“Do you understand Latin?” said I to the clerk. + +“I do not, sir; I believe, however, that the stone is to the memory of +one Bynner.” + +“That is not a Welsh name,” said I. + +“It is not, sir,” said the clerk. + +“It seems to be radically the same as Bonner,” said I, “the name of the +horrible Popish Bishop of London in Mary’s time. Do any people of the +name of Bynner reside in the neighbourhood at present?” + +“None, sir,” said the clerk; “and if the Bynners are the descendants of +Bonner, it is, perhaps, well that there are none.” + +I made the clerk, who appeared almost fit to be a clergyman, a small +present, and returned to the inn. After paying my bill I flung my +satchel over my shoulder, took my umbrella by the middle in my right +hand, and set off for the Rhyadr. + +I entered the narrow glen at the western extremity of the town and +proceeded briskly along. The scenery was romantically beautiful: on my +left was the little brook, the waters of which run through the town; +beyond it a lofty hill; on my right was a hill covered with wood from the +top to the bottom. I enjoyed the scene, and should have enjoyed it more +had there been a little sunshine to gild it. + +I passed through a small village, the name of which I think was Cynmen, +and presently overtook a man and boy. The man saluted me in English and +I entered into conversation with him in that language. He told me that +he came from Llan Gedwin, and was going to a place called Gwern something +in order to fetch home some sheep. After a time he asked me where I was +going. + +“I am going to see the Pistyll Rhyadr,” said I. + +We had then just come to the top of a rising ground. + +“Yonder’s the Pistyll!” said he, pointing to the west. + +I looked in the direction of his finger, and saw something at a great +distance, which looked like a strip of grey linen, hanging over a crag. + +“That is the waterfall,” he continued, “which so many of the Saxons come +to see. And now I must bid you good-bye, master; for my way to the Gwern +is on the right.” + +Then followed by the boy he turned aside into a wild road at the corner +of a savage, precipitous rock. + + + + +CHAPTER LXX + + +Mountain Scenery—The Rhyadr—Wonderful Feat. + +After walking about a mile with the cataract always in sight, I emerged +from the glen into an oblong valley extending from south to north, having +lofty hills on all sides, especially on the west, from which direction +the cataract comes. I advanced across the vale till within a furlong of +this object, when I was stopped by a deep hollow or nether vale into +which the waters of the cataract tumble. On the side of this hollow I +sat down, and gazed before me and on either side. The water comes +spouting over a crag of perhaps two hundred feet in altitude between two +hills, one south-east and the other nearly north. The southern hill is +wooded from the top, nearly down to where the cataract burst forth; and +so, but not so thickly, is the northern hill, which bears a singular +resemblance to a hog’s back. Groves of pine are on the lower parts of +both; in front of a grove low down on the northern hill is a small white +house of a picturesque appearance. The water of the cataract, after +reaching the bottom of the precipice, rushes in a narrow brook down the +vale in the direction of Llan Rhyadr. To the north-east, between the +hog-backed hill and another strange-looking mountain, is a wild glen, +from which comes a brook to swell the waters discharged by the Rhyadr. +The south-west side of the vale is steep, and from a cleft of a hill in +that quarter a slender stream rushing impetuously joins the brook of the +Rhyadr, like the rill of the northern glen. The principal object of the +whole is of course the Rhyadr. What shall I liken it to? I scarcely +know, unless to an immense skein of silk agitated and disturbed by +tempestuous blasts, or to the long tail of a grey courser at furious +speed. Through the profusion of long silvery threads or hairs, or what +looked such, I could here and there see the black sides of the crag down +which the Rhyadr precipitated itself with something between a boom and a +roar. + +After sitting on the verge of the hollow for a considerable time I got +up, and directed my course towards the house in front of the grove. I +turned down the path which brought me to the brook which runs from the +northern glen into the waters discharged by the Rhyadr, and crossing it +by stepping-stones found myself on the lowest spur of the hog-backed +hill. A steep path led towards the house. As I drew near, two handsome +dogs came rushing to welcome the stranger. Coming to a door on the +northern side of the house I tapped and a handsome girl of about thirteen +making her appearance I enquired in English the nearest way to the +waterfall; she smiled, and in her native language said that she had no +Saxon. On my telling her in Welsh that I was come to see the Pistyll she +smiled again, and said that I was welcome, then taking me round the house +she pointed to a path and bade me follow it. I followed the path which +led downwards to a tiny bridge of planks, a little way below the fall. I +advanced to the middle of the bridge, then turning to the west looked at +the wonderful object before me. + +There are many remarkable cataracts in Britain and the neighbouring +isles, even the little Celtic Isle of Man has its remarkable waterfall; +but this Rhyadr, the grand cataract of North Wales, far exceeds them all +in altitude and beauty, though it is inferior to several of them in the +volume of its flood. I never saw water falling so gracefully, so much +like thin beautiful threads as here. Yet even this cataract has its +blemish. What beautiful object has not something which more or less mars +its loveliness? There is an ugly black bridge or semicircle of rock, +about two feet in diameter and about twenty feet high, which rises some +little way below it, and under which the water, after reaching the +bottom, passes, which intercepts the sight, and prevents it from taking +in the whole fall at once. This unsightly object has stood where it now +stands since the day of creation, and will probably remain there to the +day of judgment. It would be a desecration of nature to remove it by +art, but no one could regret if nature in one of her floods were to sweep +it away. + +As I was standing on the planks a woman plainly but neatly dressed came +from the house. She addressed me in very imperfect English, saying that +she was the mistress of the house and should be happy to show me about. +I thanked her for her offer and told her that she might speak Welsh, +whereupon she looked glad and said in that tongue that she could speak +Welsh much better than Saesneg. She took me by a winding path up a steep +bank on the southern side of the fall to a small plateau, and told me +that was the best place to see the Pistyll from. I did not think so, for +we were now so near that we were almost blinded by the spray, though, it +is true, the semicircle of rock no longer impeded the sight; this object +we now saw nearly laterally rising up like a spectral arch, spray and +foam above it, and water rushing below. “That is a bridge rather for +ysprydoedd {397} to pass over than men,” said I. + +“It is,” said the woman; “but I once saw a man pass over it.” + +“How did he get up?” said I. “The sides are quite steep and slippery.” + +“He wriggled up the side like a llysowen, {398} till he got to the top, +when he stood upright for a minute, and then slid down on the other +side.” + +“Was he any one from these parts?” said I. + +“He was not. He was a dyn dieithr, a Russian; one of those with whom we +are now at war.” + +“Was there as much water tumbling then as now?” + +“More, for there had fallen more rain.” + +“I suppose the torrent is sometimes very dreadful?” said I. + +“It is indeed, especially in winter; for it is then like a sea, and roars +like thunder or a mad bull.” + +After I had seen all I wished of the cataract, the woman asked me to come +to the house and take some refreshment. I followed her to a neat little +room where she made me sit down and handed me a bowl of buttermilk. On +the table was a book in which she told me it was customary for +individuals who visited the cataract to insert their names. I took up +the book which contained a number of names mingled here and there with +pieces of poetry. Amongst these compositions was a Welsh englyn on the +Rhyadr, which though incorrect in its prosody I thought stirring and +grand. I copied it, and subjoin it with a translation which I made on +the spot. + + “Crychiawg, ewynawg anian—yw y Rhyadr + Yn rhuo mal taran; + Colofn o dwr, gloyw-dwr glan, + Gorwyllt, un lliw ag arian.” + + “Foaming and frothing from mountainous height, + Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls; + Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight, + Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXI + + +Wild Moors—The Guide—Scientific Discourse—The Land of Arthur—The +Umbrella—Arrival at Bala. + +When I had rested myself and finished the buttermilk I got up, and, +making the good woman a small compensation for her civility, inquired if +I could get to Bala without returning to Llan Rhyadr. + +“O yes,” said she, “if you cross the hills for about five miles you will +find yourself upon a road which will take you straight to Bala.” + +“Is there any one here,” said I, “who will guide me over the hills +provided I pay him for his trouble?” + +“O yes,” said she; “I know one who will be happy to guide you whether you +pay him or not.” + +She went out and presently returned with a man about thirty-five, stout +and well-looking, and dressed in a waggoner’s frock. + +“There,” said she, “this is the man to show you over the hills; few know +the paths better.” + +I thanked her, and telling the man I was ready, bade him lead the way. +We set out, the two dogs of which I have spoken attending us and +seemingly very glad to go. We ascended the side of the hog-backed hill +to the north of the Rhyadr. We were about twenty minutes in getting to +the top, close to which stood a stone or piece of rock, very much +resembling a church altar, and about the size of one. We were now on an +extensive moory elevation, having the brook which forms the Rhyadr a +little way on our left. We went nearly due west, following no path, for +path there was none, but keeping near the brook. Sometimes we crossed +watercourses which emptied their tribute into the brook, and every now +and then ascended and descended hillocks covered with gorse and whin. +After a little time I entered into conversation with my guide. He had +not a word of English. “Are you married?” said I. + +“In truth I am, sir.” + +“What family have you?” + +“I have a daughter.” + +“Where do you live?” + +“At the house of the Rhyadr.” + +“I suppose you live there as servant?” + +“No, sir, I live there as master.” + +“Is the good woman I saw there your wife?” + +“In truth, sir, she is.” + +“And the young girl I saw your daughter?” + +“Yes, sir, she is my daughter.” + +“And how came the good woman not to tell me you were her husband?” + +“I suppose, sir, you did not ask who I was, and she thought you did not +care to know.” + +“But can you be spared from home?” + +“O yes, sir, I was not wanted at home.” + +“What business are you?” + +“I am a farmer, sir.” + +“A sheep farmer?” + +“Yes sir.” + +“Who is your landlord?” + +“Sir Watkin.” + +“Well, it was very kind of you to come with me.” + +“Not at all, sir; I was glad to come with you, for we are very lonesome +at Rhyadr, except during a few weeks in the summer, when the gentry come +to see the Pistyll. Moreover, I have sheep lying about here which need +to be looked at now and then, and by coming hither with you I shall have +an opportunity of seeing them.” + +We frequently passed sheep feeding together in small numbers. In two or +three instances my guide singled out individuals, caught them, and +placing their heads between his knees examined the inside of their +eyelids, in order to learn by their colour whether or not they were +infected with the pwd or moor disorder. We had some discourse about that +malady. At last he asked me if there was a remedy for it. + +“O yes,” said I; “a decoction of hoarhound.” + +“What is hoarhound?” said he. + +“Llwyd y Cwn,” said I. “Pour some of that down the sheep’s throat twice +a day, by means of a horn, and the sheep will recover, for the +bitterness, do you see, will destroy the worm {400} in the liver, which +learned men say is the cause of the disorder.” + +We left the brook on our left hand and passed by some ruined walls which +my guide informed me had once belonged to houses but were now used as +sheep-folds. After walking several miles, according to my computation, +we began to ascend a considerable elevation covered with brown heath and +ling. As we went on the dogs frequently put up a bird of a black colour, +which flew away with a sharp whirr. + +“What bird is that?” said I. + +“Ceiliog y grug, the cock of the heath,” replied my guide. “It is said +to be very good eating, but I have never tasted it. The ceiliog y grug +is not food for the like of me. It goes to feed the rich Saxons in Caer +Ludd.” + +We reached the top of the elevation. + +“Yonder,” said my guide, pointing to a white bare place a great way off +to the west, “is Bala road.” + +“Then I will not trouble you to go any further,” said I; “I can find my +way thither.” + +“No, you could not,” said my guide; “if you were to make straight for +that place you would perhaps fall down a steep, or sink into a peat hole +up to your middle, or lose your way and never find the road, for you +would soon lose sight of that place. Follow me, and I will lead you into +a part of the road more to the left, and then you can find your way +easily enough to that bare place, and from thence to Bala.” Thereupon he +moved in a southerly direction down the steep and I followed him. In +about twenty minutes we came to the road. + +“Now,” said my guide, “you are on the road; bear to the right and you +cannot miss the way to Bala.” + +“How far is it to Bala?” said I. + +“About twelve miles,” he replied. + +I gave him a trifle, asking at the same time if it was sufficient. “Too +much by one half,” he replied; “many, many thanks.” He then shook me by +the hand, and accompanied by his dogs departed, not back over the moor, +but in a southerly direction down the road. + +Wending my course to the north, I came to the white bare spot which I had +seen from the moor, and which was in fact the top of a considerable +elevation over which the road passed. Here I turned and looked at the +hills I had come across. There they stood, darkly blue, a rain cloud, +like ink, hanging over their summits. O, the wild hills of Wales, the +land of old renown and of wonder, the land of Arthur and Merlin. + +The road now lay nearly due west. Rain came on, but it was at my back, +so I expanded my umbrella, flung it over my shoulder and laughed. O, how +a man laughs who has a good umbrella when he has the rain at his back, +aye and over his head too, and at all times when it rains except when the +rain is in his face, when the umbrella is not of much service. O, what a +good friend to a man is an umbrella in rain time, and likewise at many +other times. What need he fear if a wild bull or a ferocious dog attacks +him, provided he has a good umbrella? he unfurls the umbrella in the face +of the bull or dog, and the brute turns round quite scared, and runs +away. Or if a footpad asks him for his money, what need he care provided +he has an umbrella? he threatens to dodge the ferrule into the ruffian’s +eye, and the fellow starts back and says, “Lord, sir! I meant no harm. I +never saw you before in all my life. I merely meant a little fun.” +Moreover, who doubts that you are a respectable character provided you +have an umbrella? you go into a public-house and call for a pot of beer, +and the publican puts it down before you with one hand without holding +out the other for the money, for he sees that you have an umbrella and +consequently property. And what respectable man, when you overtake him +on the way and speak to him, will refuse to hold conversation with you, +provided you have an umbrella? No one. The respectable man sees you +have an umbrella and concludes that you do not intend to rob him, and +with justice, for robbers never carry umbrellas. O, a tent, a shield, a +lance and a voucher for character is an umbrella. Amongst the very best +friends of man must be reckoned an umbrella. {402} + +The way lay over dreary, moory hills: at last it began to descend and I +saw a valley below me with a narrow river running through it to which +wooded hills sloped down; far to the west were blue mountains. The scene +was beautiful but melancholy; the rain had passed away, but a gloomy +almost November sky was above, and the mists of night were coming down +apace. + +I crossed a bridge at the bottom of the valley and presently saw a road +branching to the right. I paused, but after a little time went straight +forward. Gloomy woods were on each side of me and night had come down. +Fear came upon me that I was not in the right road, but I saw no house at +which I could inquire, nor did I see a single individual for miles of +whom I could ask. At last I heard the sound of hatchets in a dingle on +my right, and catching a glimpse of a gate at the head of a path, which +led down into it, I got over it. After descending some time I hallooed. +The noise of the hatchets ceased. I hallooed again, and a voice cried in +Welsh, “What do you want?” “To know the way to Bala,” I replied. There +was no answer, but presently I heard steps, and the figure of a man drew +nigh half undistinguishable in the darkness and saluted me. I returned +his salutation, and told him I wanted to know the way to Bala. He told +me, and I found I had been going right. I thanked him and regained the +road. I sped onward and in about half an hour saw some houses, then a +bridge, then a lake on my left, which I recognised as the lake of Bala. +I skirted the end of it, and came to a street cheerfully lighted up, and +in a minute more was in the White Lion Inn. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXII + + +Cheerful Fire—Immense Man—Doctor Jones—Recognition—A Fast Young +Man—Excellent Remarks—Disappointment. + +I was conducted into the coffee-room of the White Lion by a little +freckled maid whom I saw at the bar, and whom I told that I was come to +pass the night at the inn. The room presented an agreeable contrast to +the gloomy, desolate places through which I had lately come. A good fire +blazed in the grate, and there were four lights on the table. Lolling in +a chair by one side of the fire was an individual at the sight of whom I +almost started. He was an immense man, weighing I should say at least +eighteen stone, with brown hair, thinnish whiskers, half-ruddy, +half-tallowy complexion, and dressed in a brown sporting coat, drab +breeches and yellow-topped boots—in every respect the exact image of the +Wolverhampton gent or hog-merchant who had appeared to me in my dream at +Llangollen, whilst asleep before the fire. Yes, the very counterpart of +the same gent looked this enormous fellow, save and except that he did +not appear to be more than seven or eight and twenty, whereas the +hog-merchant looked at least fifty. Laying my satchel down I took a seat +and ordered the maid to get some dinner for me, and then asked what had +become of the waiter Tom Jenkins. + +“He is not here at present, sir,” said the freckled maid; “he is at his +own house.” + +“And why is he not here?” said I. + +“Because he is not wanted, sir; he only comes in summer when the house is +full of people.” + +And having said this the little freckled damsel left the room. + +“Reither a cool night, sir!” said the enormous man after we had been +alone together a few minutes. + +I again almost started, for he spoke with the same kind of half-piping, +half-wheezing voice, with which methought the Wolverhampton gent had +spoken to me in my dream. + +“Yes,” said I; “it is rather cold out abroad, but I don’t care, as I am +not going any farther to-night.” + +“That’s not my case,” said the stout man, “I have got to go ten miles, as +far as Cerrig Drudion, from which place I came this afternoon in a +wehicle.” + +“Do you reside at Cerrig Drudion?” said I. + +“No,” said the stout man, whose dialect I shall not attempt further to +imitate, “but I have been staying there some time; for happening to go +there a month or two ago I was tempted to take up my quarters at the inn. +A very nice inn it is, and the landlady a very agreeable woman, and her +daughters very agreeable young ladies.” + +“Is this the first time you have been at Bala?” + +“Yes, the first time. I had heard a good deal about it, and wished to +see it. So to-day, having the offer of a vehicle at a cheap rate I came +over with two or three other gents, amongst whom is Doctor Jones.” + +“Dear me,” said I; “is Doctor Jones in Bala?” + +“Yes,” said the stout man; “do you know him?” + +“Oh yes,” said I, “and have a great respect for him; his like for +politeness and general learning is scarcely to be found in Britain.” + +“Only think,” said the stout man. “Well, I never heard that of him +before.” + +Wishing to see my sleeping room before I got my dinner, I now rose and +was making for the door, when it opened, and in came Doctor Jones. He +had a muffler round his neck, and walked rather slowly and +disconsolately, leaning upon a cane. He passed without appearing to +recognise me, and I, thinking it would be as well to defer claiming +acquaintance with him till I had put myself a little to rights, went out +without saying anything to him. I was shown by the freckled maid to a +nice sleeping apartment, where I stayed some time adjusting myself. On +my return to the coffee-room I found the doctor sitting near the +fire-place. The stout man had left the room. I had no doubt that he +told Doctor Jones that I had claimed acquaintance with him, and that the +doctor not having recollected me had denied that he knew anything of me, +for I observed that he looked at me very suspiciously. + +I took my former seat, and after a minute’s silence said to Doctor Jones, +“I think, sir, I had the pleasure of seeing you some time ago at Cerrig +Drudion?” + +“It’s possible, sir,” said Doctor Jones in a tone of considerable +hauteur, and tossing his head so that the end of his chin was above his +comforter, “but I have no recollection of it.” + +I held my head down for a little time, then raising it and likewise my +forefinger I looked Doctor Jones full in the face and said, “Don’t you +remember talking to me about Owen Pugh and Coll Gwynfa?” + +“Yes, I do,” said Doctor Jones in a very low voice, like that of a person +who deliberates; “yes, I do. I remember you perfectly, sir,” he added +almost immediately in a tone of some animation; “you are the gentleman +with whom I had a very interesting conversation one evening last summer +in the bar of the inn at Cerrig Drudion. I regretted very much that our +conversation was rather brief, but I was called away to attend to a case, +a professional case, sir, of some delicacy, and I have since particularly +regretted that I was unable to return that night, as it would have given +me much pleasure to have been present at a dialogue which, I have been +told by my friend the landlady, you held with a certain Italian who was +staying at the house, which was highly agreeable and instructive to +herself and her daughter.” + +“Well,” said I, “I am rejoiced that fate has brought us together again. +How have you been in health since I had the pleasure of seeing you?” + +“Rather indifferent, sir, rather indifferent. I have of late been +afflicted with several ailments the original cause of which, I believe, +was a residence of several years in the Ynysoedd y Gorllewin—the +West-India Islands—where I had the honour of serving her present gracious +Majesty’s gracious uncle, George the Fourth—in a medical capacity, sir. +I have likewise been afflicted with lowness of spirits, sir. It was this +same lowness of spirits which induced me to accept an invitation made by +the individual lately in the room to accompany him in a vehicle with some +other people to Bala. I shall always consider my coming as a fortunate +circumstance inasmuch as it has given me an opportunity of renewing my +acquaintance with you.” + +“Pray,” said I, “may I take the liberty of asking who that individual +is?” + +“Why,” said Doctor Jones, “he is what they call a Wolverhampton gent.” + +“A Wolverhampton gent,” said I to myself; “only think!” + +“Were you pleased to make any observation, sir?” said the doctor. + +“I was merely saying something to myself,” said I. “And in what line of +business may he be? I suppose in the hog line.” + +“O no,” said Doctor Jones. “His father it is true is a hog-merchant, but +as for himself he follows no business; he is what is called a fast young +man, and goes about here and there on the spree, as I think they term it, +drawing, whenever he wants money, upon his father, who is in affluent +circumstances. Some time ago he came to Cerrig Drudion, and was so much +pleased with the place, the landlady and her daughters that he has made +it his head-quarters ever since. Being frequently at the house I formed +an acquaintance with him, and have occasionally made one in his parties +and excursions, though I can’t say I derive much pleasure from his +conversation, for he is a person of little or no literature.” + +“The son of a hog-merchant,” thought I to myself. “Depend upon it, that +immense fellow whom I saw in my dream purchase the big hog at Llangollen +fair, and who wanted me to give him a poond for his bargain, was this +gent’s father. O there is much more in dreams than is generally dreamt +of by philosophy!” + +Doctor Jones presently began to talk of Welsh literature, and we were +busily engaged in discussing the subject when in walked the fast young +man, causing the floor to quake beneath his ponderous tread. He looked +rather surprised at seeing the doctor and me conversing, but Doctor Jones +turning to him said, “O I remember this gentleman perfectly.” + +“Oh!” said the fast young man; “very good!” then flinging himself down in +a chair with a force that nearly broke it and fixing his eyes upon me +said, “I think I remember the gentleman too. If I am not much mistaken, +sir, you are one of our principal engineers at Wolverhampton. O yes! I +remember you now perfectly. The last time I saw you was at a public +dinner given to you at Wolverhampton, and there you made a speech, and a +capital speech it was.” + +Just as I was about to reply Doctor Jones commenced speaking Welsh, +resuming the discourse on Welsh literature. Before, however, he had +uttered a dozen words he was interrupted by the Wolverhampton gent, who +exclaimed in a blubbering tone: “O Lord, you are surely not going to +speak Welsh. If I had thought I was to be bothered with Welsh I wouldn’t +have asked you to come.” + +“If I spoke Welsh, sir,” said the Doctor, “it was out of compliment to +this gentleman, who is a proficient in the ancient language of my +country. As, however, you dislike Welsh, I shall carry on the +conversation with him in English, though peradventure you may not be more +edified by it in that language than if it were held in Welsh.” + +He then proceeded to make some very excellent remarks on the history of +the Gwedir family, written by Sir John Wynn; to which the Wolverhampton +gent listened with open mouth and staring eyes. My dinner now made its +appearance, brought in by the little freckled maid—the cloth had been +laid during my absence from the room. I had just begun to handle my +knife and fork, Doctor Jones still continuing his observations on the +history of the Gwedir family, when I heard a carriage drive up to the +inn, and almost immediately after two or three young fellows rollicked +into the room. “Come, let’s be off,” said one of them to the +Wolverhampton gent; “the carriage is ready.” “I’m glad of it,” said the +fast young man, “for it’s rather slow work here. Come, doctor! are you +going with us or do you intend to stay here all night?” Thereupon the +doctor got up, and coming towards me, leaning on his cane, said: “Sir! it +gives me infinite pleasure that I have met a second time a gentleman of +so much literature. That we shall ever meet a third time I may wish but +can scarcely hope, owing to certain ailments under which I suffer, +brought on, sir, by a residence of many years in the Occidental Indies. +However, at all events I wish you health and happiness.” He then shook +me gently by the hand and departed with the Wolverhampton gent and his +companions; the gent as he stumped out of the room saying, “Good night, +sir; I hope it will not be long before I see you at another public dinner +at Wolverhampton, and hear another speech from you as good as the last.” +In a minute or two I heard them drive off. + +Left to myself I began to discuss my dinner. Of the dinner I had nothing +to complain, but the ale which accompanied it was very bad. This was the +more mortifying, for remembering the excellent ale I had drunk at Bala +some months previously I had, as I came along the gloomy roads the +present evening, been promising myself a delicious treat on my arrival. + +“This is very bad ale!” said I to the freckled maid, “very different from +what I drank in the summer, when I was waited on by Tom Jenkins.” + +“It is the same ale, sir,” said the maid, “but the last in the cask; and +we shan’t have any more for six months, when he will come again to brew +for the summer; but we have very good porter, sir, and first-rate +Allsopp.” + +“Allsopp’s ale,” said I, “will do for July and August, but scarcely for +the end of October. However, bring me a pint; I prefer it at all times +to porter.” + +My dinner concluded, I trifled away the time till about ten o’clock, and +then went to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIII + + +Breakfast—The Freckled Maid—Llan uwch Llyn—The Landlady—Llewarch +Hen—Conversions to the Church. + +Awaking occasionally in the night I heard much storm and rain. The +following morning it was gloomy and lowering. As it was Sunday I +determined to pass the day at Bala, and accordingly took my prayer-book +out of my satchel, and also my single white shirt, which I put on. + +Having dressed myself I went to the coffee-room and sat down to +breakfast. What a breakfast! pot of hare; ditto of trout; pot of +prepared shrimps; dish of plain shrimps; tin of sardines; beautiful +beef-steak; eggs, muffin; large loaf, and butter, not forgetting capital +tea. There’s a breakfast for you! + +As the little freckled maid was removing the breakfast things I asked her +how old she was. + +“Eighteen, sir, last Candlemas,” said the freckled maid. + +“Are your parents alive?” + +“My mother is, sir, but my father is dead.” + +“What was your father?” + +“He was an Irishman, sir! and boots to this inn.” + +“Is your mother Irish?” + +“No, sir, she is of this place; my father married her shortly after he +came here.” + +“Of what religion are you?” + +“Church, sir, church.” + +“Was your father of the church?” + +“Not always, sir; he was once what is called a Cartholic. He turned to +the church after he came here.” + +“A’n’t there a great many Methodists in Bala?” + +“Plenty, sir, plenty.” + +“How came your father not to go over to the Methodists instead of the +church?” + +“’Cause he didn’t like them, sir; he used to say they were a trumpery, +cheating set; that they wouldn’t swear, but would lie through a +three-inch board.” + +“I suppose your mother is a churchwoman?” + +“She is now, sir; but before she knew my father she was a Methodist.” + +“Of what religion is the master of the house?” + +“Church, sir, church; so is all the family.” + +“Who is the clergyman of the place?” + +“Mr. Pugh, sir!” + +“Is he a good preacher?” + +“Capital, sir! and so is each of his curates; he and they are convarting +the Methodists left and right.” + +“I should like to hear him.” + +“Well, sir! that you can do. My master, who is going to church +presently, will be happy to accommodate you in his pew.” + +I went to the church with the landlord, a tall gentlemanly man of the +name of Jones—O that eternal name of Jones! Rain was falling fast, and +we were glad to hold up our umbrellas. We did not go to the church at +Bala, at which there was no service that morning, but to that of a little +village close by, on the side of the lake, the living of which is +incorporated with that of Bala. The church stands low down by the lake +at the bottom of a little nook. Its name, which is Llan uwch Llyn, is +descriptive of its position, signifying the Church above the Lake. It is +a long, low, ancient edifice, standing north-east by south-west. The +village is just above it on a rising ground, behind which are lofty hills +pleasantly dotted with groves, trees and houses. The interior of the +edifice has a somewhat dilapidated appearance. The service was in Welsh. +The clergyman was about forty years of age, and had a highly-intelligent +look. His voice was remarkably clear and distinct. He preached an +excellent practical sermon, text 14th chapter 22nd verse of Luke, about +sending out servants to invite people to the supper. After the sermon +there was a gathering for the poor. + +As I returned to the inn I had a good deal of conversation with the +landlord on religious subjects. He told me that the Church of England, +which for a long time had been a down-trodden Church in Wales, had of +late begun to raise its head, and chiefly owing to the zeal and activity +of its present ministers; that the former ministers of the Church were +good men but had not energy enough to suit the times in which they lived; +that the present ministers fought the Methodist preachers with their own +weapon, namely extemporary preaching, and beat them, winning shoals from +their congregations. He seemed to think that the time was not far +distant when the Anglican Church would be the popular as well as the +established church of Wales. + +Finding myself rather dull in the inn I went out again notwithstanding +that it rained. I ascended the toman or mound which I had visited on a +former occasion. Nothing could be more desolate and dreary than the +scene around. The woods were stript of their verdure and the hills were +half shrouded in mist. How unlike was this scene to the smiling, +glorious prospect which had greeted my eyes a few months before. The +rain coming down with redoubled violence I was soon glad to descend and +regain the inn. + +Shortly before dinner I was visited by the landlady, a fine tall woman of +about fifty with considerable remains of beauty in her countenance. She +came to ask me if I was comfortable. I told her that it was my own fault +if I was not. We were soon in very friendly discourse. I asked her her +maiden name. + +“Owen,” said she laughing, “which after my present name of Jones is the +most common name in Wales.” + +“They were both one and the same originally,” said I, “Owen and Jones +both mean John.” + +She too was a staunch member of the Church of England, which she said was +the only true church. She spoke in terms of high respect and admiration +of her minister, and said that a new church was being built, the old one +not being large enough to accommodate the numbers who thronged to hear +him. + +I had a noble goose for dinner to which I did ample justice. About four +o’clock the weather having cleared up I took a stroll. It was a +beautiful evening, though rain clouds still hovered about. I wandered to +the northern end of Llyn Tegid which I had passed in the preceding +evening. The wind was blowing from the south, and tiny waves were +beating against the shore which consisted of small brown pebbles. The +lake has certainly not its name, which signifies Lake of Beauty, for +nothing. It is a beautiful sheet of water, and beautifully situated. It +is oblong and about six miles in length. On all sides, except to the +north, it is bounded by hills. Those at the southern end are very lofty; +the tallest of which is Arran, which lifts its head to the clouds like a +huge loaf. As I wandered on the strand I thought of a certain British +prince and poet, who in the very old time sought a refuge in the vicinity +of the lake from the rage of the Saxons. His name was Llewarch Hen, of +whom I will now say a few words. + +Llewarch Hen, or Llewarch the Aged, was born about the commencement of +the sixth and died about the middle of the seventh century, having +attained to the prodigious age of one hundred and forty or fifty years, +which is perhaps the lot of about forty individuals in the course of a +millenium. If he was remarkable for the number of his years he was no +less so for the number of his misfortunes. He was one of the princes of +the Cumbrian Britons; but Cumbria was invaded by the Saxons, and a scene +of horrid war ensued. Llewarch and his sons, of whom he had twenty-four, +put themselves at the head of their forces, and in conjunction with the +other Cumbrian princes made a brave but fruitless opposition to the +invaders. Most of his sons were slain, and he himself with the remainder +sought shelter in Powys in the hall of Cynddylan its prince. But the +Saxon bills and bows found their way to Powys too. Cynddylan was slain, +and with him the last of the sons of Llewarch, who, reft of his +protector, retired to a hut by the side of the lake of Bala, where he +lived the life of a recluse and composed elegies on his sons and +slaughtered friends, and on his old age, all of which abound with so much +simplicity and pathos that the heart of him must be hard indeed who can +read them unmoved. Whilst a prince he was revered for his wisdom and +equity, and he is said in one of the historical triads to have been one +of the three consulting warriors of Arthur. + +In the evening I attended service in the old church at Bala. The +interior of the edifice was remarkably plain; no ornament of any kind was +distinguishable; the congregation was overflowing, amongst whom I +observed the innkeeper and his wife, the little freckled maid and the +boots. The entire service was in Welsh. Next to the pew in which I sat +was one filled with young singing women, all of whom seemed to have +voices of wonderful power. The prayers were read by a strapping young +curate at least six feet high. The sermon was preached by the rector, +and was a continuation of the one which I had heard him preach in the +morning. It was a very comforting discourse, as the preacher clearly +proved that every sinner will be pardoned who comes to Jesus. I was +particularly struck with one part. The preacher said that Jesus’ arms +being stretched out upon the cross was emblematic of his surprising love +and his willingness to receive anybody. The service concluded with the +noble anthem Teyrnasa Jesu Mawr, “May Mighty Jesus reign!” + +The service over I returned to the parlour of the inn. There I sat for a +long time lone and solitary, staring at the fire in the grate. I was the +only guest in the house; a great silence prevailed both within and +without; sometimes five minutes elapsed without my hearing a sound, and +then perhaps the silence would be broken by a footstep at a distance in +the street—at length finding myself yawning I determined to go to bed. +The freckled maid, as she lighted me to my room, inquired how I liked the +sermon. “Very much,” said I. “Ah,” said she, “did I not tell you that +Mr. Pugh was a capital preacher?” She then asked me how I liked the +singing of the gals who sat in the next pew to mine. I told her that I +liked it exceedingly. “Ah!” said she, “them gals have the best voices in +Bala. They were once Methody gals, and sang in the chapels, but were +convarted, and are now as good Church as myself. Them gals have been the +cause of a great many convarsions, for all the young fellows of their +acquaintance amongst the Methodists—” + +“Follow them to church,” said I, “and in time become converted. That’s a +thing of course. If the Church gets the girls she is quite sure of the +fellows.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIV + + +Proceed on Journey—The Lad and Dog—Old Bala—The Pass—Extensive View—The +Two Men—The Tap Nyth—The Meeting of the Waters—The Wild Valley—Dinas +Mawddwy. + +The Monday morning was gloomy and misty, but it did not rain, a +circumstance which gave me no little pleasure, as I intended to continue +my journey without delay. After breakfast I bade farewell to my kind +hosts and also to the freckled maid, and departed, my sachel o’er my +shoulder and my umbrella in my hand. + +I had consulted the landlord on the previous day as to where I had best +make my next halt, and had been advised by him to stop at Mallwyd. He +said that if I felt tired I could put up at Dinas Mawddwy, about two +miles on this side of Mallwyd, but that if I were not he would advise me +to go on, as I should find very poor accommodation at Dinas. On my +inquiring as to the nature of the road he told me that the first part of +it was tolerably good, lying along the eastern side of the lake, but that +the greater part of it was very rough, over hills and mountains belonging +to the great chain of Arran, which constituted upon the whole the wildest +part of all Wales. + +Passing by the northern end of the lake I turned to the south and +proceeded along a road a little way above the side of the lake. The day +had now to a certain extent cleared up, and the lake was occasionally +gilded by beams of bright sunshine. After walking a little way I +overtook a lad dressed in a white great coat and attended by a tolerably +large black dog. I addressed him in English, but finding that he did not +understand me I began to talk to him in Welsh. + +“That’s a fine dog,” said I. + +_Lad_.—Very fine, sir, and a good dog; though young, he has been known to +kill rats. + +_Myself_.—What is his name? + +_Lad_.—His name is Toby, sir. + +_Myself_.—And what is your name? + +_Lad_.—John Jones, sir. + +_Myself_.—And what is your father’s? + +_Lad_.—Waladr Jones, sir. + +_Myself_.—Is Waladr the same as Cadwaladr? + +_Lad_.—In truth, sir, it is. + +_Myself_.—That is a fine name. + +_Lad_.—It is, sir; I have heard my father say that it was the name of a +king. + +_Myself_.—What is your father? + +_Lad_.—A farmer, sir. + +_Myself_.—Does he farm his own land? + +_Lad_.—He does not, sir; he is tenant to Mr. Price of Hiwlas. + +_Myself_.—Do you live far from Bala? + +_Lad_.—Not very far, sir. + +_Myself_.—Are you going home now? + +_Lad_.—I am not, sir; our home is on the other side of Bala. I am going +to see a relation up the road. + +_Myself_.—Bala is a nice place. + +_Lad_.—It is, sir; but not so fine as old Bala. + +_Myself_.—I never heard of such a place. Where is it? + +_Lad_.—Under the lake, sir. + +_Myself_.—What do you mean? + +_Lad_.—It stood in the old time where the lake now is, and a fine city it +was, full of fine houses, towers and castles, but with neither church nor +chapel, for the people neither knew God nor cared for Him, and thought of +nothing but singing and dancing and other wicked things. So God was +angry with them, and one night, when they were all busy at singing and +dancing and the like, God gave the word and the city sank down into +Unknown, and the lake boiled up where it once stood. + +_Myself_.—That was a long time ago. + +_Lad_.—In truth, sir, it was. + +_Myself_.—Before the days of King Cadwaladr. + +_Lad_.—I dare say it was, sir. + +I walked fast, but the lad was a shrewd walker, and though encumbered +with his great coat contrived to keep tolerably up with me. The road +went over hill and dale, but upon the whole more upward than downward. +After proceeding about an hour and a half we left the lake, to the +southern extremity of which we had nearly come, somewhat behind, and bore +away to the south-east, gradually ascending. At length the lad pointing +to a small farm-house on the side of a hill told me he was bound thither, +and presently bidding me farewell turned aside up a footpath which led +towards it. + +About a minute afterwards a small delicate furred creature with a white +mark round its neck and with a little tail trailing on the ground ran +swiftly across the road. It was a weasel or something of that genus; on +observing it I was glad that the lad and the dog were gone, as between +them they would probably have killed it. I hate to see poor wild animals +persecuted and murdered, lose my appetite for dinner at hearing the +screams of a hare pursued by greyhounds, and am silly enough to feel +disgust and horror at the squeals of a rat in the fangs of a terrier, +which one of the sporting tribe once told me were the sweetest sounds in +“natur.” + +I crossed a bridge over a deep gulley which discharged its waters into a +river in a valley on the right. Arran rose in great majesty on the +farther side of this vale, its head partly shrouded in mist. The day now +became considerably overcast. I wandered on over much rough ground till +I came to a collection of houses at the bottom of a pass leading up a +steep mountain. Seeing the door of one of the houses open I peeped in, +and a woman who was sitting knitting in the interior rose and came out to +me. I asked the name of the place. The name which she told me sounded +something like Tŷ Capel Saer—the House of the Chapel of the Carpenter. I +inquired the name of the river in the valley. Cynllwyd, hoary-headed, +she seemed to say; but here as well as with respect to her first answer I +speak under correction, for her Welsh was what my old friends the +Spaniards would call muy cerrado, that is close or indistinct. She asked +me if I was going up the bwlch. I told her I was. + +“Rather you than I,” said she, looking up to the heavens which had +assumed a very dismal, not to say awful appearance. + +Presently I began to ascend the pass or bwlch, a green hill on my right +intercepting the view of Arran, another very lofty hill on my left with +wood towards the summit. Coming to a little cottage which stood on the +left I went to the door and knocked. A smiling young woman opened it, of +whom I asked the name of the house. + +“Tŷ Nant—the House of the Dingle,” she replied. + +“Do you live alone?” said I. + +“No; mother lives here.” + +“Any Saesneg?” + +“No,” said she with a smile, “S’sneg of no use here.” + +Her face looked the picture of kindness, I was now indeed in Wales +amongst the real Welsh. I went on some way. Suddenly there was a +moaning sound, and rain came down in torrents. Seeing a deserted cottage +on my left I went in. There was fodder in it, and it appeared to serve +partly as a barn, partly as a cowhouse. The rain poured upon the roof +and I was glad I had found shelter. Close behind this place a small +brook precipitated itself down rocks in four successive falls. + +The rain having ceased I proceeded and after a considerable time reached +the top of the pass. From thence I had a view of the valley and lake of +Bala, the lake looking like an immense sheet of steel. A round hill, +however, somewhat intercepted the view of the latter. The scene in my +immediate neighbourhood was very desolate; moory hillocks were all about +me of a wretched russet colour; on my left, on the very crest of the hill +up which I had so long been toiling, stood a black pyramid of turf, a +pole on the top of it. The road now wore nearly due west down a steep +descent, Arran was slightly to the north of me. I, however, soon lost +sight of it, as I went down the farther side of the hill which lies over +against it to the south-east. The sun, now descending, began to shine +out. The pass down which I was now going was yet wilder than the one up +which I had lately come. Close on my right was the steep hill’s side out +of which the road or path had been cut, which was here and there overhung +by crags of wondrous forms; on my left was a very deep glen, beyond which +was a black, precipitous, rocky wall, from a chasm near the top of which +tumbled with a rushing sound a slender brook seemingly the commencement +of a mountain stream which hurried into a valley far below towards the +west. When nearly at the bottom of the descent I stood still to look +around me. Grand and wild was the scenery. On my left were noble green +hills, the tops of which were beautifully gilded by the rays of the +setting sun. On my right a black, gloomy, narrow valley or glen showed +itself; two enormous craggy hills of immense altitude, one to the west +and the other to the east of the entrance; that to the east terminating +in a peak. The background to the north was a wall of rocks forming a +semicircle, something like a bent bow with the head downward; behind this +bow, just in the middle, rose the black loaf of Arran. A torrent tumbled +from the lower part of the semicircle, and after running for some +distance to the south turned to the west, the way I was going. + +Observing a house a little way within the gloomy vale I went towards it +in the hope of finding somebody in it who could give me information +respecting this wild locality. As I drew near the door two tall men came +forth, one about sixty, and the other about half that age. The elder had +a sharp, keen look; the younger a lumpy and a stupid one. They were +dressed like farmers. On my saluting them in English the elder returned +my salutation in that tongue, but in rather a gruff tone. The younger +turned away his head and said nothing. + +“What is the name of this house?” said I, pointing to the building. + +“The name of it,” said the old man, “is Tŷ Mawr.” + +“Do you live in it?” said I. + +“Yes, I live in it.” + +“What waterfall is that?” said I, pointing to the torrent tumbling down +the crag at the farther end of the gloomy vale. + +“The fountain of the Royal Dyfi.” + +“Why do you call the Dyfy royal?” said I. + +“Because it is the king of the rivers in these parts.” + +“Does the fountain come out of a rock?” + +“It does not; it comes out of a lake, a llyn.” + +“Where is the llyn?” + +“Over that crag at the foot of Aran Vawr.” + +“Is it a large lake?” + +“It is not; it is small.” + +“Deep?” + +“Very.” + +“Strange things in it?” + +“I believe there are strange things in it.” His English now became +broken. + +“Crocodiles?” + +“I do not know what cracadailes be.” + +“Efync?” + +“Ah! No I do not tink there be efync dere. Hu Gadarn in de old time +kill de efync dere and in all de lakes in Wales. He draw them out of the +water with his ychain banog his humpty oxen, and when he get dem out he +burn deir bodies on de fire, he good man for dat.” + +“What do you call this allt?” said I, looking up to the high pinnacled +hill on my right. + +“I call that Tap Nyth yr Eryri.” + +“Is not that the top nest of the eagles?” + +“I believe it is. Ha, I see you understand Welsh.” + +“A little,” said I; “are there eagles there now?” + +“No, no eagle now.” + +“Gone like avanc?” + +“Yes, gone like avanc, but not so long. My father see eagle on Tap Nyth, +but my father never see avanc in de llyn.” + +“How far to Dinas?” + +“About three mile.” + +“Any thieves about?” + +“No, no thieves here, but what come from England,” and he looked at me +with a strange, grim smile. + +“What is become of the red-haired robbers of Mawddwy?” + +“Ah,” said the old man, staring at me, “I see you are a Cumro. The +red-haired thieves of Mawddwy! I see you are from these parts.” + +“What’s become of them?” + +“Oh, dead, hung. Lived long time ago; long before eagle left Tap Nyth.” + +He spoke true. The red-haired banditti of Mawddwy were exterminated long +before the conclusion of the sixteenth century, after having long been +the terror not only of these wild regions but of the greater part of +North Wales. They were called the red-haired banditti because certain +leading individuals amongst them had red foxy hair. + +“Is that young man your son?” said I, after a little pause. + +“Yes, he my son.” + +“Has he any English?” + +“No, he no English, but he plenty of Welsh—that is if he see reason.” + +I spoke to the young man in Welsh, asking him if he had ever been up to +the Tap Nyth, but he made no answer. + +“He no care for your question,” said the old man; “ask him price of pig.” +I asked the young fellow the price of hogs, whereupon his face brightened +up, and he not only answered my question, but told me that he had a fat +hog to sell. “Ha, ha,” said the old man; “he plenty of Welsh now, for he +see reason. To other question he no Welsh at all, no more than English, +for he see no reason. What business he on Tap Nyth with eagle? His +business down below in sty with pig. Ah, he look lump, but he no fool; +know more about pig than you or I, or any one ’twixt here and +Mahuncleth.” + +He now asked me where I came from, and on my telling him from Bala, his +heart appeared to warm towards me, and saying that I must be tired, he +asked me to step in and drink buttermilk, but I declined his offer with +thanks, and bidding the two adieu returned to the road. + +I hurried along and soon reached a valley which abounded with trees and +grass; I crossed a bridge over a brook, not what the old man had called +the Dyfi, but the stream whose source I had seen high up the bwlch, and +presently came to a place where the two waters joined. Just below the +confluence on a fallen tree was seated a man decently dressed; his eyes +were fixed on the rushing stream. I stopped and spoke to him. + +He had no English, but I found him a very sensible man. I talked to him +about the source of the Dyfi. He said it was a disputed point which was +the source. He himself was inclined to believe that it was the Pistyll +up the bwlch. I asked him of what religion he was. He said he was of +the Church of England, which was the Church of his father and his +grandfather, and which he believed to be the only true Church. I +inquired if it flourished. He said it did, but that it was dreadfully +persecuted by all classes of dissenters, who though they were continually +quarrelling with one another agreed in one thing namely to persecute the +Church. I asked him if he ever read. He said he read a great deal, +especially the works of Huw Morris, and that reading them had given him a +love for the sights of nature. He added that his greatest delight was to +come to the place where he then was, of an evening, and look at the +waters and hills. I asked him what trade he was. “The trade of Joseph,” +said he smiling. “Saer. Farewell, brother,” said I; “I am not a +carpenter, but like you I read the works of Huw Morris and am of the +Church of England.” I then shook him by the hand and departed. + +I passed a village with a stupendous mountain just behind it to the +north, which I was told was called Moel Vrith or the party-coloured moel. +I was now drawing near to the western end of the valley. Scenery of the +wildest and most picturesque description was rife and plentiful to a +degree: hills were here, hills were there; some tall and sharp, others +huge and humpy; hills were on every side; only a slight opening to the +west seemed to present itself. “What a valley!” I exclaimed. But on +passing through the opening I found myself in another, wilder and +stranger, if possible. Full to the west was a long hill rising up like +the roof of a barn, a enormous round hill on its north-east side, and on +its south-east the tail of the range which I had long had on my +left—there were trees and groves and running waters, but all in deep +shadow, for night was now close at hand. + +“What is the name of this place?” I shouted to a man on horseback, who +came dashing through a brook with a woman in a Welsh dress behind him. + +“Aber Cowarch, Saxon!” said the man in a deep guttural voice, and lashing +his horse disappeared rapidly in the shades of night. + +“Aber Cywarch!” I cried, springing half a yard into the air. “Why that’s +the place where Ellis Wynn composed his immortal _Sleeping Bard_, the +book which I translated in the blessed days of my youth. O no wonder +that the _Sleeping Bard_ is a wild and wondrous work, seeing that it was +composed amidst the wild and wonderful scenes which I here behold.” + +I proceeded onwards up an ascent; after some time I came to a bridge +across a stream which a man told me was called Avon Gerres. It runs into +the Dyfi, coming down with a rushing sound from a wild vale to the +north-east between the huge barn-like hill and Moel Vrith. The barn-like +hill I was informed was called Pen Dyn. I soon reached Dinas Mawddwy +which stands on the lower part of a high hill connected with the Pen Dyn. +Dinas, though at one time a place of considerable importance, if we may +judge from its name which signifies a fortified city, is at present +little more than a collection of filthy huts. But though a dirty squalid +place, I found it anything but silent and deserted. Fierce-looking +red-haired men, who seemed as if they might be descendants of the +red-haired banditti of old, were staggering about, and sounds of drunken +revelry echoed from the huts. I subsequently learned that Dinas was the +head-quarters of miners, the neighbourhood abounding with mines both of +lead and stone. I was glad to leave it behind me. Mallwyd is to the +south of Dinas—the way to it is by a romantic gorge down which flows the +Royal Dyfi. As I proceeded along this gorge the moon rising above Moel +Vrith illumined my path. In about half-an-hour I found myself before the +inn at Mallwyd. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXV + + +Inn at Mallwyd—A Dialogue—The _Cumro_. + +I entered the inn and seeing a comely-looking damsel at the bar I told +her that I was in need of supper and a bed. She conducted me into a neat +sanded parlour where a good fire was blazing and asked me what I would +have for supper. “Whatever you can most readily provide,” said I; “I am +not particular.” The maid retired, and taking off my hat, and +disencumbering myself of my satchel I sat down before the fire and fell +into a doze, in which I dreamed of some of the wild scenes through which +I had lately passed. + +I dozed and dozed till I was roused by the maid touching me on the +shoulder and telling me that supper was ready. I got up and perceived +that during my doze she had laid the cloth and put supper upon the table. +It consisted of bacon and eggs. During supper I had some conversation +with the maid. + +_Myself_.—Are you a native of this place? + +_Maid_.—I am not, sir; I come from Dinas. + +_Myself_.—Are your parents alive? + +_Maid_.—My mother is alive, sir, but my father is dead. + +_Myself_.—Where does your mother live? + +_Maid_.—At Dinas, sir. + +_Myself_.—How does she support herself? + +_Maid_.—By letting lodgings to miners, sir. + +_Myself_.—Are the miners quiet lodgers? + +_Maid_.—Not always, sir; sometimes they get up at night and fight with +each other. + +_Myself_.—What does your mother do on those occasions? + +_Maid_.—She draws the quilt over her head, and says her prayers, sir. + +_Myself_.—Why doesn’t she get up and part them? + +_Maid_.—Lest she should get a punch or a thwack for her trouble, sir. + +_Myself_.—Of what religion are the miners? + +_Maid_.—They are Methodists, if they are anything; but they don’t trouble +their heads much about religion. + +_Myself_.—Of what religion are you? + +_Maid_.—I am of the Church, sir. + +_Myself_.—Did you always belong to the Church? + +_Maid_.—Not always. When I was at Dinas I used to hear the preacher, but +since I have been here I have listened to the clergyman. + +_Myself_.—Is the clergyman here a good man? + +_Maid_.—A very good man indeed, sir. He lives close by. Shall I go and +tell him you want to speak to him? + +_Myself_.—O dear me, no! He can employ his time much more usefully than +in waiting upon me. + +After supper I sat quiet for about an hour. Then ringing the bell I +inquired of the maid whether there was a newspaper in the house. She +told me there was not, but that she thought she could procure me one. In +a little time she brought me a newspaper, which she said she had borrowed +at the parsonage. It was the _Cumro_, an excellent Welsh journal written +in the interest of the Church. In perusing its columns I passed a couple +of hours very agreeably, and then went to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVI + + +Mallwydd and its Church—Sons of Shoemakers—Village Inn—Dottings. + +The next day was the thirty-first of October, and was rather fine for the +season. As I did not intend to journey farther this day than +Machynlleth, a principal town in Montgomeryshire, distant only twelve +miles, I did not start from Mallwyd till just before noon. + +Mallwyd is a small but pretty village. The church is a long edifice +standing on a slight elevation on the left of the road. Its pulpit is +illustrious from having for many years been occupied by one of the very +celebrated men of Wales, namely Doctor John Davies, author of the great +Welsh and Latin dictionary, an imperishable work. An immense yew tree +grows in the churchyard, and partly overshadows the road with its +branches. The parsonage stands about a hundred yards to the south near a +grove of firs. The village is overhung on the north by the mountains of +the Arran range, from which it is separated by the murmuring Dyfi. To +the south for many miles the country is not mountainous, but presents a +pleasant variety of hill and dale. + +After leaving the village a little way behind me I turned round to take a +last view of the wonderful region from which I had emerged on the +previous evening. Forming the two sides of the pass down which comes +“the royal river” stood the Dinas mountain and Cefn Coch, the first on +the left, and the other on the right. Behind, forming the background of +the pass, appearing, though now some miles distant, almost in my close +proximity, stood Pen Dyn. This hill has various names, but the one which +I have noted here, and which signifies the head of a man, perhaps +describes it best. From where I looked at it on that last day of October +it was certainly like an enormous head, and put me in mind of the head of +Mambrino mentioned in the master work which commemorates the achievements +of the Manchegan knight. This mighty mountain is the birth-place of more +than one river. If the Gerres issues from its eastern side, from its +western springs the Maw that singularly picturesque stream, which enters +the ocean at the place which the Saxons corruptly call Barmouth and the +Cumry with great propriety Aber Maw or the disemboguement of the Maw. + +Just as I was about to pursue my journey, two boys came up, bound in the +same direction as myself. One was a large boy, dressed in a waggoner’s +frock, the other was a little fellow, in a brown coat and yellowish +trowsers. As we walked along together, I entered into conversation with +them. They came from Dinas Mawddwy. The large boy told me that he was +the son of a man who carted mwyn, or lead ore, and the little fellow that +he was the son of a shoemaker. The latter was by far the cleverest, and +no wonder, for the sons of shoemakers are always clever, which assertion, +should anybody doubt, I beg him to attend the examinations at Cambridge, +at which he will find that in three cases out of four the senior +wranglers are the sons of shoemakers. From this little chap I got a +great deal of information about Pen Dyn, every part of which he appeared +to have traversed. He told me, amongst other things, that there was a +castle upon it. Like a true son of a shoemaker, however, he was an arch +rogue. Coming to a small house, with a garden attached to it, in which +there were apple-trees, he stopped, whilst I went on with the other boy, +and after a minute or two came running up with a couple of apples in his +hand. “Where did you get those apples?” said I; “I hope you did not +steal them.” + +He made no reply, but bit one, then making a wry face, he flung it away, +and so he served the other. Presently afterwards, coming to a side lane, +the future senior wrangler—for a senior wrangler he is destined to be, +always provided he finds his way to Cambridge—darted down it like an +arrow, and disappeared. + +I continued my way with the other lad, occasionally asking him questions +about the mines of Mawddwy. The information, however, which I obtained +from him was next to nothing, for he appeared to be as heavy as the stuff +which his father carted. At length we reached a village, forming a kind +of semicircle on a green, which looked something like a small English +common. To the east were beautiful green hills; to the west the valley, +with the river running through it, beyond which rose other green hills, +yet more beautiful than the eastern ones. I asked the lad the name of +the place, but I could not catch what he said, for his answer was merely +an indistinct mumble, and before I could question him again he left me, +without a word of salutation, and trudged away across the green. + +Descending a hill, I came to a bridge, under which ran a beautiful river, +which came foaming down from a gulley between two of the eastern hills. +From a man whom I met I learned that the bridge was called Pont Coomb +Linau, and that the name of the village I had passed was Linau. The +river carries an important tribute to the Dyfi—at least it did when I saw +it, though perhaps in summer it is little more than a dry water-course. + +Half-an-hour’s walking brought me from this place to a small town, or +large village, with a church at the entrance, and the usual yew-tree in +the churchyard. Seeing a kind of inn, I entered it, and was shown by a +lad-waiter into a large kitchen, in which were several people. I had +told him in Welsh that I wanted some ale, and as he opened the door he +cried with a loud voice, “Cumro!” as much as to say, Mind what you say +before this chap, for he understands Cumraeg—that word was enough. The +people, who were talking fast and eagerly as I made my appearance, +instantly became silent, and stared at me with most suspicious looks. I +sat down, and when my ale was brought I took a hearty draught, and +observing that the company were still watching me suspiciously, and +maintaining the same suspicious silence, I determined to comport myself +in a manner which should, to a certain extent, afford them ground for +suspicion. I therefore slowly and deliberately drew my note-book out of +my waistcoat pocket, unclasped it, took my pencil from the loops at the +side of the book, and forthwith began to dot down observations upon the +room and company, now looking to the left, now to the right, now aloft, +now alow, now skewing at an object, now leering at an individual, my eyes +half closed, and my mouth drawn considerably aside. Here follow some of +my dottings:— + +“A very comfortable kitchen with a chimney-corner on the south +side—immense grate and brilliant fire—large kettle hanging over it by a +chain attached to a transverse iron bar—a settle on the left-hand side of +the fire—seven fine large men near the fire—two upon the settle, two upon +chairs, one in the chimney-corner smoking a pipe, and two standing +up—table near the settle with glasses, amongst which is that of myself, +who sit nearly in the middle of the room a little way on the right-hand +side of the fire. + +“The floor is of slate; a fine brindled greyhound lies before it on the +hearth, and a shepherd’s dog wanders about, occasionally going to the +door and scratching as if anxious to get out. The company are dressed +mostly in the same fashion—brown coats, broad-brimmed hats, and yellowish +corduroy breeches with gaiters. One who looks like a labouring man has a +white smock and a white hat, patched trowsers, and highlows covered with +gravel—one has a blue coat. + +“There is a clock on the right-hand side of the kitchen; a warming-pan +hangs close by it on the projecting side of the chimney-corner. On the +same side is a large rack containing many plates and dishes of +Staffordshire ware. Let me not forget a pair of fire-irons which hang on +the right-hand side of the chimney-corner!” + +I made a great many more dottings, which I shall not insert here. During +the whole time I was dotting the most marvellous silence prevailed in the +room, broken only by the occasional scratching of the dog against the +inside of the door, the ticking of the clock, and the ruttling of the +smoker’s pipe in the chimney-corner. After I had dotted to my heart’s +content I closed my book, put the pencil into the loops, then the book +into my pocket, drank what remained of my ale, got up, and, after another +look at the apartment and its furniture and a leer at the company, +departed from the house without ceremony, having paid for the ale when I +received it. After walking some fifty yards down the street I turned +half round and beheld, as I knew I should, the whole company! at the door +staring after me. I leered sideways at them for about half a minute, but +they stood my leer stoutly. Suddenly I was inspired by a thought. +Turning round I confronted them, and pulling my note-book out of my +pocket, and seizing my pencil, I fell to dotting vigorously. That was +too much for them. As if struck by a panic, my quondam friends turned +round and bolted into the house; the rustic-looking man with the +smock-frock and gravelled highlows nearly falling down in his eagerness +to get in. + +The name of the place where this adventure occurred was Cemmaes. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVII + + +The Deaf Man—Funeral Procession—The Lone Family—The Welsh and their +Secrets—The Vale of the Dyfi—The Bright Moon. + +A Little way from Cemmaes I saw a respectable-looking old man, like a +little farmer, to whom I said: + +“How far to Machynlleth?” + +Looking at me in a piteous manner in the face, he pointed to the side of +his head and said: + +“Dim clywed.” + +It was no longer no English, but no hearing. + +Presently I met one yet more deaf. A large procession of men came along +the road. Some distance behind them was a band of women, and between the +two bands was a kind of bier, drawn by a horse, with plumes at each of +the four corners. I took off my hat, and stood close against the hedge +on the right-hand side till the dead had passed me some way to its final +home. + +Crossed a river, which, like that on the other side of Cemmaes, streamed +down from a gully between two hills into the valley of the Dyfi. Beyond +the bridge on the right-hand side of the road was a pretty cottage, just +as there was in the other locality. A fine, tall woman stood at the +door, with a little child beside her. I stopped and inquired in English +whose body it was that had just been borne by. + +“That of a young man, sir, the son of a farmer, who lives a mile or so up +the road.” + +_Myself_.—He seems to have plenty of friends. + +_Woman_.—O yes, sir, the Welsh have plenty of friends both in life and +death. + +_Myself_.—An’t you Welsh, then? + +_Woman_.—O no, sir, I am English, like yourself, as I suppose. + +_Myself_.—Yes, I am English. What part of England do you come from? + +_Woman_.—Shropshire, sir. + +_Myself_.—Is that little child yours? + +_Woman_.—Yes, sir, it is my husband’s child and mine. + +_Myself_.—I suppose your husband is Welsh? + +_Woman_.—O no, sir, we are all English. + +_Myself_.—And what is your husband? + +_Woman_.—A little farmer, sir; he farms about forty acres under Mrs. —. + +_Myself_.—Well, are you comfortable here? + +_Woman_.—O dear me, no, sir! we are anything but comfortable. Here we +are three poor lone creatures in a strange land, without a soul to speak +to but one another. Every day of our lives we wish we had never left +Shropshire. + +_Myself_.—Why don’t you make friends amongst your neighbours? + +_Woman_.—O, sir, the English cannot make friends amongst the Welsh. The +Welsh won’t neighbour with them, or have anything to do with them, except +now and then in the way of business. + +_Myself_.—I have occasionally found the Welsh very civil. + +_Woman_.—O yes, sir, they can be civil enough to passers-by, especially +those who they think want nothing from them—but if you came and settled +amongst them you would find them, I’m afraid, quite the contrary. + +_Myself_.—Would they be uncivil to me if I could speak Welsh? + +_Woman_.—Most particularly, sir; the Welsh don’t like any strangers, but +least of all those who speak their language. + +_Myself_.—Have you picked up anything of their language? + +_Woman_.—Not a word, sir, nor my husband neither. They take good care +that we shouldn’t pick up a word of their language. I stood the other +day and listened whilst two women were talking just where you stand now, +in the hope of catching a word, and as soon as they saw me they passed to +the other side of the bridge, and began buzzing there. My poor husband +took it into his head that he might possibly learn a word or two at the +public-house, so he went there, called for a jug of ale and a pipe, and +tried to make himself at home just as he might in England, but it +wouldn’t do. The company instantly left off talking to one another, and +stared at him, and before he could finish his pot and pipe took +themselves off to a man, and then came the landlord, and asked him what +he meant by frightening away his customers. So my poor husband came home +as pale as a sheet, and sitting down in a chair said, “Lord, have mercy +upon me!” + +_Myself_.—Why are the Welsh afraid that strangers should pick up their +language? + +_Woman_.—Lest, perhaps, they should learn their secrets, sir! + +_Myself_.—What secrets have they? + +_Woman_.—The Lord above only knows, sir! + +_Myself_.—Do you think they are hatching treason against Queen Victoria? + +_Woman_.—O dear no, sir. + +_Myself_.—Is there much murder going on amongst them? + +_Woman_.—Nothing of the kind, sir. + +_Myself_.—Cattle-stealing? + +_Woman_.—O no, sir! + +_Myself_.—Pig-stealing? + +_Woman_.—No, sir! + +_Myself_.—Duck or hen stealing? + +_Woman_.—Haven’t lost a duck or hen since I have been here, sir. + +_Myself_.—Then what secrets can they possibly have? + +_Woman_.—I don’t know, sir! perhaps none at all, or at most only a pack +of small nonsense, that nobody would give three farthings to know. +However, it is quite certain they are as jealous of strangers hearing +their discourse as if they were plotting gunpowder treason, or something +worse. + +_Myself_.—Have you been long here? + +_Woman_.—Only since last May, sir! and we hope to get away by next, and +return to our own country, where we shall have some one to speak to. + +_Myself_.—Good bye! + +_Woman_.—Good bye, sir, and thank you for your conversation; I haven’t +had such a treat of talk for many a weary day. + +The Vale of the Dyfi became wider and more beautiful as I advanced. The +river ran at the bottom amidst green and seemingly rich meadows. The +hills on the farther side were cultivated a great way up, and various +neat farm-houses were scattered here and there on their sides. At the +foot of one of the most picturesque of these hills stood a large white +village. I wished very much to know its name, but saw no one of whom I +could inquire. I proceeded for about a mile, and then perceiving a man +wheeling stones in a barrow for the repairing of the road, I thought I +would inquire of him. I did so, but the village was then out of sight, +and though I pointed in its direction, and described its situation, I +could not get its name out of him. At length I said hastily, “Can you +tell me your own name?” + +“Dafydd Tibbot, sir,” said he. + +“Tibbot, Tibbot,” said I; “why, you are a Frenchman.” + +“Dearie me, sir,” said the man, looking very pleased, “am I indeed?” + +“Yes, you are,” said I, rather repenting of my haste, and giving him +sixpence, I left him. + +“I’d bet a trifle,” said I to myself, as I walked away, “that this poor +creature is the descendant of some desperate Norman Tibault who helped to +conquer Powisland under Roger de Montgomery, or Earl Baldwin. How +striking that the proud old Norman names are at present only borne by +people in the lowest station. Here’s a Tibbot, or Tibault, harrowing +stones on a Welsh road, and I have known a Mortimer munching poor cheese +and bread under a hedge on an English one. How can we account for this +save by the supposition that the descendants of proud, cruel and violent +men—and who so proud, cruel and violent as the old Normans—are doomed by +God to come to the dogs?” + +Came to Pont Velin Cerrig, the bridge of the mill of the Cerrig, a river +which comes foaming down from between two rocky hills. This bridge is +about a mile from Machynlleth, at which place I arrived at about five +o’clock in the evening—a cool, bright moon shining upon me. I put up at +the principal inn, which was of course called the Wynstay Arms. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVIII + + +Welsh Poems—Sessions Business—The Lawyer and his Client—The Court—The Two +Keepers—The Defence. + +During supper I was waited upon by a brisk, buxom maid, who told me that +her name was Mary Evans. The repast over, I ordered a glass of +whiskey-and-water, and when it was brought I asked the maid if she could +procure me some book to read. She said she was not aware of any book in +the house which she could lay her hand on except one of her own, which if +I pleased she would lend me. I begged her to do so. Whereupon she went +out, and presently returned with a very small volume, which she laid on +the table and then retired. After taking a sip of my whiskey-and-water, +I proceeded to examine it. It turned out to be a volume of Welsh poems +entitled _Blodau Glyn Dyfi_, or, Flowers of Glyn Dyfi, by one Lewis +Meredith, whose poetical name is Lewis Clyn Dyfi. The author indites his +preface from Cemmaes, June, 1852. The best piece is called “Dyffryn +Dyfi”; and is descriptive of the scenery of the vale through which the +Dyfi runs. It commences thus: + + “Heddychol ddyffryn tlws,” + Peaceful, pretty vale, + +and contains many lines breathing a spirit of genuine poetry. + +The next day I did not get up till nine, having no journey before me, as +I intended to pass that day at Machynlleth. When I went down to the +parlour I found another guest there, breakfasting. He was a tall, burly, +and clever-looking man of about thirty-five. As we breakfasted together +at the same table, we entered into conversation. I learned from him that +he was an attorney from a town at some distance, and was come over to +Machynlleth to the petty sessions, to be held that day, in order to +defend a person accused of spearing a salmon in the river. I asked him +who his client was. + +“A farmer,” said he, “a tenant of Lord V—, who will probably preside over +the bench which will try the affair.” + +“O,” said I, “a tenant spearing his landlord’s fish—that’s bad.” + +“No,” said he, “the fish which he speared—that is, which he is accused of +spearing—did not belong to his landlord, but to another person; he hires +land of Lord V—, but the fishing of the river which runs through that +land belongs to Sir Watkin.” + +“O, then,” said I, “supposing he did spear the salmon, I shan’t break my +heart if you get him off; do you think you shall?” + +“I don’t know,” said he. “There’s the evidence of two keepers against +him; one of whom I hope, however, to make appear a scoundrel, in whose +oath the slightest confidence is not to be placed. I shouldn’t wonder if +I make my client appear a persecuted lamb. The worst is, that he has the +character of being rather fond of fish—indeed, of having speared more +salmon than any other six individuals in the neighbourhood.” + +“I really should like to see him,” said I; “what kind of person is he? +some fine, desperate-looking fellow, I suppose?” + +“You will see him presently,” said the lawyer; “he is in the passage, +waiting till I call him in to take some instructions from him; and I +think I had better do so now, for I have breakfasted, and time is wearing +away.” + +He then got up, took some papers out of a carpet bag, sat down, and after +glancing at them for a minute or two, went to the door and called to +somebody in Welsh to come in. Forthwith in came a small, mean, +wizened-faced man of about sixty, dressed in a black coat and hat, drab +breeches and gaiters, and looking more like a decayed Methodist preacher +than a spearer of imperial salmon. + +“Well,” said the attorney, “this is my client; what do you think of him?” + +“He is rather a different person from what I had expected to see,” said +I; “but let us mind what we say, or we shall offend him.” + +“Not we,” said the attorney; “that is, unless we speak Welsh, for he +understands not a word of any other language.” + +Then sitting down at the farther table, he said to his client in Welsh: +“Now, Mr. So-and-so, have you learnt anything more about that first +keeper?” + +The client bent down, and placing both his hands upon the table, began to +whisper in Welsh to his professional adviser. Not wishing to hear any of +their conversation, I finished my breakfast as soon as possible, and left +the room. Going into the inn-yard, I had a great deal of learned +discourse with an old ostler about the glanders in horses. From the +inn-yard I went to my own private room, and made some dottings in my +notebook, and then went down again to the parlour, which I found +unoccupied. After sitting some time before the fire, I got up, and +strolling out, presently came to a kind of market-place, in the middle of +which stood an old-fashioned-looking edifice supported on pillars. +Seeing a crowd standing round it, I asked what was the matter, and was +told that the magistrates were sitting in the town-hall above, and that a +grand poaching-case was about to be tried. “I may as well go and hear +it,” said I. + +Ascending a flight of steps, I found myself in the hall of justice, in +the presence of the magistrates, and amidst a great many people, amongst +whom I observed my friend the attorney and his client. The magistrates +upon the whole were rather a fine body of men. Lord V— was in the chair, +a highly-intelligent-looking person, with fresh complexion, hooked nose, +and dark hair. A policeman very civilly procured me a commodious seat. +I had scarcely taken possession of it when the poaching case was brought +forward. The first witness against the accused was a fellow dressed in a +dirty snuff-coloured suit, with a debauched look, and having much the +appearance of a town shack. He deposed that he was a hired keeper, and +went with another to watch the river at about four o’clock in the +morning; that they placed themselves behind a bush, and that a little +before daylight they saw the farmer drive some cattle across the river. +He was attended by a dog. Suddenly they saw him put a spear upon a stick +which he had in his hand, run back to the river, and plunging the spear +in, after a struggle pull out a salmon; that they then ran forward, and +he himself asked the farmer what he was doing, whereupon the farmer flung +the salmon and spear into the river, and said that if he did not take +himself off he would fling him in too. The attorney then got up, and +began to cross-question him. “How long have you been a keeper?” + +“About a fortnight.” + +“What do you get a week?” + +“Ten shillings.” + +“Have you not lately been in London?” + +“I have.” + +“What induced you to go to London?” + +“The hope of bettering my condition.” + +“Were you not driven out of Machynlleth?” + +“I was not.” + +“Why did you leave London?” + +“Because I could get no work, and my wife did not like the place.” + +“Did you obtain possession of the salmon and the spear?” + +“I did not.” + +“Why didn’t you?” + +“The pool was deep where the salmon was struck, and I was not going to +lose my life by going into it.” + +“How deep was it?” + +“Over the tops of the houses,” said the fellow, lifting up his hands. + +The other keeper then came forward; he was brother to the former, but had +much more the appearance of a keeper, being rather a fine fellow and +dressed in a wholesome, well-worn suit of velveteen. He had no English, +and what he said was translated by a sworn interpreter. He gave the same +evidence as his brother about watching behind the bush, and seeing the +farmer strike a salmon. When cross-questioned, however, he said that no +words passed between the farmer and his brother, at least, that he heard. +The evidence for the prosecution being given, my friend the attorney +entered upon the defence. He said that he hoped the court were not going +to convict his client, one of the most respectable farmers in the county, +on the evidence of two such fellows as the keepers, one of whom was a +well-known bad one, who for his evil deeds had been driven from +Machynlleth to London, and from London back again to Machynlleth, and the +other, who was his brother, a fellow not much better, and who, moreover, +could not speak a word of English—the honest lawyer forgetting, no doubt, +that his own client had just as little English as the keeper. He +repeated that he hoped the court would not convict his respectable client +on the evidence of these fellows, more especially as they flatly +contradicted each other in one material point, one saying that words had +passed between the farmer and himself, and the other that no words at all +had passed, and were unable to corroborate their testimony by anything +visible or tangible. If his client speared the salmon, and then flung +the salmon with the spear sticking in its body into the pool, why didn’t +they go into the pool and recover the spear and salmon? They might have +done so with perfect safety, there being an old proverb—he need not +repeat it—which would have secured them from drowning had the pool been +not merely over the tops of the houses, but over the tops of the +steeples. But he would waive all the advantage which his client derived +from the evil character of the witnesses, the discrepancy of their +evidence, and their not producing the spear and salmon in court. He +would rest the issue of the affair with confidence, on one argument, on +one question; it was this. Would any man in his senses—and it was well +known that his client was a very sensible man—spear a salmon not his own, +when he saw two keepers close at hand watching him—staring at him? Here +the chairman observed that there was no proof that he saw them—that they +were behind a bush. But my friend the attorney very properly, having the +interest of his client and his own character for consistency in view, +stuck to what he had said, and insisted that the farmer must have seen +them, and he went on reiterating that he must have seen them, +notwithstanding that several magistrates shook their heads. + +Just as he was about to sit down, I moved up behind him and whispered, +“Why don’t you mention the dog? Wouldn’t the dog have been likely to +have scented the fellows out, even if they had been behind the bush.” + +He looked at me for a moment, and then said with a kind of sigh, “No, no! +twenty dogs would be of no use here. It’s no go—I shall leave the case +as it is.” + +The court was cleared for a time, and when the audience were again +admitted, Lord V— said that the Bench found the prisoner guilty; that +they had taken into consideration what his counsel had said in his +defence, but that they could come to no other conclusion, more especially +as the accused was known to have been frequently guilty of similar +offences. They fined him four pounds, including costs. + +As the people were going out I said to the farmer in Welsh, “A bad affair +this.” + +“Drwg iawn—very bad indeed,” he replied. + +“Did those fellows speak truth?” said I. + +“Nage—Dim ond celwydd—not they! nothing but lies.” + +“Dear me!” said I to myself, “what an ill-treated individual!” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIX + + +Machynlleth—Remarkable Events—Ode to Glendower—Dafydd Gam—Lawdden’s +Hatchet. + +Machynlleth, pronounced Machuncleth, is one of the principal towns of the +district which the English call Montgomeryshire, and the Welsh Shire +Trefaldwyn, or the Shire of Baldwin’s town; Trefaldwyn, or the town of +Baldwin, being the Welsh name for the town which is generally termed +Montgomery. It is situated in nearly the centre of the valley of the +Dyfi, amidst pleasant green meadows, having to the north the river, from +which, however, it is separated by a gentle hill. It possesses a stately +church, parts of which are of considerable antiquity, and one or two good +streets. It is a thoroughly Welsh town, and the inhabitants, who amount +in number to about four thousand, speak the ancient British language with +considerable purity. + +Machynlleth has been the scene of remarkable events, and is connected +with remarkable names, some of which have rung through the world. At +Machynlleth in 1402 Owen Glendower, after several brilliant victories +over the English, held a parliament in a house which is yet to be seen in +the Eastern Street, and was formally crowned King of Wales; in his +retinue was the venerable bard Iolo Goch, who, imagining that he now saw +the old prophecy fulfilled, namely that a prince of the race of Cadwaladr +should rule the Britons, after emancipating them from the Saxon yoke, +greeted the chieftain with an ode to the following effect:— + + Here’s the life I’ve sigh’d for long: + Abash’d is now the Saxon throng, + And Britons have a British lord + Whose emblem is the conquering sword; + There’s none I trow but knows him well + The hero of the watery dell, + Owain of bloody spear in field, + Owain his country’s strongest shield; + A sovereign bright in grandeur drest, + Whose frown affrights the bravest breast. + Let from the world upsoar on high + A voice of splendid prophecy! + All praise to him who forth doth stand + To ’venge his injured native land! + Of him, of him a lay I’ll frame + Shall bear through countless years his name: + In him are blended portents three, + Their glories blended sung shall be: + There’s Owain meteor of the glen, + The head of princely generous men; + Owain the lord of trenchant steel, + Who makes the hostile squadrons reel; + Owain besides of warlike look, + A conqueror who no stay will brook; + Hail to the lion leader gay, + Marshaller of Griffith’s war array; + The scourger of the flattering race, + For them a dagger has his face; + Each traitor false he loves to smite, + A lion is he for deeds of might; + Soon may he tear, like lion grim, + All the Lloegrians limb from limb! + May God and Rome’s blest father high + Deck him in surest panoply! + Hail to the valiant carnager, + Worthy three diadems to bear! + Hail to the valley’s belted king! + Hail to the widely conquering, + The liberal, hospitable, kind, + Trusty and keen as steel refined! + Vigorous of form he nations bows, + Whilst from his breast-plate bounty flows. + Of Horsa’s seed on hill and plain + Four hundred thousand he has slain. + The cope-stone of our nation’s he, + In him our weal, our all we see; + Though calm he looks his plans when breeding, + Yet oaks he’d break his clans when leading. + Hail to this partisan of war, + This bursting meteor flaming far! + Where’er he wends Saint Peter guard him, + And may the Lord five lives award him! + +To Machynlleth on the occasion of the parliament came Dafydd Gam, so +celebrated in after time; not, however, with the view of entering into +the counsels of Glendower, or of doing him homage, but of assassinating +him. This man, whose surname Gam signifies crooked, was a petty +chieftain of Breconshire. He was small of stature, and deformed in +person, though possessed of great strength. He was very sensitive of +injury, though quite as alive to kindness; a thorough-going enemy and a +thorough-going friend. In the earlier part of his life he had been +driven from his own country for killing a man, called Big Richard of +Slwch, in the High Street of Aber Honddu, or Brecon, and had found refuge +in England, and kind treatment in the house of John of Gaunt, for whose +son Henry, generally called Bolingbroke, he formed one of his violent +friendships. Bolingbroke, on becoming King Henry the Fourth, not only +restored the crooked little Welshman to his possessions, but gave him +employments of great trust and profit in Herefordshire. The insurrection +of Glendower against Henry was quite sufficient to kindle against him the +deadly hatred of Dafydd, who swore “by the nails of God” that he would +stab his countryman for daring to rebel against his friend King Henry, +the son of the man who had received him in his house and comforted him, +when his own countrymen were threatening his destruction. He therefore +went to Machynlleth with the full intention of stabbing Glendower, +perfectly indifferent as to what might subsequently be his own fate. +Glendower, however, who had heard of his threat, caused him to be seized +and conducted in chains to a prison which he had in the mountains of +Sycharth. Shortly afterwards, passing through Breconshire with his host, +he burnt Dafydd’s house, a fair edifice called the Cyrnigwen, situated on +a hillock, near the river Honddu, to the ground, and seeing one of Gam’s +dependents gazing mournfully on the smouldering ruins, he uttered the +following taunting englyn:— + + “Shouldst thou a little red man descry + Asking about his dwelling fair, + Tell him it under the bank doth lie, + And its brow the mark of the coal doth bear.” + +Dafydd remained confined till the fall of Glendower, shortly after which +event he followed Henry the Fifth to France, where he achieved that glory +which will for ever bloom, dying covered with wounds in the field of +Agincourt after saving the life of the king, to whom in the dreadest and +most critical moment of the fight he stuck closer than a brother, not +from any abstract feeling of loyalty, but from the consideration that +King Henry the Fifth was the son of King Henry the Fourth, who was the +son of the man who received and comforted him in his house, after his own +countrymen had hunted him from house and land. + +Connected with Machynlleth is a name not so widely celebrated as those of +Glendower and Dafydd Gam, but well known to and cherished by the lovers +of Welsh song. It is that of Lawdden, a Welsh bard in holy orders, who +officiated as priest at Machynlleth from 1440 to 1460. But though +Machynlleth was his place of residence for many years, it was not the +place of his birth, Llychwr in Carmarthenshire being the spot where he +first saw the light. He was an excellent poet, and displayed in his +compositions such elegance of language, and such a knowledge of prosody, +that it was customary long after his death, when any master-piece of +vocal song or eloquence was produced, to say that it bore the traces of +Lawdden’s hatchet. At the request of Griffith ap Nicholas, a powerful +chieftain of South Wales, and a great patron of the muse, he drew up a +statute relating to poets and poetry, and at the great Eisteddfod, or +poetical congress, held at Carmarthen, in the year 1450, under the +auspices of Griffith, which was attended by the most celebrated bards of +the north and south, he officiated as judge in conjunction with the +chieftain upon the compositions of the bards who competed for the prize, +a little silver chair. Not without reason, therefore, do the inhabitants +of Machynlleth consider the residence of such a man within their walls, +though at a far, bygone period, as conferring a lustre on their town, and +Lewis Meredith has probability on his side when, in his pretty poem on +Glen Dyfi, he says:— + + “Whilst fair Machynlleth decks thy quiet plain + Conjoined with it shall Lawdden’s name remain.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXX + + +The Old Ostler—Directions—Church of England Man—The Deep Dingle—The Two +Women—The Cutty Pipe—Waen y Bwlch—The Deaf and Dumb—The Glazed Hat. + +I rose on the morning of the 2nd of November intending to proceed to the +Devil’s Bridge, where I proposed halting a day or two in order that I +might have an opportunity of surveying the far-famed scenery of that +locality. After paying my bill, I went into the yard to my friend the +old ostler, to make inquiries with respect to the road. + +“What kind of road,” said I, “is it to the Devil’s Bridge?” + +“There are two roads, sir, to the Pont y Gwr Drwg; which do you mean to +take?” + +“Why do you call the Devil’s Bridge the Pont y Gwr Drwg, or the bridge of +the evil man?” + +“That we may not bring a certain gentleman upon us, sir, who doesn’t like +to have his name taken in vain.” + +“Is there much difference between the roads?” + +“A great deal, sir; one is over the hills, and the other round by the +valleys.” + +“Which is the shortest?” + +“O that over the hills, sir; it is about twenty miles from here to the +Pont y Gwr Drwg over the hills, but more than twice that by the valleys.” + +“Well, I suppose you would advise me to go by the hills.” + +“Certainly, sir. That is, if you wish to break your neck, or to sink in +a bog, or to lose your way, or perhaps, if night comes on, to meet the +Gwr Drwg himself taking a stroll. But to talk soberly. The way over the +hills is an awful road, and indeed for the greater part is no road at +all.” + +“Well, I shall go by it. Can’t you give me some directions?” + +“I’ll do my best, sir; but I tell you again that the road is a horrible +one, and very hard to find.” + +He then went with me to the gate of the inn, where he began to give me +directions, pointing to the south, and mentioning some names of places +through which I must pass, amongst which were Waen y Bwlch and Long +Bones; at length he mentioned Pont Erwyd, and said, “If you can but get +there you are all right, for from thence there is a very fair road to the +bridge of the evil man. Though I dare say if you get to Pont Erwyd—and I +wish you may get there—you will have had enough of it, and will stay +there for the night, more especially as there is a good inn.” + +Leaving Machynlleth, I ascended a steep hill which rises to the south of +it. From the top of this hill there is a fine view of the town, the +river and the whole valley of Dyfi. After stopping for a few minutes to +enjoy the prospect I went on. The road at first was exceedingly good, +though up and down, and making frequent turnings. The scenery was +beautiful to a degree, lofty hills were on either side clothed most +luxuriantly with trees of various kinds, but principally oaks. “This is +really very pleasant,” said I, “but I suppose it is too good to last +long.” However, I went on for a considerable way, the road neither +deteriorating nor the scenery decreasing in beauty; “surely I can’t be in +the right road,” said I; “I wish I had an opportunity of asking.” +Presently seeing an old man working with a spade in a field near a gate, +I stopped and said in Welsh, “Am I in the road to the Pont y Gwr Drwg?” +The old man looked at me for a moment, then shouldering his spade he came +up to the gate, and said in English, “In truth, sir, you are.” + +“I was told that the road thither was a very bad one,” said I, “but this +is quite the contrary.” + +“This road does not go much farther, sir,” said he; “it was made to +accommodate grand folks who live about here.” + +“You speak very good English,” said I; “where did you get it?” + +He looked pleased, and said that in his youth he had lived some years in +England. + +“Can you read?” said I. + +“O yes,” said he, “both Welsh and English.” + +“What have you read in Welsh?” said I. + +“The Bible and Twm O’r Nant.” + +“What pieces of Twm O’r Nant have you read?” + +“I have read two of his interludes and his life.” + +“And which do you like best—his life or his interludes.” + +“O, I like his life best.” + +“And what part of his life do you like best?” + +“O, I like that part best where he gets the ship into the water at +Abermarlais.” + +“You have a good judgment,” said I; “his life is better than his +interludes, and the best part of his life is where he describes his +getting the ship into the water. But do the Methodists about here in +general read Twm O’r Nant?” + +“I don’t know,” said he; “I am no Methodist.” + +“Do you belong to the Church?” + +“I do.” + +“And why do you belong to the Church?” + +“Because I believe it is the best religion to get to heaven by.” + +“I am much of your opinion,” said I. “Are there many Church-people about +here?” + +“Not many,” said he, “but more than when I was young.” + +“How old are you?” + +“Sixty-nine.” + +“You are not very old,” said I. + +“Ain’t I? I only want one year of fulfilling my proper time on earth.” + +“You take things very easily,” said I. + +“Not so very easily, sir; I have often my quakings and fears, but then I +read my Bible, say my prayers, and find hope and comfort.” + +“I really am very glad to have seen you,” said I; “and now can you tell +me the way to the bridge?” + +“Not exactly, sir, for I have never been there, but you must follow this +road some way farther, and then bear away to the right along yon +hill”—and he pointed to a distant mountain. + +I thanked him, and proceeded on my way. I passed through a deep dingle, +and shortly afterwards came to the termination of the road; remembering, +however, the directions of the old man, I bore away to the right, making +for the distant mountain. My course lay now over very broken ground, +where there was no path—at least that I could perceive. I wandered on +for some time; at length, on turning round a bluff, I saw a lad tending a +small herd of bullocks. “Am I in the road,” said I, “to the Pont y Gwr +Drwg?” + +“Nis gwn! I don’t know,” said he sullenly. “I am a hired servant, and +have only been here a little time.” + +“Where’s the house,” said I, “where you serve?” + +But as he made no answer I left him. Some way further on I saw a house +on my left, a little way down the side of a deep dingle, which was partly +overhung with trees, and at the bottom of which a brook murmured. +Descending a steep path, I knocked at the door. After a little time it +was opened, and two women appeared, one behind the other. The first was +about sixty; she was very powerfully made, had stern grey eyes and harsh +features, and was dressed in the ancient Welsh female fashion, having a +kind of riding-habit of blue, and a high conical hat like that of the +Tyrol. The other seemed about twenty years younger; she had dark +features, was dressed like the other, but had no hat. I saluted the +first in English, and asked her the way to the Bridge. Whereupon she +uttered a deep guttural “augh” and turned away her head, seemingly in +abhorrence. I then spoke to her in Welsh, saying I was a foreign man—I +did not say a Saxon—was bound to the Devil’s Bridge, and wanted to know +the way. The old woman surveyed me sternly for some time, then turned to +the other and said something, and the two began to talk to each other, +but in a low, buzzing tone, so that I could not distinguish a word. In +about half-a-minute the eldest turned to me, and extending her arm, and +spreading out her five fingers wide, motioned to the side of the hill in +the direction which I had been following. + +“If I go that way shall I get to the bridge of the evil man?” said I; but +got no other answer than a furious grimace and violent agitations of the +arm and fingers in the same direction. I turned away, and scarcely had I +done so when the door was slammed to behind me with great force, and I +heard two “aughs,” one not quite so deep and abhorrent as the other, +probably proceeding from the throat of the younger female. + +“Two regular Saxon-hating Welsh women,” said I, philosophically; “just +the same sort, no doubt, as those who played such pranks on the slain +bodies of the English soldiers, after the victory achieved by Glendower +over Mortimer on the Severn’s side.” + +I proceeded in the direction indicated, winding round the side of the +hill, the same mountain which the old man had pointed out to me some time +before. At length, on making a turn, I saw a very lofty mountain in the +far distance to the south-west, a hill right before me to the south, and +on my left a meadow overhung by the southern hill, in the middle of which +stood a house, from which proceeded a violent barking of dogs. I would +fain have made immediately up to it for the purpose of inquiring my way, +but saw no means of doing so, a high precipitous bank lying between it +and me. I went forward and ascended the side of the hill before me, and +presently came to a path running east and west. I followed it a little +way towards the east. I was now just above the house, and saw some +children and some dogs standing beside it. Suddenly I found myself close +to a man who stood in a hollow part of the road from which a narrow path +led down to the house; a donkey with panniers stood beside him. He was +about fifty years of age, with a carbuncled countenance, high but narrow +forehead, grey eyebrows, and small, malignant grey eyes. He had a white +hat with narrow eaves, and the crown partly knocked out, a torn blue +coat, corduroy breeches, long stockings and high-lows. He was sucking a +cutty pipe, but seemed unable to extract any smoke from it. He had all +the appearance of a vagabond, and of a rather dangerous vagabond. I +nodded to him, and asked him in Welsh the name of the place. He glared +at me malignantly, then taking the pipe out of his mouth, said that he +did not know, that he had been down below to inquire and light his pipe, +but could get neither light nor answer from the children. I asked him +where he came from, but he evaded the question by asking where I was +going to. + +“To the Pont y Gwr Drwg,” said I. + +He then asked me if I was an Englishman. + +“O yes!” said I, “I am Carn Sais;” whereupon with a strange mixture in +his face of malignity and contempt, he answered in English that he didn’t +understand me. + +“You understood me very well,” said I, without changing my language, +“till I told you I was an Englishman. Harkee, man with the broken hat, +you are one of the bad Welsh, who don’t like the English to know the +language, lest they should discover your lies and rogueries.” He +evidently understood what I said, for he gnashed his teeth though he said +nothing. “Well,” said I, “I shall go down to those children and inquire +the name of the house,” and I forthwith began to descend the path, the +fellow uttering a contemptuous “humph” behind me, as much as to say, much +you’ll make out down there. I soon reached the bottom, and advanced +towards the house. The dogs had all along been barking violently; as I +drew near to them, however, they ceased, and two of the largest came +forward wagging their tails. “The dogs were not barking at me,” said I, +“but at that vagabond above.” I went up to the children; they were four +in number, two boys and two girls, all red-haired, but tolerably +good-looking. They had neither shoes nor stockings. “What is the name +of this house?” said I to the eldest, a boy about seven years old. He +looked at me, but made no answer. I repeated my question; still there +was no answer, but methought I heard a humph of triumph from the hill. +“Don’t crow quite yet, old chap,” thought I to myself, and putting my +hand into my pocket, I took out a penny; and offering it to the child, +said, “Now, small man, Peth wy y enw y lle hwn?” Instantly the boy’s +face became intelligent, and putting out the fat little hand, he took the +ceiniog, and said in an audible whisper, “Waen y Bwlch.” “I am all +right,” said I to myself, “that is one of the names of the places which +the old ostler said I must go through.” Then addressing myself to the +child, I said, “Where’s your father and mother?” + +“Out on the hill,” whispered the child. + +“What’s your father?” + +“A shepherd.” + +“Good,” said I. “Now can you tell me the way to the bridge of the evil +man?” But the features became blank, the finger was put to the mouth, +and the head was hung down. That question was evidently beyond the +child’s capacity. “Thank you!” said I, and turning round, I regained the +path on the top of the bank. The fellow and his donkey were still there. +“I had no difficulty,” said I, “in obtaining information; the place’s +name is Waen y Bwlch. But oes genoch dim Cumraeg—you have no Welsh.” +Thereupon I proceeded along the path in the direction of the east. +Forthwith the fellow said something to his animal, and both came +following fast behind. I quickened my pace, but the fellow and his beast +were close in my rear. Presently I came to a place where another path +branched off to the south. I stopped, looked at it, and then went on, +but scarcely had done so when I heard another exulting “humph” behind. +“I am going wrong,” said I to myself; “that other path is the way to the +Devil’s Bridge, and the scamp knows it, or he would not have grunted.” +Forthwith I faced round, and brushing past the fellow without a word +turned into the other path and hurried along it. By a side glance which +I cast I could see him staring after me; presently, however, he uttered a +sound very much like a Welsh curse, and kicking his beast proceeded on +his way, and I saw no more of him. In a little time I came to a slough +which crossed the path. I did not like the look of it at all; and to +avoid it ventured upon some green mossy-looking ground to the left, and +had scarcely done so when I found myself immersed to the knees in a bog. +I, however, pushed forward, and with some difficulty got to the path on +the other side of the slough. I followed the path, and in about +half-an-hour saw what appeared to be houses at a distance. “God grant +that I may be drawing near some inhabited place,” said I. The path now +grew very miry, and there were pools of water on either side. I moved +along slowly. At length I came to a place where some men were busy in +erecting a kind of building. I went up to the nearest and asked him the +name of the place. He had a crow-bar in his hand, was half-naked, had a +wry mouth and only one eye. He made me no answer, but moved and gibbered +at me. + +“For God’s sake,” said I, “don’t do so, but tell me where I am!” He +still uttered no word, but mowed and gibbered yet more frightfully than +before. As I stood staring at him another man came to me and said in +broken English, “It is of no use speaking to him, sir, he is deaf and +dumb.” + +“I am glad he is no worse,” said I, “for I really thought he was +possessed with the evil one. My good person, can you tell me the name of +this place?” + +“Esgyrn Hirion, sir,” said he. + +“Esgyrn Hirion,” said I to myself; “Esgyrn means bones, and Hirion means +long. I am doubtless at the place which the old ostler called Long +Bones. I shouldn’t wonder if I get to the Devil’s Bridge to-night after +all.” I then asked the man if he could tell me the way to the bridge of +the evil man, but he shook his head and said that he had never heard of +such a place, adding, however, that he would go with me to one of the +overseers, who could perhaps direct me. He then proceeded towards a row +of buildings, which were in fact those objects which I had guessed to be +houses in the distance. He led me to a corner house, at the door of +which stood a middle-aged man, dressed in a grey coat, and saying to me, +“This person is an overseer,” returned to his labour. I went up to the +man, and saluting him in English, asked whether he could direct me to the +devil’s bridge, or rather to Pont Erwyd. + +“It would be of no use directing you, sir,” said he, “for with all the +directions in the world it would be impossible for you to find the way. +You would not have left these premises five minutes before you would be +in a maze, without knowing which way to turn. Where do you come from?” + +“From Machynlleth,” I replied. + +“From Machynlleth!” said he. “Well, I only wonder you ever got here, but +it would be madness to go further alone.” + +“Well,” said I, “can I obtain a guide?” + +“I really don’t know,” said he; “I am afraid all the men are engaged.” + +As we were speaking a young man made his appearance at the door from the +interior of the house. He was dressed in a brown short coat, had a +glazed hat on his head, and had a pale but very intelligent countenance. + +“What is the matter?” said he to the other man. + +“This gentleman,” replied the latter, “is going to Pont Erwyd, and wants +a guide.” + +“Well,” said the young man, “we must find him one. It will never do to +let him go by himself.” + +“If you can find me a guide,” said I, “I shall be happy to pay him for +his trouble.” + +“O, you can do as you please about that,” said the young man; “but, pay +or not, we would never suffer you to leave this place without a guide, +and as much for our own sake as yours, for the directors of the company +would never forgive us if they heard we had suffered a gentleman to leave +these premises without a guide, more especially if he were lost, as it is +a hundred to one you would be if you went by yourself.” + +“Pray,” said I, “what company is this, the directors of which are so +solicitous about the safety of strangers?” + +“The Potosi Mining Company,” said he, “the richest in all Wales. But +pray walk in and sit down, for you must be tired.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXI + + +The Mining Compting Room—Native of Aberystwyth—Story of a Bloodhound—The +Young Girls—The Miner’s Tale—Gwen Frwd—The Terfyn. + +I followed the young man with the glazed hat into a room, the other man +following behind me. He of the glazed hat made me sit down before a turf +fire, apologising for its smoking very much. The room seemed half +compting room, half apartment. There was a wooden desk with a ledger +upon it by the window which looked to the west, and a camp bedstead +extended from the southern wall nearly up to the desk. After I had sat +for about a minute the young man asked me if I would take any +refreshment. I thanked him for his kind offer, which I declined, saying, +however, that if he would obtain me a guide I should feel much obliged. +He turned to the other man and told him to go and inquire whether there +was any one who would be willing to go. The other nodded, and forthwith +went out. + +“You think, then,” said I, “that I could not find the way by myself?” + +“I am sure of it,” said he, “for even the people best acquainted with the +country frequently lose their way. But I must tell you that if we do +find you a guide it will probably be one who has no English.” + +“Never mind,” said I, “I have enough Welsh to hold a common discourse.” + +A fine girl about fourteen now came in, and began bustling about. + +“Who is this young lady?” said I. + +“The daughter of a captain of a neighbouring mine,” said he; “she +frequently comes here with messages, and is always ready to do a turn +about the house, for she is very handy.” + +“Has she any English?” said I. + +“Not a word,” he replied. “The young people of these hills have no +English, except they go abroad to learn it.” + +“What hills are these?” said I. + +“Part of the Plynlimmon range,” said he. + +“Dear me,” said I, “am I near Plynlimmon?” + +“Not very far from it,” said the young man, “and you will be nearer when +you reach Pont Erwyd.” + +“Are you a native of these parts?” said I. + +“I am not,” he replied. “I am a native of Aberystwyth, a place on the +sea-coast about a dozen miles from here.” + +“This seems to be a cold, bleak spot,” said I; “is it healthy?” + +“I have reason to say so,” said he; “for I came here from Aberystwyth +about four months ago very unwell, and am now perfectly recovered. I do +not believe there is a healthier spot in all Wales.” + +We had some further discourse. I mentioned to him the adventure which I +had on the hill with the fellow with the donkey. The young man said that +he had no doubt that he was some prowling thief. + +“The dogs of the shepherd’s house,” said I, “didn’t seem to like him, and +dogs generally know an evil customer. A long time ago I chanced to be in +a posada, or inn, at Valladolid in Spain. One hot summer’s afternoon I +was seated in a corridor which ran round a large, open court in the +middle of the inn; a fine yellow, three-parts-grown bloodhound was lying +on the ground beside me, with whom I had been playing a little time +before. I was just about to fall asleep, when I heard a ‘hem’ at the +outward door of the posada, which was a long way below at the end of a +passage which communicated with the court. Instantly the hound started +upon his legs, and with a loud yell, and with eyes flashing fire, ran +nearly round the corridor down a flight of steps and through the passage +to the gate. There was then a dreadful noise, in which the cries of a +human being and the yells of the hound were blended. I forthwith started +up and ran down, followed by several other guests who came rushing out of +their chambers round the corridor. At the gate we saw a man on the +ground, and the hound trying to strangle him. It was with the greatest +difficulty, and chiefly through the intervention of the master of the +dog, who happened to be present, that the animal could be made to quit +his hold. The assailed person was a very powerful man, but had an evil +countenance, was badly dressed, and had neither hat, shoes nor stockings. +We raised him up and gave him wine, which he drank greedily, and +presently without saying a word disappeared. The guests said they had no +doubt that he was a murderer flying from justice, and that the dog by his +instinct, even at a distance, knew him to be such. The master said that +it was the first time the dog had ever attacked any one or shown the +slightest symptom of ferocity. Not the least singular part of the matter +was, that the dog did not belong to the house, but to one of the guests +from a distant village; the creature therefore could not consider itself +the house’s guardian.” + +I had scarcely finished my tale when the other man came in and said that +he had found a guide, a young man from Pont Erwyd, who would be glad of +such an opportunity to go and see his parents; that he was then dressing +himself and would shortly make his appearance. In about twenty minutes +he did so. He was a stout young fellow with a coarse blue coat, and +coarse white felt hat; he held a stick in his hand. The kind young +book-keeper now advised us to set out without delay as the day was +drawing to a close, and the way was long. I shook him by the hand, told +him that I should never forget his civility, and departed with the guide. + +The fine young girl, whom I have already mentioned, and another about two +years younger, departed with us. They were dressed in the graceful +female attire of old Wales. + +We bore to the south down a descent, and came to some moory quaggy ground +intersected with watercourses. The agility of the young girls surprised +me; they sprang over the water-courses, some of which were at least four +feet wide, with the ease and alacrity of fawns. After a short time we +came to a road, which, however, we did not long reap the benefit of as it +only led to a mine. Seeing a house on the top of a hill, I asked my +guide whose it was. + +“Ty powdr,” said he, “a powder house,” by which I supposed he meant a +magazine of powder used for blasting in the mines. He had not a word of +English. + +If the young girls were nimble with their feet, they were not less so +with their tongues, as they kept up an incessant gabble with each other +and with the guide. I understood little of what they said, their +volubility preventing me from catching more than a few words. After we +had gone about two miles and a half they darted away with surprising +swiftness down a hill towards a distant house, where as I learned from my +guide the father of the eldest lived. We ascended a hill, passed between +two craggy elevations, and then wended to the south-east over a strange +miry place, in which I thought any one at night not acquainted with every +inch of the way would run imminent risk of perishing. I entered into +conversation with my guide. After a little time he asked me if I was a +Welshman. I told him no. + +“You could teach many a Welshman,” said he. + +“Why do you think so?” said I. + +“Because many of your words are quite above my comprehension,” said he. + +“No great compliment,” thought I to myself, but putting a good face upon +the matter, I told him that I knew a great many old Welsh words. + +“Is Potosi an old Welsh word?” said he. + +“No,” said I; “it is the name of a mine in the Deheubarth of America.” + +“Is it a lead mine?” + +“No!” said I; “it is a silver mine.” + +“Then why do they call our mine, which is a lead mine, by the name of a +silver mine?” + +“Because they wish to give people to understand,” said I, “that it is +very rich, as rich in lead as Potosi in silver. Potosi is, or was, the +richest silver mine in the world, and from it has come at least one-half +of the silver which we use in the shape of money and other things.” + +“Well,” said he, “I have frequently asked, but could never learn before, +why our mine was called Potosi.” + +“You did not ask at the right quarter,” said I; “the young man with the +glazed hat could have told you as well as I.” I inquired why the place +where the mine was bore the name of Esgyrn Hirion, or Long Bones. He +told me that he did not know, but believed that the bones of a cawr, or +giant, had been found there in ancient times. I asked him if the mine +was deep. + +“Very deep,” he replied. + +“Do you like the life of a miner?” said I. + +“Very much,” said he, “and should like it more, but for the noises of the +hill.” + +“Do you mean the powder blasts?” said I. + +“O no!” said he; “I care nothing for them, I mean the noises made by the +spirits of the hill in the mine. Sometimes they make such noises as +frighten the poor fellow who works underground out of his senses. Once +on a time I was working by myself very deep underground, in a little +chamber to which a very deep shaft led. I had just taken up my light to +survey my work, when all of a sudden I heard a dreadful rushing noise, as +if an immense quantity of earth had come tumbling down. ‘O God!’ said I, +and fell backwards, letting the light fall, which instantly went out. I +thought the whole shaft had given way, and that I was buried alive. I +lay for several hours half stupefied, thinking now and then what a +dreadful thing it was to be buried alive. At length I thought I would +get up, go to the mouth of the shaft, feel the mould with which it was +choked up, and then come back, lie down and die. So I got up and +tottered to the mouth of the shaft, put out my hand and felt—nothing. +All was clear. I went forward and presently felt the ladder. Nothing +had fallen; all was just the same as when I came down. I was dreadfully +afraid that I should never be able to get up in the dark without breaking +my neck; however, I tried, and at last, with a great deal of toil and +danger, got to a place where other men were working. The noise was +caused by the spirits of the hill in the hope of driving the miner out of +his senses. They very nearly succeeded. I shall never forget how I felt +when I thought I was buried alive. If it were not for those noises in +the hill the life of a miner would be quite heaven below.” + +We came to a cottage standing under a hillock, down the side of which +tumbled a streamlet close by the northern side of the building. The door +was open, and inside were two or three females and some children. “Have +you any enwyn?” said the lad, peeping in. + +“O yes!” said a voice—“digon! digon!” Presently a buxom laughing girl +brought out two dishes of buttermilk, one of which she handed to me and +the other to the guide. I asked her the name of the place. + +“Gwen Frwd: the Fair Rivulet,” said she. + +“Who lives here?” + +“A shepherd.” + +“Have you any English?” + +“Nagos!” said she, bursting into a loud laugh. “What should we do with +English here?” After we had drunk the buttermilk I offered the girl some +money, but she drew back her hand angrily, and said, “We don’t take money +from tired strangers for two drops of buttermilk; there’s plenty within, +and there are a thousand ewes on the hill. Farvel!” + +“Dear me!” thought I to myself as I walked away, “that I should once in +my days have found shepherd life something as poets have represented it!” + +I saw a mighty mountain at a considerable distance on the right, the same +I believe which I had noted some hours before. I inquired of my guide +whether it was Plynlimmon. + +“O no!” said he, “that is Gaverse; Pumlimmon is to the left.” + +“Plynlimmon is a famed hill,” said I; “I suppose it is very high.” + +“Yes!” said he, “it is high, but it is not famed because it is high, but +because the three grand rivers of the world issue from its breast; the +Hafren, the Rheidol, and the Gwy.” + +Night was now coming rapidly on, attended with a drizzling rain. I +inquired if we were far from Pont Erwyd. “About a mile,” said my guide; +“we shall soon be there.” We quickened our pace. After a little time he +asked me if I was going farther than Pont Erwyd. + +“I am bound for the bridge of the evil man,” said I; “but I dare say I +shall stop at Pont Erwyd tonight.” + +“You will do right,” said he; “it is only three miles from Pont Erwydd to +the bridge of the evil man, but I think we shall have a stormy night.” + +“When I get to Pont Erwyd,” said I, “how far shall I be from South +Wales?” + +“From South Wales!” said he; “you are in South Wales now; you passed the +Terfyn of North Wales a quarter of an hour ago.” + +The rain now fell fast, and there was so thick a mist that I could only +see a few yards before me. We descended into a valley, at the bottom of +which I heard a river roaring. + +“That’s the Rheidol,” said my guide, “coming from Pumlimmon, swollen with +rain.” + +Without descending to the river we turned aside up a hill, and after +passing by a few huts came to a large house, which my guide told me was +the inn of Pont Erwyd. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXII + + +Consequential Landlord—Cheek—Darfel Gatherel—Dafydd Nanmor—Sheep +Farms—Wholesome Advice—The Old Postman—The Plant de Bat—The Robber’s +Cavern. + +My guide went to a side door, and opening it without ceremony, went in. +I followed, and found myself in a spacious and comfortable-looking +kitchen; a large fire blazed in a huge grate, on one side of which was a +settle; plenty of culinary utensils, both pewter and copper, hung around +on the walls, and several goodly rows of hams and sides of bacon were +suspended from the roof. There were several people present, some on the +settle, and others on chairs in the vicinity of the fire. As I advanced +a man arose from a chair and came towards me. He was about thirty-five +years of age, well and strongly made, with a fresh complexion, a hawk +nose and a keen grey eye. He wore top boots and breeches, a half-jockey +coat, and had a round cap made of the skin of some animal on his head. + +“Servant, sir!” said he in rather a sharp tone, and surveying me with +something of a supercilious air. + +“Your most obedient humble servant!” said I; “I presume you are the +landlord of this house.” + +“Landlord!” said he, “landlord! It is true I receive guests sometimes +into my house, but I do so solely with the view of accommodating them; I +do not depend upon innkeeping for a livelihood. I hire the principal +part of the land in this neighbourhood.” + +“If that be the case,” said I, “I had better continue my way to the +Devil’s Bridge; I am not at all tired, and I believe it is not very far +distant.” + +“O, as you are here,” said the farmer-landlord, “I hope you will stay. I +should be very sorry if any gentleman should leave my house at night +after coming with an intention of staying, more especially in a night +like this. Martha!” said he, turning to a female between thirty and +forty, who I subsequently learned was the mistress—“prepare the parlour +instantly for this gentleman, and don’t fail to make up a good fire.” + +Martha forthwith hurried away, attended by a much younger female. + +“Till your room is prepared, sir,” said he, “perhaps you will have no +objection to sit down before our fire?” + +“Not in the least,” said I; “nothing gives me greater pleasure than to +sit before a kitchen fire. First of all, however, I must settle with my +guide, and likewise see that he has something to eat and drink.” + +“Shall I interpret for you?” said the landlord; “the lad has not a word +of English; I know him well.” + +“I have not been under his guidance for the last three hours,” said I, +“without knowing that he cannot speak English; but I want no +interpreter.” + +“You do not mean to say, sir,” said the landlord, with a surprised and +dissatisfied air, “that you understand Welsh?” + +I made no answer, but turning to the guide, thanked him for his kindness, +and giving him some money, asked him if that was enough. + +“More than enough, sir,” said the lad; “I did not expect half as much. +Farewell!” + +He was then about to depart, but I prevented him, saying: + +“You must not go till you have eaten and drunk. What will you have?” + +“Merely a cup of ale, sir,” said the lad. + +“That won’t do,” said I; “you shall have bread and cheese and as much ale +as you can drink. Pray,” said I to the landlord, “let this young man +have some bread and cheese and a large quart of ale.” + +The landlord looked at me for a moment, then turning to the lad he said: + +“What do you think of that, Shon? It is some time since you had a quart +of ale to your own cheek.” + +“Cheek,” said I, “cheek! Is that a Welsh word? Surely it is an +importation from the English, and not a very genteel one.” + +“O come, sir!” said the landlord, “we can dispense with your criticisms. +A pretty thing indeed for you, on the strength of knowing half-a-dozen +words of Welsh, to set up for a Welsh critic in the house of a person who +knows the ancient British language perfectly.” + +“Dear me!” said I, “how fortunate I am! a person thoroughly versed in the +ancient British language is what I have long wished to see. Pray what is +the meaning of Darfel Gatherel?” + +“O sir,” said the landlord, “you must answer that question yourself; I +don’t pretend to understand gibberish!” + +“Darfel Gatherel,” said I, “is not gibberish; it was the name of the +great wooden image at Ty Dewi, or Saint David’s, in Pembrokeshire, to +which thousands of pilgrims in the days of popery used to repair for the +purpose of adoring it, and which at the time of the Reformation was sent +up to London as a curiosity, where it eventually served as firewood to +burn the monk Forrest upon, who was sentenced to the stake by Henry the +Eighth for denying his supremacy. What I want to know is, the meaning of +the name, which I could never get explained, but which you who know the +ancient British language perfectly can doubtless interpret.” + +“O sir,” said the landlord, “when I said I knew the British language +perfectly, I perhaps went too far; there are of course some obsolete +terms in the British tongue, which I don’t understand. Dar, Dar—what is +it? Darmod Cotterel amongst the rest, but to a general knowledge of the +Welsh language I think I may lay some pretensions; were I not well +acquainted with it I should not have carried off the prize at various +eisteddfodau, as I have done. I am a poet, sir, a prydydd.” + +“It is singular enough,” said I, “that the only two Welsh poets I have +seen have been innkeepers—one is yourself, the other a person I met in +Anglesey. I suppose the Muse is fond of cwrw da.” + +“You would fain be pleasant, sir,” said the landlord; “but I beg leave to +inform you that I am not fond of pleasantries; and now as my wife and the +servant are returned, I will have the pleasure of conducting you to the +parlour.” + +“Before I go,” said I, “I should like to see my guide provided with what +I ordered.” I stayed till the lad was accommodated with bread and cheese +and a foaming tankard of ale, and then bidding him farewell, I followed +the landlord into the parlour, where I found a fire kindled, which, +however, smoked exceedingly. I asked my host what I could have for +supper, and was told that he did not know, but that if I would leave the +matter to him he would send the best he could. As he was going away, I +said, “So you are a poet. Well, I am very glad to hear it, for I have +been fond of Welsh poetry from my boyhood. What kind of verse do you +employ in general? Did you ever write an awdl in the four-and-twenty +measures? What are the themes of your songs? The deeds of the ancient +heroes of South Wales, I suppose, and the hospitality of the great men of +the neighbourhood who receive you as an honoured guest at their tables. +I’ll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be you never sang +anything in praise of your landlord’s housekeeping equal to what Dafydd +Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago: + + ‘For Ryce if hundred thousands plough’d, + The lands around his fair abode; + Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed, + Still corn and wine great Ryce would need; + If all the earth had bread’s sweet savour, + And water all had cyder’s flavour, + Three roaring feasts in Ryce’s hall + Would swallow earth and ocean all.’ + +Hey?” + +“Really, sir,” said the landlord, “I don’t know how to reply to you, for +the greater part of your discourse is utterly unintelligible to me. +Perhaps you are a better Welshman than myself; but however that may be, I +shall take the liberty of retiring in order to give orders about your +supper.” + +In about half-an-hour the supper made its appearance in the shape of some +bacon and eggs; on tasting them I found them very good, and calling for +some ale I made a very tolerable supper. After the things had been +removed I drew near to the fire, but, as it still smoked, I soon betook +myself to the kitchen. My guide had taken his departure, but the others +whom I had left were still there. The landlord was talking in Welsh to a +man in a rough great-coat about sheep. Setting myself down near the fire +I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, and then observing that the +landlord and his friend had suddenly become silent, I said, “Pray go on +with your discourse! Don’t let me be any hindrance to you.” + +“Yes, sir,” said the landlord snappishly, “go on with our discourse; for +your edification, I suppose?” + +“Well,” said I, “suppose it is for my edification, surely you don’t +grudge a stranger a little edification which will cost you nothing?” + +“I don’t know that, sir,” said the landlord; “I don’t know that. Really, +sir, the kitchen is not the place for a gentleman.” + +“Yes, it is,” said I, “provided the parlour smokes. Come, come, I am +going to have a glass of whiskey-and-water; perhaps you will take one +with me.” + +“Well, sir!” said the landlord in rather a softened tone, “I have no +objection to take a glass with you.” + +Two glasses of whiskey-and-water were presently brought, and the landlord +and I drank to each other’s health. + +“Is this a sheep district?” said I, after a pause of a minute or two. + +“Yes, sir!” said the landlord; “it may to a certain extent be called a +sheep district.” + +“I suppose the Southdown and Norfolk breeds would not do for these here +parts,” said I with a regular Norfolk whine. + +“No, sir! I don’t think they would exactly,” said the landlord, staring +at me. “Do you know anything about sheep?” + +“Plenty, plenty,” said I; “quite as much indeed as about Welsh words and +poetry.” Then in a yet more whining tone than before, I said, “Do you +think that a body with money in his pocket could hire a comfortable sheep +farm hereabouts?” + +“O sir!” said the landlord in a furious tone, “you have come to look out +for a farm, I see, and to outbid us poor Welshmen; it is on that account +you have studied Welsh; but, sir, I would have you know—” + +“Come,” said I, “don’t be afraid; I wouldn’t have all the farms in your +country, provided you would tie them in a string and offer them to me. +If I talked about a farm it was because I am in the habit of talking +about everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting +to be so, which comes much to the same thing. My real business in this +neighbourhood is to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery about it.” + +“Very good, sir!” said the landlord; “I thought so at first. A great +many English go to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery near it, though +I really don’t know why, for there is nothing so very particular in +either. We have a bridge here too quite as good as the Devil’s Bridge; +and as for scenery, I’ll back the scenery about this house against +anything of the kind in the neighbourhood of the Devil’s Bridge. Yet +everybody goes to the Devil’s Bridge and nobody comes here.” + +“You might easily bring everybody here,” said I, “if you would but employ +your talent. You should celebrate the wonders of your neighbourhood in +cowydds, and you would soon have plenty of visitors; but you don’t want +them, you know, and prefer to be without them.” + +The landlord looked at me for a moment, then taking a sip of his +whiskey-and-water, he turned to the man with whom he had previously been +talking, and recommenced the discourse about sheep. I made no doubt, +however, that I was a restraint upon them; they frequently glanced at me, +and soon fell to whispering. At last both got up and left the room; the +landlord finishing his glass of whiskey-and-water before he went away. + +“So you are going to the Devil’s Bridge, sir!” said an elderly man, +dressed in a grey coat with a broad-brimmed hat, who sat on the settle +smoking a pipe in company with another elderly man with a leather hat, +with whom I had heard him discourse, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in +English, the Welsh which he spoke being rather broken. + +“Yes!” said I, “I am going to have a sight of the bridge and the +neighbouring scenery.” + +“Well, sir, I don’t think you will be disappointed, for both are +wonderful.” + +“Are you a Welshman?” said I. + +“No, sir! I am not; I am an Englishman from Durham, which is the best +county in England.” + +“So it is,” said I; “for some things, at any rate. For example, where do +you find such beef as in Durham?” + +“Ah, where indeed, sir? I have always said that neither the Devonshire +nor the Lincolnshire beef is to be named in the same day with that of +Durham.” + +“Well,” said I, “what business do you follow in these parts? I suppose +you farm?” + +“No, sir! I do not; I am what they call a mining captain.” + +“I suppose that gentleman,” said I, motioning to the man in the leather +hat, “is not from Durham?” + +“No, sir, he is not; he is from the neighbourhood.” + +“And does he follow mining?” + +“No, sir, he does not; he carries about the letters.” + +“Is your mine near this place?” said I. + +“Not very, sir; it is nearer the Devil’s Bridge.” + +“Why is the bridge called the Devil’s Bridge?” said I. + +“Because, sir, ’tis said that the Devil built it in the old time, though +that I can hardly believe, for the Devil, do ye see, delights in nothing +but mischief, and it is not likely that such being the case he would have +built a thing which must have been of wonderful service to people by +enabling them to pass in safety over a dreadful gulf.” + +“I have heard,” said the old postman with the leather hat, “that the +Devil had no hand in de work at all, but that it was built by a Mynach, +or monk, on which account de river over which de bridge is built is +called Afon y Mynach—dat is de Monk’s River.” + +“Did you ever hear,” said I, “of three creatures who lived a long time +ago near the Devil’s Bridge called the Plant de Bat?” + +“Ah, master!” said the old postman, “I do see that you have been in these +parts before; had you not you would not know of the Plant de Bat.” + +“No,” said I, “I have never been here before; but I heard of them when I +was a boy from a Cumro who taught me Welsh, and had lived for some time +in these parts. Well, what do they say here about the Plant de Bat? for +he who mentioned them to me could give me no further information about +them than that they were horrid creatures who lived in a cave near the +Devil’s Bridge several hundred years ago.” + +“Well, master,” said the old postman, thrusting his forefinger twice or +thrice into the bowl of his pipe, “I will tell you what they says here +about the Plant de Bat. In de old time two, three hundred year ago, a +man lived somewhere about here called Bat, or Bartholomew; this man had +three children, two boys and one girl, who, because their father’s name +was Bat, were generally called Plant de Bat, or Bat’s children. Very +wicked children they were from their cradle, giving their father and +mother much trouble and uneasiness; no good in any one of them, neither +in the boys nor the girl. Now the boys, once when they were rambling +idly about, lighted by chance upon a cave near the Devil’s Bridge. Very +strange cave it was, with just one little hole at top to go in by. So +the boys said to one another, ‘Nice cave this for thief to live in. +Suppose we come here when we are a little more big and turn thief +ourselves.’ Well, they waited till they were a little more big, and then +leaving their father’s house they came to de cave and turned thief, lying +snug there all day, and going out at night to rob upon the roads. Well, +there was soon much talk in the country about the robberies which were +being committed, and people often went out in search of de thieves, but +all in vain; and no wonder, for they were in a cave very hard to light +upon, having as I said before merely one little hole at top to go in by. +So Bat’s boys went on swimmingly for a long time, lying snug in cave by +day and going out at night to rob, letting no one know where they were +but their sister, who was as bad as themselves, and used to come to them +and bring them food, and stay with them for weeks, and sometimes go out +and rob with them. But as de pitcher which goes often to de well comes +home broke at last, so it happened with Bat’s children. After robbing +people upon the roads by night many a long year and never being found +out, they at last met one great gentleman upon the roads by night, and +not only robbed but killed him, leaving his body all cut and gashed near +to Devil’s Bridge. That job was the ruin of Plant de Bat, for the great +gentleman’s friends gathered together and hunted after his murderers with +dogs, and at length came to the cave, and going in found it stocked with +riches, and the Plant de Bat sitting upon the riches, not only the boys +but the girl also. So they took out the riches and the Plant de Bat, and +the riches they did give to churches and spyttys, and the Plant de Bat +they did execute, hanging the boys and burning the girl. That, master, +is what they says in dese parts about the Plant de Bat.” + +“Thank you!” said I. “Is the cave yet to be seen?” + +“O yes! it is yet to be seen, or part of it, for it is not now what it +was, having been partly flung open to hinder other thieves from nestling +in it. It is on the bank of the river Mynach, just before it joins the +Rheidol. Many gentlefolk in de summer go to see the Plant de Bat’s +cave.” + +“Are you sure?” said I, “that Plant de Bat means Bat’s children?” + +“I am not sure, master; I merely says what I have heard other people say. +I believe some says that it means the wicked children, or the Devil’s +children. And now, master, we may as well have done with them, for +should you question me through the whole night I could tell you nothing +more about the Plant de Bat.” + +After a little farther discourse, chiefly about sheep and the weather, I +retired to the parlour, where the fire was now burning brightly; seating +myself before it, I remained for a considerable time staring at the +embers and thinking over the events of the day. At length I rang the +bell and begged to be shown to my chamber, where I soon sank to sleep, +lulled by the pattering of rain against the window and the sound of a +neighbouring cascade. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIII + + +Wild Scenery—Awful Chasm—John Greaves—Durham County—Queen Philippa—The +Two Aldens—Welsh Wife—The Noblest Business—The Welsh and the Salve—The +Lad John. + +A rainy and boisterous night was succeeded by a bright and beautiful +morning. I arose, and having ordered breakfast, went forth to see what +kind of country I had got into. I found myself amongst wild, +strange-looking hills, not, however, of any particular height. The +house, which seemed to front the east, stood on the side of a hill on a +wide platform abutting on a deep and awful chasm, at the bottom of which +chafed and foamed the Rheidol. This river enters the valley of Pont +Erwyd from the north-west, then makes a variety of snake-like turns, and +at last bears away to the south-east just below the inn. The banks are +sheer walls from sixty to a hundred feet high, and the bed of the river +has all the appearance of a volcanic rent. A brook running from the +south past the inn, tumbles into the chasm at an angle, and forms the +cascade whose sound had lulled me to sleep the preceding night. + +After breakfasting, I paid my bill, and set out for the Devil’s Bridge +without seeing anything more of that remarkable personage in whom were +united landlord, farmer, poet, and mighty fine gentleman—the master of +the house. I soon reached the bottom of the valley, where are a few +houses, and the bridge from which the place takes its name, Pont Erwyd +signifying the Bridge of Erwyd. As I was looking over the bridge near +which are two or three small waterfalls, an elderly man in a grey coat, +followed by a young lad and dog, came down the road which I had myself +just descended. + +“Good day, sir,” said he, stopping, when he came upon the bridge. “I +suppose you are bound my road?” + +“Ah,” said I, recognising the old mining captain with whom I had talked +in the kitchen the night before, “is it you? I am glad to see you. Yes! +I am bound your way, provided you are going to the Devil’s Bridge.” + +“Then, sir, we can go together, for I am bound to my mine, which lies +only a little way t’other side of the Devil’s Bridge.” + +Crossing the bridge of Erwyd, we directed our course to the south-east. + +“What young man is that?” said I, “who is following behind us?” + +“The young man, sir, is my son John, and the dog with him is his dog +Joe.” + +“And what may your name be, if I may take the liberty of asking?” + +“Greaves, sir; John Greaves from the county of Durham.” + +“Ah! a capital county that,” said I. + +“You like the county, sir! God bless you! John!” said he in a loud +voice, turning to the lad, “why don’t you offer to carry the gentleman’s +knapsack?” + +“Don’t let him trouble himself,” said I. “As I was just now saying, a +capital county is Durham county.” + +“You really had better let the boy carry your bag, sir.” + +“No!” said I; “I would rather carry it myself. I question upon the whole +whether there is a better county in England.” + +“Is it long since your honour was in Durham county?” + +“A good long time. A matter of forty years.” + +“Forty years! why that’s the life of a man. That’s longer than I have +been out of the county myself. I suppose your honour can’t remember much +about the county.” + +“O yes I can, I remember a good deal.” + +“Please your honour tell me what you remember about the county. It would +do me good to hear it.” + +“Well, I remember it was a very fine county in more respects than one. +One part of it was full of big hills and mountains, where there were +mines of coal and lead with mighty works with tall chimneys spouting out +black smoke, and engines roaring and big wheels going round, some turned +by steam, and others by what they called forces, that is brooks of water +dashing down steep channels. Another part was a more level country with +beautiful woods, happy-looking farmhouses, well-filled fields and rich +glorious meadows, in which stood stately with brown sides and short horns +the Durham ox.” + +“O dear, O dear!” said my companion. “Ah, I see your honour knows +everything about Durham county. Forces! none but one who had been in +Durham county would have used that word. I haven’t heard it for +five-and-thirty years. Forces! there was a force close to my village. I +wonder if your honour has ever been in Durham city.” + +“O yes! I have been there.” + +“Does your honour remember anything about Durham city?” + +“O yes! I remember a good deal about it.” + +“Then, your honour, pray tell us what you remember about it—pray do! +perhaps it will do me good.” + +“Well, then, I remember that it was a fine old city standing on a hill +with a river running under it, and that it had a fine old church, one of +the finest in the whole of Britain; likewise a fine old castle; and last, +not least, a capital old inn, where I got a capital dinner off roast +Durham beef, and a capital glass of ale, which I believe was the cause of +my being ever after fond of ale.” + +“Dear me! Ah, I see your honour knows all about Durham city. And now +let me ask one question. How came your honour to Durham city and county? +I don’t think your honour is a Durham man, either of town or field.” + +“I am not; but when I was a little boy I passed through Durham county +with my mother and brother to a place called Scotland.” + +“Scotland! a queer country that, your honour!” + +“So it is,” said I; “a queerer country I never saw in all my life.” + +“And a queer set of people, your honour.” + +“So they are,” said I; “a queerer set of people than the Scotch you would +scarcely see in a summer’s day.” + +“The Durham folks, neither of town or field, have much reason to speak +well of the Scotch, your honour.” + +“I dare say not,” said I; “very few people have.” + +“And yet the Durham folks, your honour, generally contrived to give them +as good as they brought.” + +“That they did,” said I; “a pretty licking the Durham folks once gave the +Scots under the walls of Durham city, after the scamps had been +plundering the country for three weeks—a precious licking they gave them, +slaying I don’t know how many thousands, and taking their king prisoner.” + +“So they did, your honour, and under the command of a woman too.” + +“Very true,” said I; “Queen Philippa.” + +“Just so, your honour! the idea that your honour should know so much +about Durham, both field and town!” + +“Well,” said I, “since I have told you so much about Durham, perhaps you +will now tell me something about yourself. How did you come here?” + +“I had better begin from the beginning, your honour. I was born in +Durham county close beside the Great Force, which no doubt your honour +has seen. My father was a farmer and had a bit of a share in a mining +concern. I was brought up from my childhood both to farming and mining +work, but most to mining, because, do you see, I took most pleasure in +it, being the more noble business of the two. Shortly after I had come +to man’s estate my father died leaving me a decent little property, +whereupon I forsook farming altogether and gave myself up, body, soul and +capital, to mining, which at last I thoroughly understood in all its +branches. Well, your honour, about five-and-thirty years ago, that was +when I was about twenty-eight, a cry went through the north country that +a great deal of money might be made by opening Wales, that is, by mining +in Wales in the proper fashion, which means the north-country fashion, +for there is no other fashion of mining good for much—there had long been +mines in Wales, but they had always been worked in a poor, weak, languid +manner, very different from that of the north country. So a company was +formed, at the head of which were the Aldens, George and Thomas, for +opening Wales, and they purchased certain mines in these districts, which +they knew to be productive, and which might be made yet more so, and +settling down here called themselves the Rheidol United. Well, after +they had been here a little time they found themselves in want of a man +to superintend their concerns, above all in the smelting department. So +they thought of me, who was known to most of the mining gentry in the +north country, and they made a proposal to me through George Alden, +afterwards Sir George, to come here and superintend. I said no, at +first, for I didn’t like the idea of leaving Durham county to come to +such an outlandish place as Wales; howsomever, I at last allowed myself +to be overpersuaded by George Alden, afterwards Sir George, and here I +came with my wife and family, for I must tell your honour I had married a +respectable young woman of Durham county, by whom I had two little +ones—here I came and did my best for the service of the Rheidol United. +The company was terribly set to it for a long time, spending a mint of +money and getting very poor returns. To my certain knowledge the two +Aldens, George and Tom, spent between them thirty thousand pounds—the +company, however, persevered, chiefly at the instigation of the Aldens, +who were in the habit of saying ‘Never say die!’ and at last got the +better of all their difficulties and rolled in riches, and had the credit +of being the first company that ever opened Wales, which they richly +deserved, for I will uphold it that the Rheidol United, particularly the +Aldens, George and Thomas, were the first people who really opened Wales. +In their service I have been for five-and-thirty years, and dare say +shall continue so till I die. I have been tolerably comfortable, your +honour, though I have had my griefs, the bitterest of which was the death +of my wife, which happened about eight years after I came to this +country. I thought I should have gone wild at first, your honour! +Having, however, always plenty to do, I at last got the better of my +affliction. I continued single till my English family grew up and left +me, when feeling myself rather lonely I married a decent young +Welshwoman, by whom I had one son, the lad John, who is following behind +with his dog Joe. And now your honour knows the whole story of John +Greaves, miner from the county of Durham.” + +“And a most entertaining and instructive history it is,” said I. “You +have not told me, however, how you contrived to pick up Welsh: I heard +you speaking it last night with the postman.” + +“Why, through my Welsh wife, your honour! Without her I don’t think I +should ever have picked up the Welsh manner of discoursing—she is a good +kind of woman, my Welsh wife, though—” + +“The loss of your Durham wife must have been a great grief to you,” said +I. + +“It was the bitterest grief, your honour, as I said before, that I ever +had—my next worst I think was the death of a dear friend.” + +“Who was that?” said I. + +“Who was it, your honour? why, the Duke of Newcastle.” + +“Dear me!” said I; “how came you to know him?” + +“Why, your honour, he lived at a place not far from here, called Hafod, +and so—” + +“Hafod!” said I; “I have often heard of Hafod and its library; but I +thought it belonged to an old Welsh family called Johnes.” + +“Well, so it did, your honour! but the family died away, and the estate +was put up for sale, and purchased by the Duke, who built a fine house +upon it, which he made his chief place of residence—the old family house, +I must tell your honour, in which the library was had been destroyed by +fire: well, he hadn’t been long settled there before he found me out and +took wonderfully to me, discoursing with me and consulting me about his +farming and improvements. Many is the pleasant chat and discourse I have +had with his Grace for hours and hours together, for his Grace had not a +bit of pride, at least he never showed any to me, though, perhaps, the +reason of that was that we were both north-country people. Lord! I +would have laid down my life for his Grace and have done anything but one +which he once asked me to do: ‘Greaves,’ said the Duke to me one day, ‘I +wish you would give up mining and become my steward.’ ‘Sorry I can’t +oblige your Grace,’ said I; ‘but give up mining I cannot. I will at any +time give your Grace all the advice I can about farming and such like, +but give up mining I cannot: because why? I conceive mining to be the +noblest business in the ‘versal world.’ Whereupon his Grace laughed, and +said he dare say I was right, and never mentioned the subject again.” + +“Was his Grace very fond of farming and improving?” + +“O yes, your honour! like all the great gentry, especially the +north-country gentry, his Grace was wonderfully fond of farming and +improving—and a wonderful deal of good he did, reclaiming thousands of +acres of land which was before good for nothing, and building capital +farm-houses and offices for his tenants. His grand feat, however, was +bringing the Durham bull into this country, which formed a capital cross +with the Welsh cows. Pity that he wasn’t equally fortunate with the +north-country sheep.” + +“Did he try to introduce them into Wales?” + +“Yes; but they didn’t answer, as I knew they wouldn’t. Says I to the +Duke, ‘It won’t do, your Grace, to bring the north-country sheep here: +because why? the hills are too wet and cold for their constitutions;’ but +his Grace, who had sometimes a will of his own, persisted and brought the +north-country sheep to these parts, and it turned out as I said: the +sheep caught the disease and the wool parted and—” + +“But,” said I, “you should have told him about the salve made of bran, +butter and oil; you should have done that.” + +“Well, so I did, your honour; I told him about the salve, and the Duke +listened to me, and the salve was made by these very hands; but when it +was made, what do you think? the foolish Welsh wouldn’t put it on, saying +that it was against their laws and statties and religion to use it, and +talked about Devil’s salves and the Witch of Endor, and the sin against +the Holy Ghost, and such-like nonsense. So to prevent a regular +rebellion, the Duke gave up the salve and the poor sheep pined away and +died, till at last there was not one left.” + +“Who holds the estate at present?” said I. + +“Why, a great gentleman from Lancashire, your honour, who bought it when +the Duke died; but he doesn’t take the same pleasure in it which the Duke +did, nor spend so much money about it, the consequence being that +everything looks very different from what it looked in the Duke’s time. +The inn at the Devil’s Bridge and the grounds look very different from +what they looked in the Duke’s time, for you must know that the inn and +the grounds form part of the Hafod estate, and are hired from the +proprietor.” + +By this time we had arrived at a small village, with a toll-bar and a +small church or chapel at some little distance from the road, which here +made a turn nearly full south. The road was very good, but the country +was wild and rugged; there was a deep vale on the right, at the bottom of +which rolled the Rheidol in its cleft, rising beyond which were steep, +naked hills. + +“This village,” said my companion, “is called Ysbytty Cynfyn. Down on +the right, past the church, is a strange bridge across the Rheidol, which +runs there through a horrid kind of a place. The bridge is called Pont +yr Offeiriad, or the Parson’s Bridge, because in the old time the +clergyman passed over it every Sunday to do duty in the church here.” + +“Why is this place called Ysbytty Cynfyn?” said I, “which means the +hospital of the first boundary; is there a hospital of the second +boundary near here?” + +“I can’t say anything about boundaries, your honour; all I know is, that +there is another Spytty farther on beyond Hafod called Ysbytty Ystwyth, +or the ’Spytty upon the Ystwyth. But to return to the matter of the +Minister’s Bridge: I would counsel your honour to go and see that bridge +before you leave these parts. A vast number of gentry go to see it in +the summer time. It was the bridge which the landlord was mentioning +last night, though it scarcely belongs to his district, being quite as +near the Devil’s Bridge inn, as it is to his own, your honour.” + +We went on discoursing for about half-a-mile farther, when, stopping by a +road which branched off to the hills on the left, my companion said, “I +must now wish your honour good day, being obliged to go a little way up +here to a mining work on a small bit of business; my son, however, and +his dog Joe will show your honour the way to the Devil’s Bridge, as they +are bound to a place a little way past it. I have now but one word to +say, which is, that should ever your honour please to visit me at my +mine, your honour shall receive every facility for inspecting the works, +and moreover have a bellyfull of drink and victuals from Jock Greaves, +miner from the county of Durham.” + +I shook the honest fellow by the hand and went on in company with the lad +John and his dog as far as the Devil’s Bridge. John was a highly +intelligent lad, spoke Welsh and English fluently, could read, as he told +me, both languages, and had some acquaintance with the writings of Twm +o’r Nant, as he showed by repeating the following lines of the carter +poet, certainly not the worst which he ever wrote:— + + “Twm o’r Nant mae cant a’m galw + Tomas Edwards yw fy enw. + + Tom O Nant is a nickname I’ve got, + My name’s Thomas Edwards, I wot.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIV + + +The Hospice—The Two Rivers—The Devil’s Bridge—Pleasant Recollections. + +I arrived at the Devil’s Bridge at about eleven o’clock of a fine but +cold day, and took up my quarters at the inn, of which I was the sole +guest during the whole time that I continued there, for the inn, standing +in a lone, wild district, has very few guests except in summer, when it +is thronged with tourists, who avail themselves of that genial season to +view the wonders of Wales, of which the region close by is considered +amongst the principal. + +The inn, or rather hospice, for the sounding name of hospice is more +applicable to it than the common one of inn, was built at a great expense +by the late Duke of Newcastle. It is an immense lofty cottage with +projecting eaves, and has a fine window to the east which enlightens a +stately staircase and a noble gallery. It fronts the north and stands in +the midst of one of the most remarkable localities in the world, of which +it would require a far more vigorous pen than mine to convey an adequate +idea. + +Far to the west is a tall, strange-looking hill, the top of which bears +no slight resemblance to that of a battlemented castle. This hill, which +is believed to have been in ancient times a stronghold of the Britons, +bears the name of Bryn y Castell or the hill of the castle. To the +north-west are russet hills, to the east two brown paps, whilst to the +south is a high, swelling mountain. To the north and just below the +hospice is a profound hollow with all the appearance of the crater of an +extinct volcano; at the bottom of this hollow the waters of two rivers +unite; those of the Rheidol from the north, and those of the Afon y +Mynach, or the Monks’ River, from the south-east. The Rheidol falling +over a rocky precipice at the northern side of the hollow forms a +cataract very pleasant to look upon from the middle upper window of the +inn. Those of the Mynach which pass under the celebrated Devil’s Bridge +are not visible, though they generally make themselves heard. The waters +of both, after uniting, flow away through a romantic glen towards the +west. The sides of the hollow, and indeed of most of the ravines in the +neighbourhood, which are numerous, are beautifully clad with wood. + +Penetrate now into the hollow above which the hospice stands. You +descend by successive flights of steps, some of which are very slippery +and insecure. On your right is the Monks’ River, roaring down its dingle +in five successive falls, to join its brother the Rheidol. Each of the +falls has its own peculiar basin, one or two of which are said to be of +awful depth. The length which these falls with their basins occupy is +about five hundred feet. On the side of the basin of the last but one is +the cave, or the site of the cave, said to have been occupied in old +times by the Wicked Children, the mysterious Plant de Bat, two brothers +and a sister, robbers and murderers. At present it is nearly open on +every side, having, it is said, been destroyed to prevent its being the +haunt of other evil people: there is a tradition in the country that the +fall at one time tumbled over its mouth. This tradition, however, is +evidently without foundation, as from the nature of the ground the river +could never have run but in its present channel. Of all the falls the +fifth or last is the most considerable: you view it from a kind of den, +to which the last flight of steps, the ruggedest and most dangerous of +all, has brought you; your position here is a wild one. The fall, which +is split into two, is thundering beside you; foam, foam, foam is flying +all about you; the basin or cauldron is boiling frightfully below you; +hirsute rocks are frowning terribly above you, and above them forest +trees, dank and wet with spray and mist, are distilling drops in showers +from their boughs. + +But where is the bridge, the celebrated bridge of the Evil Man? From the +bottom of the first flight of steps leading down into the hollow you see +a modern-looking bridge bestriding a deep chasm or cleft to the +southeast, near the top of the dingle of the Monks’ River; over it lies +the road to Pont Erwyd. That, however, is not the Devil’s Bridge—but +about twenty feet below that bridge and completely overhung by it, don’t +you see a shadowy, spectral object, something like a bow, which likewise +bestrides the chasm? You do! Well! that shadowy, spectral object is the +celebrated Devil’s Bridge, or, as the timorous peasants of the locality +call it, the Pont y Gwr Drwg. It is now merely preserved as an object of +curiosity, the bridge above being alone used for transit, and is quite +inaccessible except to birds, and the climbing wicked boys of the +neighbourhood, who sometimes at the risk of their lives contrive to get +upon it from the frightfully steep northern bank, and snatch a fearful +joy, as, whilst lying on their bellies, they poke their heads over its +sides worn by age, without parapet to prevent them from falling into the +horrid gulf below. But from the steps in the hollow the view of the +Devil’s Bridge, and likewise of the cleft, is very slight and +unsatisfactory. To view it properly, and the wonders connected with it, +you must pass over the bridge above it, and descend a precipitous dingle +on the eastern side till you come to a small platform in a crag. Below +you now is a frightful cavity, at the bottom of which the waters of the +Monks’ River, which comes tumbling from a glen to the east, whirl, boil +and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron, called in the language of the +country Twll yn y graig, or the hole in the rock, in a manner truly +tremendous. On your right is a slit, probably caused by volcanic force, +through which the waters after whirling in the cauldron eventually +escape. The slit is wonderfully narrow considering its altitude, which +is very great, considerably upwards of a hundred feet—nearly above you, +crossing the slit, which is partially wrapped in darkness, is the +far-famed bridge, the Bridge of the Evil Man, a work which though +crumbling and darkly grey does much honour to the hand which built it, +whether it was the hand of Satan or of a monkish architect, for the arch +is chaste and beautiful, far superior in every respect, except in safety +and utility, to the one above it, which from this place you have not the +mortification of seeing. Gaze on these objects, namely, the horrid +seething pot or cauldron, the gloomy volcanic slit, and the spectral, +shadowy Devil’s Bridge for about three minutes, allowing a minute to +each, then scramble up the bank and repair to your inn, and have no more +sight-seeing that day, for you have seen enough. And if pleasant +recollections do not haunt you through life of the noble falls and the +beautiful wooded dingles to the west of the Bridge of the Evil One, and +awful and mysterious ones of the monks’ boiling cauldron, the long, +savage, shadowy cleft, and the grey, crumbling spectral bridge, I say +boldly that you must be a very unpoetical person indeed. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXV + + +Dinner at the Hospice—Evening Gossip—A Day of Rain—A Scanty Flock—The +Bridge of the Minister—Legs in Danger. + +I dined in a parlour of the inn commanding an excellent view of the +hollow and the Rheidol fall. Shortly after I had dined a fierce storm of +rain and wind came on. It lasted for an hour, and then everything again +became calm. Just before evening was closing in I took a stroll to a +village which stands a little way to the west of the inn. It consists +only of a few ruinous edifices, and is chiefly inhabited by miners and +their families. I saw no men, but plenty of women and children. Seeing +a knot of women and girls chatting I went up and addressed them—some of +the girls were very good-looking—none of the party had any English; all +of them were very civil. I first talked to them about religion, and +found that without a single exception they were Calvinistic Methodists. +I next talked to them about the Plant de Bat. They laughed heartily at +the first mention of their name, but seemed to know very little about +their history. After some twenty minutes’ discourse I bade them +good-night and returned to my inn. + +The night was very cold; the people of the house, however, made up for me +a roaring fire of turf, and I felt very comfortable. About ten o’clock I +went to bed, intending next morning to go and see Plynlimmon, which I had +left behind me on entering Cardiganshire. When the morning came, +however, I saw at once that I had entered upon a day by no means adapted +for excursions of any considerable length, for it rained terribly; but +this gave me very little concern; my time was my own, and I said to +myself, “If I can’t go to-day I can perhaps go to-morrow.” After +breakfast I passed some hours in a manner by no means disagreeable, +sometimes meditating before my turf fire with my eyes fixed upon it, and +sometimes sitting by the window with my eyes fixed upon the cascade of +the Rheidol, which was every moment becoming more magnificent. At +length, about twelve o’clock, fearing that if I stayed within I should +lose my appetite for dinner, which has always been one of the greatest of +my enjoyments, I determined to go and see the Minister’s Bridge which my +friend the old mining captain had spoken to me about. I knew that I +should get a wetting by doing so, for the weather still continued very +bad, but I don’t care much for a wetting provided I have a good roof, a +good fire and good fare to betake myself to afterwards. + +So I set out. As I passed over the bridge of the Mynach River I looked +down over the eastern balustrade. The Bridge of the Evil One, which is +just below it, was quite invisible. I could see, however, the pot or +crochan distinctly enough, and a horrible sight it presented. The waters +were whirling round in a manner to describe which any word but frenzied +would be utterly powerless. Half-an-hour’s walking brought me to the +little village through which I had passed the day before. Going up to a +house I knocked at the door, and a middle-aged man opening it, I asked +him the way to the Bridge of the Minister. He pointed to the little +chapel to the west and said that the way lay past it, adding that he +would go with me himself, as he wanted to go to the hills on the other +side to see his sheep. + +We got presently into discourse. He at first talked broken English, but +soon began to speak his native language. I asked him if the chapel +belonged to the Methodists. + +“It is not a chapel,” said he, “it is a church.” + +“Do many come to it?” said I. + +“Not many, sir, for the Methodists are very powerful here. Not more than +forty or fifty come.” + +“Do you belong to the Church?” said I. + +“I do, sir, thank God!” + +“You may well be thankful,” said I, “for it is a great privilege to +belong to the Church of England.” + +“It is so, sir!” said the man, “though few, alas! think so.” + +I found him a highly intelligent person: on my talking to him about the +name of the place, he said that some called it Spytty Cynfyn, and others +Spytty Cynwyl, and that both Cynwyl and Cynfyn were the names of people, +to one or other of which the place was dedicated, and that like the place +farther on called Spytty Ystwyth, it was in the old time a hospital or +inn for the convenience of the pilgrims going to the great monastery of +Ystrad Flur or Strata Florida. + +Passing through a field or two we came to the side of a very deep ravine, +down which there was a zigzag path leading to the bridge. The path was +very steep, and, owing to the rain, exceedingly slippery. For some way +it led through a grove of dwarf oaks, by grasping the branches of which I +was enabled to support myself tolerably well; nearly at the bottom, +however, where the path was most precipitous, the trees ceased +altogether. Fearing to trust my legs I determined to slide down, and put +my resolution in practice, arriving at a little shelf close by the bridge +without any accident. The man, accustomed to the path, went down in the +usual manner. The bridge consisted of a couple of planks and a pole +flung over a chasm about ten feet wide, on the farther side of which was +a precipice with a path at least quite as steep as the one down which I +had come, and without any trees or shrubs, by which those who used it +might support themselves. The torrent rolled about nine feet below the +bridge; its channel was tortuous; on the south-east side of the bridge +was a cauldron, like that on which I had looked down from the bridge over +the river of the monks. The man passed over the bridge and I followed +him; on the other side we stopped and turned round. The river was +rushing and surging, the pot was boiling and roaring, and everything +looked wild and savage; but the locality for awfulness and mysterious +gloom could not compare with that on the east side of the Devil’s Bridge, +nor for sublimity and grandeur with that on the west. + +“Here you see, sir,” said the man, “the Bridge of the Offeiriad, called +so, it is said, because the popes used to pass over it in the old time; +and here you have the Rheidol, which, though not so smooth nor so well +off for banks as the Hafren and the Gwy, gets to the sea before either of +them, and as the pennill says is quite as much entitled to honour:— + + “‘Hafren a Wy yn hyfryd eu wêdd + A Rheidol vawr ei anrhydedd.’ + +Good rhyme, sir, that. I wish you would put it into Saesneg.” + +“I am afraid I shall make a poor hand of it,” said I; “however, I will do +my best. + + “‘O pleasantly do glide along the Severn and the Wye; + But Rheidol’s rough, and yet he’s held by all in honour high.’” + +“Very good rhyme that, sir! though not so good as the pennill Cymraeg. +Ha, I do see that you know the two languages and are one poet. And now, +sir, I must leave you, and go to the hills to my sheep, who I am afraid +will be suffering in this dreadful weather. However, before I go, I +should wish to see you safe over the bridge.” + +I shook him by the hand, and retracing my steps over the bridge began +clambering up the bank on my knees. + +“You will spoil your trowsers, sir!” cried the man from the other side. + +“I don’t care if I do,” said I, “provided I save my legs, which are in +some danger of this place, as well as my neck, which is of less +consequence.” + +I hurried back amidst rain and wind to my friendly hospice, where, after +drying my wet clothes as well as I could, I made an excellent dinner on +fowl and bacon. Dinner over I took up a newspaper which was brought me, +and read an article about the Russian war, which did not seem to be going +on much to the advantage of the allies. Soon flinging the paper aside I +stuck my feet on the stove, one on each side of the turf fire, and +listened to the noises without. The bellowing of the wind down the +mountain passes and the roaring of the Rheidol fall at the north side of +the valley, and the rushing of the five cascades of the river Mynach, +were truly awful. Perhaps I ought not to have said the five cascades of +the Mynach, but the Mynach cascade, for now its five cascades had become +one, extending from the chasm over which hung the bridge of Satan to the +bottom of the valley. + +After a time I fell into a fit of musing. I thought of the Plant de Bat: +I thought of the spitties or hospitals connected with the great monastery +of Ystrad Flur or Strata Florida: I thought of the remarkable bridge +close by, built by a clever monk of that place to facilitate the coming +of pilgrims with their votive offerings from the north to his convent: I +thought of the convent built in the time of our Henry the Second by Ryce +ab Gruffyd, prince of South Wales; and lastly I thought of a wonderful +man who was buried in its precincts, the greatest genius which Wales, and +perhaps Britain, ever produced, on whose account, and not because of old +it had been a magnificent building, and the most celebrated place of +popish pilgrimage in Wales, I had long ago determined to visit it on my +journey, a man of whose life and works the following is a brief account. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVI + + +Birth and Early Years of Ab Gwilym—Morfudd—Relic of Druidism—The Men of +Glamorgan—Legend of Ab Gwilym—Ab Gwilym as a Writer—Wonderful +Variety—Objects of Nature—Gruffydd Gryg. + +Dafydd Ab Gwilym was born about the year 1320 at a place called Bro +Gynnin in the county of Cardigan. Though born in wedlock he was not +conceived legitimately. His mother being discovered by her parents to be +pregnant was turned out of doors by them, whereupon she went to her +lover, who married her, though in so doing he acted contrary to the +advice of his relations. After a little time, however, a general +reconciliation took place. The parents of Ab Gwilym, though highly +connected, do not appear to have possessed much property. The boy was +educated by his mother’s brother, Llewelyn ab Gwilym Fychan, a chief of +Cardiganshire; but his principal patron in after life was Ifor, a cousin +of his father, surnamed Hael or the bountiful, a chieftain of +Glamorganshire. This person received him within his house, made him his +steward and tutor to his daughter. With this young lady Ab Gwilym +speedily fell in love, and the damsel returned his passion. Ifor, +however, not approving of the connection, sent his daughter to Anglesey +and eventually caused her to take the veil in a nunnery of that island. +Dafydd pursued her, but not being able to obtain an interview he returned +to his patron, who gave him a kind reception. Under Ifor’s roof he +cultivated poetry with great assiduity and wonderful success. Whilst +very young, being taunted with the circumstances of his birth by a +brother bard called Rhys Meigan, he retorted in an ode so venomously +bitter that his adversary, after hearing it, fell down and expired. +Shortly after this event he was made head bard of Glamorgan by universal +acclamation. + +After a stay of some time with Ifor he returned to his native county and +lived at Bro Gynnin. Here he fell in love with a young lady of birth +called Dyddgu, who did not favour his addresses. He did not break his +heart, however, on her account, but speedily bestowed it on the fair +Morfudd, whom he first saw at Rhosyr in Anglesey, to which place both had +gone on a religious account. The lady after some demur consented to +become his wife. Her parents refusing to sanction the union their hands +were joined beneath the greenwood tree by one Madawg Benfras, a bard and +a great friend of Ab Gwilym. The joining of people’s hands by bards, +which was probably a relic of Druidism, had long been practised in Wales, +and marriages of this kind were generally considered valid, and seldom +set aside. The ecclesiastical law, however, did not recognise these +poetical marriages, and the parents of Morfudd by appealing to the law +soon severed the union. After confining the lady for a short time they +bestowed her hand in legal fashion upon a chieftain of the neighbourhood, +very rich but rather old, and with a hump on his back, on which account +he was nick-named bow-back or little hump-back. Morfudd, however, who +passed her time in rather a dull manner with this person, which would not +have been the case had she done her duty by endeavouring to make the poor +man comfortable, and by visiting the sick and needy around her, was soon +induced by the bard to elope with him. The lovers fled to Glamorgan, +where Ifor Hael, not much to his own credit, received them with open +arms, probably forgetting how he had immured his _own_ daughter in a +convent rather than bestow her on Ab Gwilym. Having a hunting-lodge in a +forest on the banks of the lovely Taf, he allotted it to the fugitives as +a residence. Ecclesiastical law, however, as strong in Wild Wales as in +other parts of Europe, soon followed them into Glamorgan, and, very +properly, separated them. The lady was restored to her husband, and Ab +Gwilym fined to a very high amount. Not being able to pay the fine he +was cast into prison; but then the men of Glamorgan arose to a man, +swearing that their head bard should not remain in prison. “Then pay his +fine!” said the ecclesiastical law, or rather the ecclesiastical lawyer. +“So we will!” said the men of Glamorgan; and so they did. Every man put +his hand into his pocket; the amount was soon raised, the fine paid, and +the bard set free. + +Ab Gwilym did not forget this kindness of the men of Glamorgan, and to +requite it wrote an address to the sun, in which he requests that +luminary to visit Glamorgan, to bless it and to keep it from harm. The +piece concludes with some noble lines somewhat to this effect:— + + “If every strand oppression strong + Should arm against the son of song, + The weary wight would find, I ween, + A welcome in Glamorgan green.” + +Some time after his release he meditated a second elopement with Morfudd, +and even induced her to consent to go off with him. A friend to whom he +disclosed what he was thinking of doing, asking him whether he would +venture a second time to take such a step, “I will,” said the bard, “in +the name of God and the men of Glamorgan.” No second elopement, however, +took place, the bard probably thinking, as has been well observed, that +neither God nor the men of Glamorgan would help him a second time out of +such an affair. He did not attain to any advanced age, but died when +about sixty, some twenty years before the rising of Glendower. Some time +before his death his mind fortunately took a decidedly religious turn. + +He is said to have been eminently handsome in his youth, tall, slender, +with yellow hair falling in ringlets down his shoulders. He is likewise +said to have been a great libertine. The following story is told of +him:— + + “In a certain neighbourhood he had a great many mistresses, some + married and others not. Once upon a time in the month of June he + made a secret appointment with each of his lady-loves, the place and + hour of meeting being the same for all; each was to meet him at the + same hour beneath a mighty oak which stood in the midst of a forest + glade. Some time before the appointed hour he went, and climbing up + the oak, hid himself amidst the dense foliage of its boughs. When + the hour arrived he observed all the nymphs tripping to the place of + appointment; all came, to the number of twenty-four, not one stayed + away. For some time they remained beneath the oak staring at each + other. At length an explanation ensued, and it appeared that they + had all come to meet Ab Gwilym. + + “‘Oh, the treacherous monster!’ cried they with one accord; ‘only let + him show himself and we will tear him to pieces.’ + + “‘Will you?’ said Ab Gwilym from the oak; ‘here I am! let her who has + been most wanton with me make the first attack upon me!’ + + “The females remained for some time speechless; all of a sudden, + however, their anger kindled, not against the bard, but against each + other. From harsh and taunting words they soon came to actions: hair + was torn off; faces were scratched; blood flowed from cheek and nose. + Whilst the tumult was at its fiercest Ab Gwilym slipped away.” + +The writer merely repeats this story, and he repeats it as concisely as +possible, in order to have an opportunity of saying that he does not +believe one particle of it. If he believed it he would forthwith burn +the most cherished volume of the small collection of books from which he +derives delight and recreation, namely, that which contains the songs of +Ab Gwilym, for he would have nothing in his possession belonging to such +a heartless scoundrel as Ab Gwilym must have been had he got up the scene +above described. Any common man who would expose to each other and the +world a number of hapless, trusting females who had favoured him with +their affections, and from the top of a tree would feast his eyes upon +their agonies of shame and rage would deserve to be . . . emasculated. +Had Ab Gwilym been so dead to every feeling of gratitude and honour as to +play the part which the story makes him play, he would have deserved not +only to be emasculated, but to be scourged with harp-strings in every +market-town in Wales, and to be dismissed from the service of the Muse. +But the writer repeats that he does not believe one tittle of the story, +though Ab Gwilym’s biographer, the learned and celebrated William Owen, +not only seems to believe it, but rather chuckles over it. It is the +opinion of the writer that the story is of Italian origin, and that it +formed part of one of the many rascally novels brought over to England +after the marriage of Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son of Edward +the Third, with Violante, daughter of Galeazzo, Duke of Milan. + +Dafydd Ab Gwilym has been in general considered as a songster who never +employed his muse on any subject save that of love, and there can be no +doubt that by far the greater number of his pieces are devoted more or +less to the subject of love. But to consider him merely in the light of +an amatory poet would be wrong. He has written poems of wonderful power +on almost every conceivable subject. Ab Gwilym has been styled the Welsh +Ovid, and with great justice, but not merely because like the Roman he +wrote admirably on love. The Roman was not merely an amatory poet: let +the shade of Pythagoras say whether the poet who embodied in immortal +verse the oldest, the most wonderful and at the same time the most humane +of all philosophy was a mere amatory poet. Let the shade of blind Homer +be called up to say whether the bard who composed the tremendous line— + + “Surgit ad hos clypei dominus septemplicis Ajax”— + +equal to any save _one_ of his own, was a mere amatory songster. Yet, +diversified as the genius of the Roman was, there was no species of +poetry in which he shone in which the Welshman may not be said to display +equal merit. Ab Gwilym then has been fairly styled the Welsh Ovid. But +he was something more—and here let there be no sneers about Welsh; the +Welsh are equal in genius, intellect and learning to any people under the +sun, and speak a language older than Greek, and which is one of the +immediate parents of the Greek. He was something more than the Welsh +Ovid; he was the Welsh Horace, and wrote light, agreeable, sportive +pieces, equal to any things of the kind composed by Horace in his best +moods. But he was something more; he was the Welsh Martial, and wrote +pieces equal in pungency to those of the great Roman epigrammatist, +perhaps more than equal, for we never heard that any of Martial’s +epigrams killed anybody, whereas Ab Gwilym’s piece of vituperation on +Rhys Meigan—pity that poets should be so virulent—caused the Welshman to +fall down dead. But he was yet something more; he could, if he pleased, +be a Tyrtæus; he was no fighter—where was there ever a poet that was?—but +he wrote an ode on a sword, the only warlike piece that he ever wrote, +the best poem on the subject ever written in any language. Finally, he +was something more; he was what not one of the great Latin poets was, a +Christian; that is, in his latter days, when he began to feel the vanity +of all human pursuits, when his nerves began to be unstrung, his hair to +fall off, and his teeth to drop out, and he then composed sacred pieces +entitling him to rank with—we were going to say Cædmon—had we done so we +should have done wrong; no uninspired poet ever handled sacred subjects +like the grand Saxon Skald—but which entitle him to be called a great +religious poet, inferior to none but the _protégé_ of Hilda. + +Before ceasing to speak of Ab Gwilym, it will be necessary to state that +his amatory pieces, which constitute more than one-half of his +productions, must be divided into two classes, the purely amatory and +those only partly devoted to love. His poems to Dyddgu, and the daughter +of Ifor Hael, are productions very different from those addressed to +Morfudd. There can be no doubt that he had a sincere affection for the +two first; there is no levity in the cowydds which he addressed to them, +and he seldom introduces any other objects than those of his love. But +in his cowydds addressed to Morfudd is there no levity? Is Morfudd ever +prominent? His cowydds to that woman abound with humorous levity, and +for the most part have far less to do with her than with natural +objects—the snow, the mist, the trees of the forest, the birds of the +air, and the fishes of the stream. His first piece to Morfudd is full of +levity quite inconsistent with true love. It states how, after seeing +her for the first time at Rhosyr in Anglesey, and falling in love with +her, he sends her a present of wine by the hands of a servant, which +present she refuses, casting the wine contemptuously over the head of the +valet. This commencement promises little in the way of true passion, so +that we are not disappointed when we read a little farther on that the +bard is dead and buried, all on account of love, and that Morfudd makes a +pilgrimage to Mynyw to seek for pardon for killing him, nor when we find +him begging the popish image to convey a message to her. Then presently +we almost lose sight of Morfudd amidst birds, animals and trees, and we +are not sorry that we do; for though Ab Gwilym is mighty in humour, great +in describing the emotions of love and the beauties of the lovely, he is +greatest of all in describing objects of nature; indeed in describing +them he has no equal, and the writer has no hesitation in saying that in +many of his cowydds in which he describes various objects of nature, by +which he sends messages to Morfudd, he shows himself a far greater poet +than Ovid appears in any one of his Metamorphoses. There are many poets +who attempt to describe natural objects without being intimately +acquainted with them, but Ab Gwilym was not one of these. No one was +better acquainted with nature; he was a stroller, and there is every +probability that during the greater part of the summer he had no other +roof than the foliage, and that the voices of birds and animals were more +familiar to his ears than was the voice of man. During the summer +months, indeed, in the early part of his life, he was, if we may credit +him, generally lying perdue in the woodland or mountain recesses near the +habitation of his mistress, before or after her marriage, awaiting her +secret visits, made whenever she could escape the vigilance of her +parents, or the watchful jealousy of her husband, and during her absence +he had nothing better to do than to observe objects of nature and +describe them. His ode to the Fox, one of the most admirable of his +pieces, was composed on one of these occasions. + +Want of space prevents the writer from saying as much as he could wish +about the genius of this wonderful man, the greatest of his country’s +songsters, well calculated by nature to do honour to the most polished +age and the most widely-spoken language. The bards his contemporaries, +and those who succeeded him for several hundred years, were perfectly +convinced of his superiority not only over themselves but over all the +poets of the past, and one, and a mighty one, old Iolo the bard of +Glendower, went so far as to insinuate that after Ab Gwilym it would be +of little avail for any one to make verses:— + + “Aed lle mae’r eang dangneff, + Ac aed y gerdd gydag ef.” + + To Heaven’s high peace let him depart, + And with him go the minstrel art. + +He was buried at Ystrad Flur, and a yew tree was planted over his grave, +to which Gruffydd Gryg, a brother bard, who was at one time his enemy, +but eventually became one of the most ardent of his admirers, addressed +an ode, of part of which the following is a paraphrase:— + + Thou noble tree; who shelt’rest kind + The dead man’s house from winter’s wind; + May lightnings never lay thee low, + Nor archer cut from thee his bow; + Nor Crispin peel thee pegs to frame, + But may thou ever bloom the same, + A noble tree the grave to guard + Of Cambria’s most illustrious bard! + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVII + + +Start for Plynlimmon—Plynlimmon’s Celebrity—Troed Rhiw Goch. + +The morning of the fifth of November looked rather threatening. As, +however, it did not rain, I determined to set off for Plynlimmon, and +returning at night to the inn, resume my journey to the south on the +following day. On looking into a pocket almanac I found it was Sunday. +This very much disconcerted me, and I thought at first of giving up my +expedition. Eventually, however, I determined to go, for I reflected +that I should be doing no harm, and that I might acknowledge the +sacredness of the day by attending morning service at the little Church +of England chapel which lay in my way. + +The mountain of Plynlimmon to which I was bound is the third in Wales for +altitude, being only inferior to Snowdon and Cadair Idris. Its proper +name is Pum or Pump Lumon, signifying the five points, because towards +the upper part it is divided into five hills or points. Plynlimmon is a +celebrated hill on many accounts. It has been the scene of many +remarkable events: in the tenth century a dreadful battle was fought on +one of its spurs between the Danes and the Welsh, in which the former +sustained a bloody overthrow, and in 1401 a conflict took place in one of +its valleys between the Welsh under Glendower and the Flemings of +Pembrokeshire, who, exasperated at having their homesteads plundered and +burned by the chieftain, who was the mortal enemy of their race, +assembled in considerable numbers and drove Glendower and his forces +before them to Plynlimmon, where the Welshmen standing at bay a contest +ensued, in which, though eventually worsted, the Flemings were at one +time all but victorious. What, however, has more than anything else +contributed to the celebrity of the hill is the circumstance of its +giving birth to three rivers. The first of which, the Severn, is the +principal stream in Britain; the second, the Wye, the most lovely river, +probably, which the world can boast of; and the third, the Rheidol, +entitled to high honour from its boldness and impetuosity, and the +remarkable banks between which it flows in its very short course, for +there are scarcely twenty miles between the ffynnon or source of the +Rheidol and the aber or place where it disembogues itself into the sea. + +I started about ten o’clock on my expedition, after making, of course, a +very hearty breakfast. Scarcely had I crossed the Devil’s Bridge when a +shower of hail and rain came on. As, however, it came down nearly +perpendicularly, I put up my umbrella and laughed. The shower pelted +away till I had nearly reached Spytty Cynwyl, when it suddenly left off, +and the day became tolerably fine. On arriving at the Spytty I was sorry +to find that there would be no service till three in the afternoon. As +waiting till that time was out of the question, I pushed forward on my +expedition. Leaving Pont Erwyd at some distance on my left, I went duly +north till I came to a place amongst hills where the road was crossed by +an angry-looking rivulet, the same I believe which enters the Rheidol +near Pont Erwyd, and which is called the Castle River. I was just going +to pull off my boots and stockings in order to wade through, when I +perceived a pole and a rail laid over the stream at a little distance +above where I was. This rustic bridge enabled me to cross without +running the danger of getting a regular sousing, for these mountain +streams, even when not reaching so high as the knee, occasionally sweep +the wader off his legs, as I know by my own experience. From a lad whom +I presently met I learned that the place where I crossed the water was +called Troed rhiw goch, or the Foot of the Red Slope. + +About twenty minutes’ walk from hence brought me to Castell Dyffryn, an +inn about six miles distant from the Devil’s Bridge, and situated near a +spur of the Plynlimmon range. Here I engaged a man to show me the +sources of the rivers and the other wonders of the mountain. He was a +tall, athletic fellow, dressed in brown coat, round buff hat, corduroy +trowsers, linen leggings and highlows, and though a Cumro had much more +the appearance of a native of Tipperary than a Welshman. He was a kind +of shepherd to the people of the house, who like many others in South +Wales followed farming and inn-keeping at the same time. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVIII + + +The Guide—The Great Plynlimmon—A Dangerous Path—Source of the +Rheidol—Source of the Severn—Pennillion—Old Times and New—The +Corpse-Candle—Supper. + +Leaving the inn my guide and myself began to ascend a steep hill just +behind it. When we were about half way up I asked my companion, who +spoke very fair English, why the place was called the Castle. + +“Because, sir,” said he, “there was a castle here in the old time.” + +“Whereabouts was it?” said I. + +“Yonder,” said the man, standing still and pointing to the right. “Don’t +you see yonder brown spot in the valley? There the castle stood.” + +“But are there no remains of it?” said I. “I can see nothing but a brown +spot.” + +“There are none, sir! but there a castle once stood, and from it the +place we came from had its name, and likewise the river that runs down to +Pont Erwyd.” + +“And who lived there?” said I. + +“I don’t know, sir,” said the man. “But I suppose they were grand people +or they would not have lived in a castle.” + +After ascending the hill and passing over its top we went down its +western side and soon came to a black frightful bog between two hills. +Beyond the bog and at some distance to the west of the two hills rose a +brown mountain, not abruptly but gradually, and looking more like what +the Welsh call a rhiw or slope than a mynydd or mountain. + +“That, sir,” said my guide, “is the great Plynlimmon.” + +“It does not look much of a hill,” said I. + +“We are on very high ground, sir, or it would look much higher. I +question, upon the whole, whether there is a higher hill in the world. +God bless Pumlummon Mawr!” said he, looking with reverence towards the +hill. “I am sure I have a right to say so, for many is the good crown I +have got by showing gentlefolks, like yourself, to the top of him.” + +“You talk of Plynlimmon Mawr, or the great Plynlimmon,” said I; “where +are the small ones?” + +“Yonder they are,” said the guide, pointing to two hills towards the +north—“one is Plynlimmon Canol, and the other Plynlimmon Bach. The +middle and the small Plynlimmon.” + +“Pumlummon,” said I, “means five summits. You have pointed out only +three—now, where are the other two?” + +“Those two hills which we have just passed make up the five. However, I +will tell your worship that there is a sixth summit. Don’t you see that +small hill connected with the big Pumlummon, on the right?” + +“I see it very clearly,” said I. + +“Well, your worship, that’s called Bryn y Llo—the Hill of the Calf, or +the Calf Plynlimmon, which makes the sixth summit.” + +“Very good,” said I, “and perfectly satisfactory. Now let us ascend the +Big Pumlummon.” + +In about a quarter of an hour we reached the summit of the hill, where +stood a large carn or heap of stones. I got up on the top and looked +around me. + +A mountainous wilderness extended on every side, a waste of +russet-coloured hills, with here and there a black, craggy summit. No +signs of life or cultivation were to be discovered, and the eye might +search in vain for a grove or even a single tree. The scene would have +been cheerless in the extreme had not a bright sun lighted up the +landscape. + +“This does not seem to be a country of much society,” said I to my guide. + +“It is not, sir. The nearest house is the inn we came from, which is now +three miles behind us. Straight before you there is not one for at least +ten, and on either side it is an anialwch to a vast distance. Plunlummon +is not a sociable country, sir; nothing to be found in it, but here and +there a few sheep or a shepherd.” + +“Now,” said I, descending from the carn, “we will proceed to the sources +of the rivers.” + +“The ffynnon of the Rheidol is not far off,” said the guide; “it is just +below the hill.” + +We descended the western side of the hill for some way; at length, coming +to a very craggy and precipitous place my guide stopped, and pointing +with his finger into the valley below, said: + +“There, sir, if you look down you can see the source of the Rheidol.” + +I looked down, and saw far below what appeared to be part of a small +sheet of water. + +“And that is the source of the Rheidol?” said I. + +“Yes, sir,” said my guide; “that is the ffynnon of the Rheidol.” + +“Well,” said I, “is there no getting to it?” + +“O yes! but the path, sir, as you see, is rather steep and dangerous.” + +“Never mind,” said I. “Let us try it.” + +“Isn’t seeing the fountain sufficient for you, sir?” + +“By no means,” said I. “It is not only necessary for me to see the +sources of the rivers, but to drink of them, in order that in after times +I may be able to harangue about them with a tone of confidence and +authority.” + +“Then follow me, sir; but please to take care, for this path is more fit +for sheep or shepherds than gentlefolk.” + +And a truly bad path I found it; so bad indeed that before I had +descended twenty yards I almost repented having ventured. I had a +capital guide, however, who went before and told me where to plant my +steps. There was one particularly bad part, being little better than a +sheer precipice; but even here I got down in safety with the assistance +of my guide, and a minute afterwards found myself at the source of the +Rheidol. + +The source of the Rheidol is a small, beautiful lake, about a quarter of +a mile in length. It is overhung on the east and north by frightful +crags, from which it is fed by a number of small rills. The water is of +the deepest blue and of very considerable depth. The banks, except to +the north and east, slope gently down, and are clad with soft and +beautiful moss. The river, of which it is the head, emerges at the +south-western side, and brawls away in the shape of a considerable brook, +amidst moss and rushes down a wild glen tending to the south. To the +west the prospect is bounded, at a slight distance, by high, swelling +ground. If few rivers have a more wild and wondrous channel than the +Rheidol, fewer still have a more beautiful and romantic source. + +After kneeling down and drinking freely of the lake I said: + +“Now, where are we to go to next?” + +“The nearest ffynnon to that of the Rheidol, sir, is the ffynnon of the +Severn.” + +“Very well,” said I; “let us now go and see the ffynnon of the Severn!” + +I followed my guide over a hill to the north-west into a valley, at the +farther end of which I saw a brook streaming apparently to the south, +where was an outlet. + +“That brook,” said the guide, “is the young Severn.” The brook came from +round the side of a very lofty rock, singularly variegated, black and +white, the northern summit presenting something of the appearance of the +head of a horse. Passing round this crag we came to a fountain +surrounded with rushes, out of which the brook, now exceedingly small, +came murmuring. + +“The crag above,” said my guide, “is called Crag y Cefyl, or the Rock of +the Horse, and this spring at its foot is generally called the ffynnon of +the Hafren. However, drink not of it, master; for the ffynnon of the +Hafren is higher up the nant. Follow me, and I will presently show you +the real ffynnon of the Hafren.” + +I followed him up a narrow and very steep dingle. Presently we came to +some beautiful little pools of water in the turf, which was here +remarkably green. + +“These are very pretty pools, an’t they, master?” said my companion. +“Now, if I was a false guide I might bid you stoop and drink, saying that +these were the sources of the Severn; but I am a true cyfarwydd and +therefore tell you not to drink, for these pools are not the sources of +the Hafren, no more than the spring below. The ffynnon of the Severn is +higher up the nant. Don’t fret, however, but follow me, and we shall be +there in a minute.” + +So I did as he bade me, following him without fretting higher up the +nant. Just at the top he halted and said, “Now, master, I have conducted +you to the source of the Severn. I have considered the matter deeply, +and have come to the conclusion that here, and here only, is the true +source. Therefore stoop down and drink, in full confidence that you are +taking possession of the Holy Severn.” + +The source of the Severn is a little pool of water some twenty inches +long, six wide, and about three deep. It is covered at the bottom with +small stones, from between which the water gushes up. It is on the +left-hand side of the nant, as you ascend, close by the very top. An +unsightly heap of black turf-earth stands just above it to the north. +Turf-heaps, both large and small, are in abundance in the vicinity. + +After taking possession of the Severn by drinking at its source, rather a +shabby source for so noble a stream, I said, “Now let us go to the +fountain of the Wye.” + +“A quarter of an hour will take us to it, your honour,” said the guide, +leading the way. + +The source of the Wye, which is a little pool, not much larger than that +which constitutes the fountain of the Severn, stands near the top of a +grassy hill which forms part of the Great Plynlimmon. The stream after +leaving its source runs down the hill towards the east, and then takes a +turn to the south. The fountains of the Severn and the Wye are in close +proximity to each other. That of the Rheidol stands somewhat apart from +both, as if, proud of its own beauty, it disdained the other two for +their homeliness. All three are contained within the compass of a mile. + +“And now, I suppose, sir, that our work is done, and we may go back to +where we came from,” said my guide, as I stood on the grassy hill after +drinking copiously of the fountain of the Wye. + +“We may,” said I; “but before we do I must repeat some lines made by a +man who visited these sources, and experienced the hospitality of a +chieftain in this neighbourhood four hundred years ago.” Then taking off +my hat I lifted up my voice and sang:— + + “From high Plynlimmon’s shaggy side + Three streams in three directions glide, + To thousands at their mouth who tarry + Honey, gold and mead they carry. + Flow also from Plynlimmon high + Three streams of generosity; + The first, a noble stream indeed, + Like rills of Mona runs with mead; + The second bears from vineyards thick + Wine to the feeble and the sick; + The third, till time shall be no more, + Mingled with gold shall silver pour.” + +“Nice pennillion, sir, I dare say,” said my guide, “provided a person +could understand them. What’s meant by all this mead, wine, gold and +silver?” + +“Why,” said I, “the bard meant to say that Plynlimmon, by means of its +three channels, sends blessings and wealth in three different directions +to distant places, and that the person whom he came to visit, and who +lived on Plynlimmon, distributed his bounty in three different ways, +giving mead to thousands at his banquets, wine from the vineyards of +Gascony to the sick and feeble of the neighbourhood, and gold and silver +to those who were willing to be tipped, amongst whom no doubt was +himself, as poets have never been above receiving a present.” + +“Nor above asking for one, your honour; there’s a prydydd in this +neighbourhood, who will never lose a shilling for want of asking for it. +Now, sir, have the kindness to tell me the name of the man who made those +pennillion.” + +“Lewis Glyn Cothi,” said I; “at least, it was he who made the pennillion +from which those verses are translated.” + +“And what was the name of the gentleman whom he came to visit?” + +“His name,” said I, “was Dafydd ab Thomas Vychan.” + +“And where did he live?” + +“Why, I believe, he lived at the castle, which you told me once stood on +the spot which you pointed out as we came up. At any rate, he lived +somewhere upon Plynlimmon.” + +“I wish there was some such rich gentleman at present living on +Plynlimmon,” said my guide; “one of that sort is much wanted.” + +“You can’t have everything at the same time,” said I: “formerly you had a +chieftain who gave away wine and mead, and occasionally a bit of gold or +silver, but then no travellers and tourists came to see the wonders of +the hills, for at that time nobody cared anything about hills; at present +you have no chieftain, but plenty of visitors who come to see the hills +and the sources and scatter plenty of gold about the neighbourhood.” + +We now bent our steps homeward, bearing slightly to the north, going over +hills and dales covered with gorse and ling. My guide walked with a calm +and deliberate gait, yet I had considerable difficulty in keeping up with +him. There was, however, nothing surprising in this; he was a shepherd +walking on his own hill, and having first-rate wind, and knowing every +inch of the ground, made great way without seeming to be in the slightest +hurry: I would not advise a road-walker, even if he be a first-rate one, +to attempt to compete with a shepherd on his own, or indeed any hill; +should he do so, the conceit would soon be taken out of him. + +After a little time we saw a rivulet running from the west. + +“This ffrwd,” said my guide, “is called Frennig. It here divides shire +Trefaldwyn from Cardiganshire, one in North and the other in South +Wales.” + +Shortly afterwards we came to a hillock of rather a singular shape. + +“This place, sir,” said he, “is called Eisteddfa.” + +“Why is it called so?” said I. “Eisteddfa means the place where people +sit down.” + +“It does so,” said the guide, “and it is called the place of sitting +because three men from different quarters of the world once met here, and +one proposed that they should sit down.” + +“And did they?” said I. + +“They did, sir; and when they had sat down they told each other their +histories.” + +“I should be glad to know what their histories were,” said I. + +“I can’t exactly tell you what they were, but I have heard say that there +was a great deal in them about the Tylwith Teg or fairies.” + +“Do you believe in fairies?” said I. + +“I do, sir; but they are very seldom seen, and when they are they do no +harm to anybody. I only wish there were as few corpse-candles as there +are Tylwith Teg, and that they did as little harm.” + +“They foreshow people’s deaths, don’t they?” said I. + +“They do, sir? but that’s not all the harm they do. They are very +dangerous for anybody to meet with. If they come bump up against you +when you are walking carelessly it’s generally all over with you in this +world. I’ll give you an example: A man returning from market from Llan +Eglos to Llan Curig, not far from Plynlimmon, was struck down dead as a +horse not long ago by a corpse-candle. It was a rainy, windy night, and +the wind and rain were blowing in his face, so that he could not see it, +or get out of its way. And yet the candle was not abroad on purpose to +kill the man. The business that it was about was to prognosticate the +death of a woman who lived near the spot and whose husband dealt in +wool—poor thing! she was dead and buried in less than a fortnight. Ah, +master, I wish that corpse-candles were as few and as little dangerous as +the Tylwith Teg or fairies.” + +We returned to the inn where I settled with the honest fellow, adding a +trifle to what I had agreed to give him. Then sitting down I called for +a large measure of ale and invited him to partake of it. He accepted my +offer with many thanks and bows, and as we sat and drank our ale we had a +great deal of discourse about the places we had visited. The ale being +finished I got up and said: + +“I must now be off for the Devil’s Bridge!” + +Whereupon he also arose, and offering me his hand, said: + +“Farewell, master; I shall never forget you: were all the gentlefolks who +come here to see the sources like you, we should indeed feel no want in +these hills of such a gentleman as is spoken of in the pennillion.” + +The sun was going down as I left the inn. I recrossed the streamlet by +means of the pole and rail. The water was running with much less +violence than in the morning, and was considerably lower. The evening +was calm and beautifully cool, with a slight tendency to frost. I walked +along with a bounding and elastic step, and never remember to have felt +more happy and cheerful. + +I reached the hospice at about six o’clock, a bright moon shining upon +me, and found a capital supper awaiting me, which I enjoyed exceedingly. + +How one enjoys one’s supper at one’s inn, after a good day’s walk, +provided one has the proud and glorious consciousness of being able to +pay one’s reckoning on the morrow! + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIX + + +A Morning View—Hafod Ychdryd—The Monument—Fairy-looking Place—Edward +Lhuyd. + +The morning of the sixth was bright and glorious. As I looked from the +window of the upper sitting-room of the hospice the scene which presented +itself was wild and beautiful to a degree. The oak-covered tops of the +volcanic crater were gilded with the brightest sunshine, whilst the +eastern sides remained in dark shade and the gap or narrow entrance to +the north in shadow yet darker, in the midst of which shone the silver of +the Rheidol cataract. Should I live a hundred years I shall never forget +the wild fantastic beauty of that morning scene. + +I left the friendly hospice at about nine o’clock to pursue my southern +journey. By this time the morning had lost much of its beauty, and the +dull grey sky characteristic of November began to prevail. The way lay +up a hill to the south-east; on my left was a glen down which the river +of the Monk rolled with noise and foam. The country soon became naked +and dreary and continued so for some miles. At length coming to the top +of a hill I saw a park before me, through which the road led after +passing under a stately gateway. I had reached the confines of the +domain of Hafod. + +Hafod Ychdryd, or the summer mansion of Uchtryd, has from time immemorial +been the name of a dwelling on the side of the hill above the Ystwyth, +looking to the east. At first it was a summer boothie or hunting lodge +to Welsh chieftains, but subsequently expanded into the roomy, +comfortable dwelling of Welsh squires, where hospitality was much +practised and bards and harpers liberally encouraged. Whilst belonging +to an ancient family of the name of Johnes, several members of which made +no inconsiderable figure in literature, it was celebrated, far and wide, +for its library, in which was to be found, amongst other treasures, a +large collection of Welsh manuscripts on various subjects—history, +medicine, poetry and romance. The house, however, and the library were +both destroyed in a dreadful fire which broke out. This fire is +generally called the great fire of Hafod, and some of those who witnessed +it have been heard to say that its violence was so great that burning +rafters mixed with flaming books were hurled high above the summits of +the hills. The loss of the house was a matter of triviality compared +with that of the library. The house was soon rebuilt, and probably, +phœnix-like, looked all the better for having been burnt, but the library +could never be restored. On the extinction of the family, the last hope +of which, an angelic girl, faded away in the year 1811, the domain became +the property of the late Duke of Newcastle, a kind and philanthropic +nobleman and a great friend of agriculture, who held it for many years +and considerably improved it. After his decease it was purchased by the +head of an ancient Lancashire family, who used the modern house as a +summer residence, as the Welsh chieftains had used the wooden boothie of +old. + +I went to a kind of lodge, where I had been told that I should find +somebody who would admit me to the church, which stood within the grounds +and contained a monument which I was very desirous of seeing, partly from +its being considered one of the masterpieces of the great Chantrey, and +partly because it was a memorial to the lovely child, the last scion of +the old family who had possessed the domain. A good-looking young woman, +the only person whom I saw, on my telling my errand forthwith took a key +and conducted me to the church. The church was a neat edifice with +rather a modern look. It exhibited nothing remarkable without, and only +one thing remarkable within, namely the monument, which was indeed worthy +of notice, and which, had Chantrey executed nothing else, might well have +entitled him to be considered, what the world has long pronounced him, +the prince of British sculptors. + +This monument, which is of the purest marble, is placed on the eastern +side of the church, below a window of stained glass, and represents a +truly affecting scene: a lady and gentleman are standing over a dying +girl of angelic beauty who is extended on a couch, and from whose hand a +volume, the Book of Life, is falling. The lady is weeping. + +Beneath is the following inscription:— + + To the Memory of + Mary + The only child of Thomas and Jane Johnes + Who died in 1811 + After a few days’ sickness + This monument is dedicated + By her parents. + +An inscription worthy, by its simplicity and pathos, to stand below such +a monument. + +After presenting a trifle to the woman, who to my great surprise could +not speak a word of English, I left the church, and descended the side of +the hill, near the top of which it stands. The scenery was exceedingly +beautiful. Below me was a bright green valley, at the bottom of which +the Ystwyth ran brawling, now hid amongst groves, now showing a long +stretch of water. Beyond the river to the east was a noble mountain, +richly wooded. The Ystwyth, after a circuitous course, joins the Rheidol +near the strand of the Irish Channel, which the united rivers enter at a +place called Aber Ystwyth, where stands a lovely town of the same name, +which sprang up under the protection of a baronial castle, still proud +and commanding even in its ruins, built by Strongbow the conqueror of the +great western isle. Near the lower part of the valley the road tended to +the south, up and down through woods and bowers, the scenery still ever +increasing in beauty. At length, after passing through a gate and +turning round a sharp corner, I suddenly beheld Hafod on my right hand, +to the west at a little distance above me, on a rising ground, with a +noble range of mountains behind it. + +A truly fairy place it looked, beautiful but fantastic, in the building +of which three styles of architecture seemed to have been employed. At +the southern end was a Gothic tower; at the northern an Indian pagoda; +the middle part had much the appearance of a Grecian villa. The walls +were of resplendent whiteness, and the windows which were numerous shone +with beautiful gilding. Such was modern Hafod, a strange contrast, no +doubt, to the hunting lodge of old. + +After gazing at this house of eccentric taste for about a quarter of an +hour, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with a strong disposition to +laugh, I followed the road, which led past the house in nearly a +southerly direction. Presently the valley became more narrow, and +continued narrowing till there was little more room than was required for +the road and the river, which ran deep below it on the left-hand side. +Presently I came to a gate, the boundary in the direction in which I was +going of the Hafod domain. + +Here, when about to leave Hafod, I shall devote a few lines to a +remarkable man whose name should be ever associated with the place. +Edward Lhuyd was born in the vicinity of Hafod about the period of the +Restoration. His father was a clergyman, who after giving him an +excellent education at home sent him to Oxford, at which seat of learning +he obtained an honourable degree, officiated for several years as tutor, +and was eventually made custodiary of the Ashmolean Museum. From his +early youth he devoted himself with indefatigable zeal to the acquisition +of learning. He was fond of natural history and British antiquities, but +his favourite pursuit and that in which he principally distinguished +himself was the study of the Celtic dialects; and it is but doing justice +to his memory to say, that he was not only the best Celtic scholar of his +time, but that no one has arisen since worthy to be considered his equal +in Celtic erudition. Partly at the expense of the university, partly at +that of various powerful individuals who patronised him, he travelled +through Ireland, the Western Highlands, Wales, Cornwall and Armorica, for +the purpose of collecting Celtic manuscripts. He was partially +successful in Ireland and Wales. Several of the most precious Irish +manuscripts in Oxford and also in the Chandos Library were of Lhuyd’s +collection, and to him the old hall at Hafod was chiefly indebted for its +treasures of ancient British literature. Shortly after returning to +Oxford from his Celtic wanderings he sat down to the composition of a +grand work in three parts, under the title of Archæologia Britannica, +which he had long projected. The first was to be devoted to the Celtic +dialects; the second to British Antiquities, and the third to the natural +history of the British Isles. He only lived to complete the first part. +It contains various Celtic grammars and vocabularies, to each of which +there is a preface written by Lhuyd in the particular dialect to which +the vocabulary or grammar is devoted. Of all these prefaces the one to +the Irish is the most curious and remarkable. The first part of the +Archæologia was published at Oxford in 1707, two years before the death +of the author. Of his correspondence, which was very extensive, several +letters have been published, all of them relating to philology, +antiquities, and natural history. + + + + +CHAPTER XC + + +An Adventure—Spytty Ystwyth—Wormwood. + +Shortly after leaving the grounds of Hafod I came to a bridge over the +Ystwyth. I crossed it, and was advancing along the road which led +apparently to the south-east, when I came to a company of people who +seemed to be loitering about. It consisted entirely of young men and +women, the former with crimson favours, the latter in the garb of old +Wales, blue tunics and sharp crowned hats. Going up to one of the young +women I said, “Peth yw? what’s the matter?” + +“Priodas (a marriage),” she replied, after looking at me attentively. I +then asked her the name of the bridge, whereupon she gave a broad grin, +and after some little time replied: “Pont y Groes; (the bridge of the +cross).” I was about to ask her some other question when she turned away +with a loud chuckle, and said something to another wench near her, who +grinning yet more uncouthly, said something to a third, who grinned too, +and lifting up her hands and spreading her fingers wide said: “Dyn oddi +dir y Gogledd—a man from the north country, hee, hee!” Forthwith there +was a general shout—the wenches crying: “A man from the north country, +hee, hee!” and the fellows crying: “A man from the north country, hoo, +hoo!” + +“Is this the way you treat strangers in the south?” said I. But I had +scarcely uttered the words when with redoubled shouts the company +exclaimed: “There’s Cumraeg! there’s pretty Cumraeg. Go back, David, to +shire Fon! That Cumraeg won’t pass here.” + +Finding they disliked my Welsh I had recourse to my own language. +“Really,” said I in English, “such conduct is unaccountable. What do you +mean?” But this only made matters worse, for the shouts grew louder +still, and every one cried: “There’s pretty English! Well, if I couldn’t +speak English better than that I’d never speak English at all. No, +David; if you must speak at all, stick to Cumraeg.” Then forthwith all +the company set themselves in violent motion: the women rushing up to me +with their palms and fingers spread out in my face, without touching me, +however, as they wheeled round me at about a yard’s distance, crying: “A +man from the north country, hee, hee!” and the fellows acting just in the +same way, rushing up with their hands spread out, and then wheeling round +me with cries of “A man from the north country, hoo, hoo!” I was so +enraged that I made for a heap of stones by the road-side, intending to +take some up and fling them at the company. Reflecting, however, that I +had but one pair of hands and the company at least forty, and that by +such an attempt at revenge I should only make myself ridiculous, I gave +up my intention, and continued my journey at a rapid pace, pursued for a +long way by “hee, hee,” and “hoo, hoo,” and, “Go back, David, to your +goats in Anglesey, you are not wanted here.” + +I began to ascend a hill forming the eastern side of an immense valley, +at the bottom of which rolled the river. Beyond the valley to the west +was an enormous hill, on the top of which was a most singular-looking +crag, seemingly leaning in the direction of the south. On the right-hand +side of the road were immense works of some kind in full play and +activity, for engines were clanging and puffs of smoke were ascending +from tall chimneys. On inquiring of a boy the name of the works I was +told that they were called the works of Level Vawr, or the Great Level, a +mining establishment; but when I asked him the name of the hill with the +singular peak, on the other side of the valley, he shook his head and +said he did not know. Near the top of the hill I came to a village +consisting of a few cottages and a shabby-looking church. A rivulet +descending from some crags to the east crosses the road, which leads +through the place, and tumbling down the valley, joins the Ystwyth at the +bottom. Seeing a woman standing at the door I enquired the name of the +village. + +“Spytty Ystwyth,” she replied, but she, no more than the boy down below, +could tell me the name of the strange-looking hill across the valley. +This second Spytty or monastic hospital, which I had come to, looked in +every respect an inferior place to the first. Whatever its former state +might have been, nothing but dirt and wretchedness were now visible. +Having reached the top of the hill I entered upon a wild moory region. +Presently I crossed a little bridge over a rivulet, and seeing a small +house on the shutter of which was painted ‘cwrw,’ I went in, sat down on +an old chair which I found vacant, and said in English to an old woman +who sat knitting by the window: “Bring me a pint of ale!” + +“Dim Saesneg!” said the old woman. + +“I told you to bring me a pint of ale,” said I to her in her own +language. + +“You shall have it immediately, sir,” said she; and going to a cask, she +filled a jug with ale, and after handing it to me resumed her seat and +knitting. + +“It is not very bad ale,” said I, after I had tasted it. + +“It ought to be very good,” said the old woman, “for I brewed it myself.” + +“The goodness of ale,” said I, “does not so much depend on who brews it +as on what it is brewed of. Now there is something in this ale which +ought not to be. What is it made of?” + +“Malt and hop.” + +“It tastes very bitter,” said I. “Is there no chwerwlys {506} in it?” + +“I do not know what chwerwlys is,” said the old woman. + +“It is what the Saxons call wormwood,” said I. + +“O, wermod. No, there is no wermod in my beer, at least not much.” + +“O, then there is some; I thought there was. Why do you put such stuff +into your ale?” + +“We are glad to put it in sometimes when hops are dear, as they are this +year. Moreover, wermod is not bad stuff, and some folks like the taste +better than that of hops.” + +“Well, I don’t. However, the ale is drinkable. What am I to give you +for the pint?” + +“You are to give me a groat.” + +“That is a great deal,” said I, “for a groat I ought to have a pint of +ale made of the best malt and hops.” + +“I give you the best I can afford. One must live by what one sells. I +do not find that easy work.” + +“Is this house your own?” + +“O no! I pay rent for it, and not a cheap one.” + +“Have you a husband?” + +“I had, but he is dead.” + +“Have you any children?” + +“I had three, but they are dead too, and buried with my husband at the +Monastery.” + +“Where is the Monastery?” + +“A good way farther on, at the strath beyond Rhyd Fendigaid.” + +“What is the name of the little river by the house?” + +“Avon Marchnad (Market River).” + +“Why is it called Avon Marchnad?” + +“Truly, gentleman, I cannot tell you.” + +I went on sipping my ale and finding fault with its bitterness till I had +finished it, when getting up I gave the old lady her groat, bade her +farewell and departed. + + + + +CHAPTER XCI + + +Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid—Strata Florida—The Yew-Tree—Idolatry—The Teivi—The +Llostlydan. + +And now for the resting-place of Dafydd Ab Gwilym! After wandering for +some miles towards the south over a bleak moory country I came to a place +called Fair Rhos, a miserable village, consisting of a few half-ruined +cottages, situated on the top of a hill. From the hill I looked down on +a wide valley of a russet colour, along which a river ran towards the +south. The whole scene was cheerless. Sullen hills were all around. +Descending the hill I entered a large village divided into two by the +river, which here runs from east to west, but presently makes a turn. +There was much mire in the street; immense swine lay in the mire, who +turned up their snouts at me as I passed. Women in Welsh hats stood in +the mire, along with men without any hats at all, but with short pipes in +their mouths; they were talking together; as I passed, however, they held +their tongues, the women leering contemptuously at me, the men glaring +sullenly at me, and causing tobacco smoke to curl in my face; on my +taking off my hat, however, and enquiring the way to the Monachlog, +everybody was civil enough, and twenty voices told me the way to the +Monastery. I asked the name of the river. + +“The Teivi, sir; the Teivi.” + +“The name of the bridge?” + +“Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid—the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, sir.” + +I crossed the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, and presently leaving the main +road I turned to the east by a dung-hill, up a narrow lane parallel with +the river. After proceeding a mile up the lane, amidst trees and copses, +and crossing a little brook, which runs into the Teivi, out of which I +drank, I saw before me in the midst of a field, in which were tombstones +and broken ruins, a rustic-looking church; a farm-house stood near it, in +the garden of which stood the framework of a large gateway. I crossed +over into the churchyard, ascended a green mound, and looked about me. I +was now in the very midst of the Monachlog Ystrad Flur, the celebrated +monastery of Strata Florida, to which in old times Popish pilgrims from +all parts of the world repaired. The scene was solemn and impressive: on +the north side of the river a large bulky hill looked down upon the ruins +and the church, and on the south side, some way behind the farm-house, +was another which did the same. Rugged mountains formed the background +of the valley to the east, down from which came murmuring the fleet but +shallow Teivi. Such is the scenery which surrounds what remains of +Strata Florida: those scanty broken ruins compose all which remains of +that celebrated monastery, in which kings, saints and mitred abbots were +buried, and in which, or in whose precincts, was buried Dafydd Ab Gwilym, +the greatest genius of the Cimbric race and one of the first poets of the +world. + +After standing for some time on the mound I descended, and went up to the +church. I found the door fastened, but obtained through the window a +tolerable view of the interior, which presented an appearance of the +greatest simplicity. I then strolled about the churchyard looking at the +tomb-stones, which were humble enough and for the most part modern. I +would give something, said I, to know whereabouts in this neighbourhood +Ab Gwilym lies. That, however, is a secret that no one can reveal to me. +At length I came to a yew-tree which stood just by the northern wall +which is at a slight distance from the Teivi. It was one of two trees, +both of the same species, which stood in the churchyard, and appeared to +be the oldest of the two. Who knows, said I, but this is the tree that +was planted over Ab Gwilym’s grave, and to which Gruffyd Gryg wrote an +ode? I looked at it attentively, and thought that there was just a +possibility of its being the identical tree. If it was, however, the +benison of Gruffyd Gryg had not had exactly the effect which he intended, +for either lightning or the force of wind had splitten off a considerable +part of the head and trunk, so that though one part of it looked strong +and blooming, the other was white and spectral. Nevertheless, relying on +the possibility of its being the sacred tree, I behaved just as I should +have done had I been quite certain of the fact: Taking off my hat I knelt +down and kissed its root, repeating lines from Gruffydd Gryg, with which +I blended some of my own in order to accommodate what I said to +circumstances: + + “O tree of yew, which here I spy, + By Ystrad Flur’s blest monast’ry, + Beneath thee lies, by cold Death bound, + The tongue for sweetness once renown’d. + + Better for thee thy boughs to wave, + Though scath’d, above Ab Gwilym’s grave, + Than stand in pristine glory drest + Where some ignobler bard doth rest; + I’d rather hear a taunting rhyme + From one who’ll live through endless time, + Than hear my praises chanted loud + By poets of the vulgar crowd.” + +I had left the churchyard, and was standing near a kind of garden, at +some little distance from the farmhouse, gazing about me and meditating, +when a man came up attended by a large dog. He had rather a youthful +look, was of the middle size and dark complexioned. He was respectably +drest, except that upon his head he wore a common hairy cap. + +“Good evening,” said I to him in Welsh. + +“Good evening, gentleman,” said he in the same language. + +“Have you much English?” said I. + +“Very little; I can only speak a few words.” + +“Are you the farmer?” + +“Yes! I farm the greater part of the Strath.” + +“I suppose the land is very good here?” + +“Why do you suppose so?” + +“Because the monks built their house here in the old time, and the monks +never built their houses except on good land.” + +“Well, I must say the land is good; indeed I do not think there is any so +good in Shire Aberteifi.” + +“I suppose you are surprised to see me here; I came to see the old +Monachlog.” + +“Yes, gentleman! I saw you looking about it.” + +“Am I welcome to see it?” + +“Croesaw! gwr boneddig, croesaw! many, many welcomes to you, gentleman!” + +“Do many people come to see the monastery?” + +_Farmer_.—Yes! many gentlefolk come to see it in the summer time. + +_Myself_.—It is a poor place now. + +_Farmer_.—Very poor, I wonder any gentlefolks come to look at it. + +_Myself_.—It was a wonderful place once; you merely see the ruins of it +now. It was pulled down at the Reformation. + +_Farmer_.—Why was it pulled down then? + +_Myself_.—Because it was a house of idolatry to which people used to +resort by hundreds to worship images. Had you lived at that time you +would have seen people down on their knees before stocks and stones, +worshipping them, kissing them and repeating pennillion to them. + +_Farmer_.—What fools! How thankful I am that I live in wiser days. If +such things were going on in the old Monachlog it was high time to pull +it down. + +_Myself_.—What kind of a rent do you pay for your land? + +_Farmer_.—O, rather a stiffish one. + +_Myself_.—Two pound an acre? + +_Farmer_.—Two pound an acre! I wish I paid no more. + +_Myself_.—Well! I think that would be quite enough. In the time of the +old monastery you might have had the land at two shillings an acre. + +_Farmer_.—Might I? Then those couldn’t have been such bad times, after +all. + +_Myself_.—I beg your pardon! They were horrible times—times in which +there were monks and friars and graven images, which people kissed and +worshipped and sang pennillion to. Better pay three pounds an acre and +live on crusts and water in the present enlightened days than pay two +shillings an acre and sit down to beef and ale three times a day in the +old superstitious times. + +_Farmer_.—Well, I scarcely know what to say to that. + +_Myself_.—What do you call that high hill on the other side of the river? + +_Farmer_.—I call that hill Bunk Pen Bannedd. + +_Myself_.—Is the source of the Teivi far from here? + +_Farmer_.—The head of the Teivi is about two miles from here high up in +the hills. + +_Myself_.—What kind of place is the head of the Teivi? + +_Farmer_.—The head of the Teivi is a small lake about fifty yards long +and twenty across. + +_Myself_.—Where does the Teivi run to? + +_Farmer_.—The Teivi runs to the sea, which it enters at a place which the +Cumry call Aber Teivi and the Saxons Cardigan. + +_Myself_.—Don’t you call Cardiganshire Shire Aber Teivi? + +_Farmer_.—We do. + +_Myself_.—Are there many gleisiaid in the Teivi? + +_Farmer_.—Plenty, and salmons too—that is, farther down. The best place +for salmon and gleisiaid is a place, a great way down the stream, called +Dinas Emlyn. + +_Myself_.—Do you know an animal called Llostlydan? + +_Farmer_.—No, I do not know that beast. + +_Myself_.—There used to be many in the Teivi. + +_Farmer_.—What kind of beast is the Llostlydan? + +_Myself_.—A beast with a broad tail, on which account the old Cumry did +call him Llostlydan. Clever beast he was; made himself house of wood in +middle of the river, with two doors, so that when hunter came upon him he +might have good chance of escape. Hunter often after him, because he had +skin good to make hat. + +_Farmer_.—Ha, I wish I could catch that beast now in Teivi. + +_Myself_.—Why so? + +_Farmer_.—Because I want hat. Would make myself hat of his skin. + +_Myself_.—O, you could not make yourself a hat even if you had the skin. + +_Farmer_.—Why not? Shot coney in Bunk Pen Blanedd; made myself cap of +his skin. So, why not make hat of skin of broadtail, should I catch him +in Teivi? + +_Myself_.—How far is it to Tregaron? + +_Farmer_.—’Tis ten miles from here, and eight from the Rhyd Fendigaid. + +_Myself_.—Must I go back to Rhyd Fendigaid to get to Tregaron? + +_Farmer_.—You must. + +_Myself_.—Then I must be going, for the night is coming down. Farewell! + +_Farmer_.—Farvel, Saxon gentleman! + + + + +CHAPTER XCII + + +Nocturnal Journey—Maes y Llyn—The Figure—Earl of Leicester—Twm Shone +Catti—The Farmer and Bull—Tom and the Farmer—The Cave—The Threat—Tom a +Justice—The Big Wigs—Tregaron. + +It was dusk by the time I had regained the highroad by the village of the +Rhyd Fendigaid. + +As I was yet eight miles from Tregaron, the place where I intended to +pass the night, I put on my best pace. In a little time I reached a +bridge over a stream which seemed to carry a considerable tribute to the +Teivi. + +“What is the name of this bridge?” said I to a man riding in a cart whom +I met almost immediately after I had crossed the bridge. + +“Pont Vleer,” methought he said, but as his voice was husky and +indistinct, very much like that of a person somewhat the worse for +liquor, I am by no means positive. + +It was now very dusk, and by the time I had advanced about a mile farther +dark night settled down, which compelled me to abate my pace a little, +more especially as the road was by no means first-rate. I had come, to +the best of my computation, about four miles from the Rhyd Fendigaid when +the moon began partly to show itself, and presently by its glimmer I saw +some little way off on my right hand what appeared to be a large sheet of +water. I went on, and in about a minute saw two or three houses on the +left, which stood nearly opposite to the object which I had deemed to be +water, and which now appeared to be about fifty yards distant in a field +which was separated from the road by a slight hedge. Going up to the +principal house I knocked, and a woman making her appearance at the door, +I said— + +“I beg pardon for troubling you, but I wish to know the name of this +place.” + +“Maes y Llyn—The Field of the Lake,” said the woman. + +“And what is the name of the lake?” said I. + +“I do not know,” said she; “but the place where it stands is called Maes +Llyn, as I said before.” + +“Is the lake deep?” said I. + +“Very deep,” said she. + +“How deep?” said I. + +“Over the tops of the houses,” she replied. + +“Any fish in the lake?” + +“O yes! plenty.” + +“What fish?” + +“O there are llysowen, and the fish we call ysgetten.” + +“Eels and tench,” said I; “anything else?” + +“I do not know,” said the woman; “folks say that there used to be queer +beast in the lake, water-cow used to come out at night and eat people’s +clover in the fields.” + +“Pooh,” said I, “that was merely some person’s cow or horse, turned out +at night to fill its belly at other folks’ expense.” + +“Perhaps so,” said the woman; “have you any more questions to ask?” + +“Only one,” said I; “how far is it to Tregaron?” + +“About three mile: are you going there?” + +“Yes, I am going to Tregaron.” + +“Pity that you did not come a little time ago,” said the woman; “you +might then have had pleasant company on your way; pleasant man stopped +here to light his pipe; he too going to Tregaron.” + +“It doesn’t matter,” said I; “I am never happier than when keeping my own +company.” Bidding the woman good night, I went on. The moon now shone +tolerably bright, so that I could see my way, and I sped on at a great +rate. I had proceeded nearly half-a-mile, when I thought I heard steps +in advance, and presently saw a figure at some little distance before me. +The individual, probably hearing the noise of my approach, soon turned +round and stood still. As I drew near I distinguished a stout burly +figure of a man, seemingly about sixty, with a short pipe in his mouth. + +“Ah, is it you?” said the figure, in English, taking the pipe out of his +mouth; “good evening, I am glad to see you.” Then shaking some burning +embers out of his pipe, he put it into his pocket, and trudged on beside +me. + +“Why are you glad to see me?” said I, slackening my pace; “I am a +stranger to you; at any rate, you are to me.” + +“Always glad to see English gentleman,” said the figure; “always glad to +see him.” + +“How do you know that I am an English gentleman?” said I. + +“O, I know Englishman at first sight; no one like him in the whole +world.” + +“Have you seen many English gentlemen?” said I. + +“O yes, have seen plenty when I have been up in London.” + +“Have you been much in London?” + +“O yes; when I was a drover was up in London every month.” + +“And were you much in the society of English gentlemen when you were +there?” + +“O yes; a great deal.” + +“Whereabouts in London did you chiefly meet them?” + +“Whereabouts? Oh, in Smithfield.” + +“Dear me!” said I; “I thought that was rather a place for butchers than +gentlemen.” + +“Great place for gentlemen, I assure you,” said the figure; “met there +the finest gentlemen I ever saw in my life; very grand, but kind and +affable, like every true gentleman. Talked to me a great deal about +Anglesey runts, and Welsh legs of mutton, and at parting shook me by the +hand, and asked me to look in upon him, if I was ever down in his parts, +and see his sheep and taste his ale.” + +“Do you know who he was?” said I. + +“O yes; know all about him; Earl of Leicester, from county of Norfolk; +fine old man indeed—you very much like him—speak just in same way.” + +“Have you given up the business of drover long?” said I. + +“O yes; given him up a long time ever since domm’d railroad came into +fashion.” + +“And what do you do now?” said I. + +“O, not much; live upon my means; picked up a little property, a few +sticks, just enough for old crow to build him nest with—sometimes, +however, undertake a little job for neighbouring people and get a little +money. Can do everything in small way, if necessary; build little +bridge, if asked;—Jack of all Trades—live very comfortably.” + +“And where do you live?” + +“O, not very far from Tregaron.” + +“And what kind of place is Tregaron?” + +“O, very good place; not quite so big as London, but very good place.” + +“What is it famed for?” said I. + +“O, famed for very good ham; best ham at Tregaron in all Shire Cardigan.” + +“Famed for anything else?” + +“O yes! famed for great man, clever thief, Twm Shone Catti, who was born +there.” + +“Dear me!” said I; “when did he live?” + +“O, long time ago, more than two hundred year.” + +“And what became of him?” said I; “was he hung?” + +“Hung, no! only stupid thief hung. Twm Shone clever thief; died rich +man, justice of the peace and mayor of Brecon.” + +“Very singular,” said I, “that they should make a thief mayor of Brecon.” + +“O, Twm Shone Catti very different from other thieves; funny fellow, and +so good-natured that everybody loved him—so they made him magistrate, +not, however, before he had become very rich man by marrying great lady +who fell in love with him.” + +“Ah, ah,” said I; “that’s the way of the world. He became rich, so they +made him a magistrate; had he remained poor they would have hung him in +spite of all his fun and good-nature. Well, can’t you tell me some of +the things he did?” + +“O yes, can tell you plenty. One day in time of fair Tom Shone Catti +goes into ironmonger’s shop in Llandovery. ‘Master,’ says he, ‘I want to +buy a good large iron porridge pot; please to show me some.’ So the man +brings out three or four big iron porridge pots, the very best he has. +Tom takes up one and turns it round. ‘This looks very good porridge +pot,’ said he; ‘I think it will suit me.’ Then he turns it round and +round again, and at last lifts it above his head and peaks into it. ‘Ha, +ha,’ says he; ‘this won’t do; I see one hole here. What mean you by +wanting to sell article like this to stranger?’ Says the man, ‘there be +no hole in it.’ ‘But there is,’ says Tom, holding it up and peaking into +it again; ‘I see the hole quite plain. Take it and look into it +yourself.’ So the man takes the pot, and having held it up and peaked +in, ‘as I hope to be saved,’ says he, ‘I can see no hole.’ Says Tom, +‘good man, if you put your head in, you will find that there is a hole.’ +So the man tries to put in his head, but having some difficulty Tom lends +him a helping hand by jamming the pot quite down over the man’s face, +then whisking up the other pots Tom leaves the shop, saying as he goes, +‘Friend, I suppose you now see that there is a hole in the pot, otherwise +how could you have got your head inside?’” + +“Very good,” said I; “can you tell us something more about Twm Shone +Catti?” + +“O yes; can tell you plenty about him. The farmer at Newton, just one +mile beyond the bridge at Brecon, had one very fine bull, but with a very +short tail. Says Tom to himself: ‘By God’s nails and blood I will steal +the farmer’s bull, and then sell it to him for other bull in open market +place.’ Then Tom makes one fine tail, just for all the world such a tail +as the bull ought to have had, then goes by night to the farmer’s stall +at Newton, steals away the bull, and then sticks to the bull’s short +stump the fine bull’s tail which he himself had made. The next market +day he takes the bull to the market-place at Brecon and calls out: ‘Very +fine bull this, who will buy my fine bull?’ Quoth the farmer who stood +nigh at hand, ‘That very much like my bull, which thief stole t’other +night; I think I can swear to him.’ Says Tom, ‘What do you mean? This +bull is not your bull, but mine.’ Says the farmer, ‘I could swear that +this is my bull but for the tail. The tail of my bull was short, but the +tail of this is long. I would fain know whether the tail of this be real +tail or not.’ ‘You would?’ says Tom; ‘well, so you shall.’ Thereupon he +whips out big knife and cuts off the bull’s tail, some little way above +where the false tail was joined on. ‘Ha, ha,’ said Tom, as the bull’s +stump of tail bled, and the bit of tail bled, too, to which the false +tail was stuck, and the bull kicked and bellowed. ‘What say you now? Is +it a true tail or no?’ ‘By my faith!’ says the farmer, ‘I see that the +tail is a true tail, and that the bull is not mine. I beg pardon for +thinking that he was.’ ‘Begging pardon,’ says Tom, ‘is all very well; +but will you buy the bull?’ ‘No,’ said the farmer, ‘I should be loth to +buy a bull with tail cut off close to the rump.’ ‘Ha,’ says Tom, ‘who +made me cut off the tail but yourself? Did you not force me to do so in +order to clear my character? Now as you made me cut off my bull’s tail, +I will make you buy my bull without his tail.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ cried the +mob; ‘as he forced you to cut off the tail, do you now force him to buy +the bull without the tail.’ Says the farmer, ‘What do you ask for the +bull?’ Says Tom, ‘I ask for him ten pound.’ Says the farmer, ‘I will +give you eight.’ ‘No,’ says Tom; ‘you shall give me ten, or I will have +you up before the justice.’ ‘That is right,’ cried the mob. ‘If he +won’t pay you ten pound, have him up before the justice.’ Thereupon the +farmer, becoming frightened, pulled out the ten pounds and gave it for +his own bull to Tom Shone Catti, who wished him joy of his bargain. As +the farmer was driving the bull away he said to Tom: ‘Won’t you give me +the tail?’ ‘No,’ said Tom; ‘I shall keep it against the time I steal +another bull with a short tail;’ and thereupon he runs off.” + +“A clever fellow,” said I; “though it was rather cruel in him to cut off +the poor bull’s tail. Now, perhaps, you will tell me how he came to +marry the rich lady?” + +“O yes; I will tell you. One day as he was wandering about, dressed +quite like a gentleman, he heard a cry, and found one very fine lady in +the hands of one highwayman, who would have robbed and murdered her. Tom +kills the highwayman and conducts the lady home to her house and her +husband, for she was a married lady. Out of gratitude to Tom for the +service he has done, the gentleman and lady invite him to stay with them. +The gentleman, who is a great gentleman, fond of his bottle and hunting, +takes mightily to Tom for his funny sayings, and because Tom’s a good +hand at a glass when at table, and a good hand at a leap when in field; +the lady also takes very much to Tom, because he one domm’d handsome +fellow, with plenty of wit and what they call boetry,—for Tom amongst +other things was no bad boet, and could treat a lady to pennillion about +her face and her ancle, and the tip of her ear. At last Tom goes away +upon his wanderings, not, however, before he has got one promise from the +lady, that if ever she becomes disengaged she will become his wife. +Well, after some time the lady’s husband dies and leaves her all his +property, so that all of a sudden she finds herself one great independent +lady, mistress of the whole of Strath Feen, one fair and pleasant valley +far away there over the Eastern hills; by the Towey; on the borders of +Shire Car. Tom, as soon as he hears the news of all this, sets off for +Strath Feen and asks the lady to perform her word; but the lady, who +finds herself one great and independent lady, and moreover does not quite +like the idea of marrying one thief, for she had learnt who Tom was, does +hum and hah, and at length begs to be excused, because she has changed +her mind. Tom begs and entreats, but quite in vain, till at last she +tells him to go away and not trouble her any more. Tom goes away, but +does not yet lose hope. He takes up his quarters in one strange little +cave, nearly at the top of one wild hill, very much like sugar loaf, +which does rise above the Towey, just within Shire Car. I have seen the +cave myself, which is still called Ystafell Twm Shone Catty. Very queer +cave it is, in strange situation: steep rock just above it, Towey river +roaring below. There Tom takes up his quarters, and from there he often +sallies forth, in hope of having interview with fair lady and making her +alter her mind, but she will have nothing to do with him, and at last +shuts herself up in her house and will not go out. Well, Tom nearly +loses all hope; he, however, determines to make one last effort; so one +morning he goes to the house and stands before the door, entreating with +one loud and lamentable voice that the lady will see him once more, +because he is come to bid her one eternal farewell, being about to set +off for the wars in the kingdom of France. Well, the lady who hears all +he says relents one little, and showing herself at the window before +which are very strong iron bars she says: ‘Here I am! whatever you have +to say, say it quickly, and go your way.’ Says Tom: ‘I am come to bid +you one eternal farewell, and have but one last slight request to make, +which is that you vouchsafe to stretch out of the window your lily-white +hand, that I may impress one last burning kiss of love on the same.’ +Well, the lady hesitates one little time; at last, having one woman’s +heart, she thinks she may grant him this last little request, and +stretching her hand through the bars she says: ‘Well, there’s my hand, +kiss it once and begone.’ Forthwith Tom seizing her wrist with his left +hand says: ‘I have got you now, and will never let you go till you swear +to become my wife.’ ‘Never,’ said the lady, ‘will I become the wife of +one thief,’ and strives with all her might to pull her hand free, but +cannot, for the left hand of Tom is more strong than the right of other +man. Thereupon Tom with his right hand draws forth his sword, and with +one dreadful shout does exclaim: ‘Now will you swear to become my wife, +for if you don’t, by God’s blood and nails, I will this moment smite off +your hand with this sword.’ Then the lady being very much frightened, +and having one sneaking kindness for Tom, who though he looked very +fierce looked also very handsome, said: ‘Well, well! a promise is a +promise; I promised to become your wife, and so I will; I swear I will; +by all I hold holy I swear; so let go my hand, which you have almost +pulled off, and come in and welcome!’ So Tom lets go her hand, and the +lady opens her door, and before night they were married, and in less than +one month Tom, being now very rich and lord of Ystrad Feen, was made +justice of the peace and chairman at quarter session.” + +“And what kind of justice of the peace did Tom make?” + +“Ow, the very best justice of the peace that there ever was. He made the +old saying good: you must set one thief to catch one thief. He had not +been a justice three year before there was not a thief in Shire Brecon +nor in Shire Car, for they also made him justice of Carmarthenshire, and +a child might walk through the country quite safe with a purse of gold in +its hand. He said that as he himself could not have a finger in the pie, +he would take care nobody else should. And yet he was not one bloody +justice either; never hanged thief without giving him a chance to reform; +but when he found him quite hardened he would say: ‘Hang up de rogue!’ O +Tom was not a very hard man, and had one grateful heart for any old +kindness which had been shown him. One day as Tom sat on de bench with +other big wigs, Tom the biggest wig of the lot, a man was brought up +charged with stealing one bullock. Tom no sooner cast eye on the man +than he remembered him quite well. Many years before Tom had stole a +pair of oxen, which he wished to get through the town of Brecon, but did +not dare to drive them through, for at that very time there was one +warrant out against Tom at Brecon for something he had done. So Tom +stands with his oxen on the road, scratching his head and not knowing +what to do. At length there comes a man along the road, making towards +Brecon, to whom Tom says: ‘Honest man, I want these two oxen to be driven +to such and such a public-house two miles beyond Brecon; I would drive +them myself only I have business to do elsewhere of more importance. Now +if you will drive them for me there and wait till I come, which will not +be long, I will give you a groat.’ Says the man: ‘I will drive them for +nothing, for as my way lies past that same public-house I can easily +afford to do so.’ So Tom leaves the oxen with the man, and by rough and +roundabout road makes for the public-house beyond Brecon, where he finds +the man waiting with the oxen, who hands them over to him and goes on his +way. Now, in the man brought up before him and the other big wigs on the +bench for stealing the bullock, Tom does recognise the man who had done +him that same good turn. Well! the evidence was heard against the man, +and it soon appeared quite clear that the man did really steal the +bullock. Says the other big wigs to Tom: ‘The fact has been proved quite +clear. What have we now to do but to adshudge at once that the domm’d +thief be hung?’ But Tom, who remembered that the man had once done him +one good turn, had made up his mind to save the man. So says he to the +other big wigs: ‘My very worthy esteemed friends and coadshutors, I do +perfectly agree with you that the fact has been proved clear enough, but +with respect to de man, I should be very much grieved should he be hung +for this one fact, for I did know him long time ago, and did find him to +be one domm’d honest man in one transaction which I had with him. So my +wordy and esteemed friends and coadshutors I should esteem it one great +favour if you would adshudge that the man should be let off this one +time. If, however, you deem it inexpedient to let the man off, then of +course the man must be hung, for I shall not presume to set my opinions +and judgments against your opinions and judgments, which are far better +than my own.’ Then the other big wigs did look very big and solemn, and +did shake their heads and did whisper to one another that they were +afraid the matter could not be done. At last, however, they did come to +the conclusion that as Tom had said that he had known the fellow once to +be one domm’d honest man, and as they had a great regard for Tom, who was +one domm’d good magistrate and highly respectable gentleman with whom +they were going to dine the next day—for Tom I must tell you was in the +habit of giving the very best dinners in all Shire Brecon—it might not be +incompatible with the performance of their duty to let the man off this +one time, seeing as how the poor fellow had probably merely made one +slight little mistake. Well: to make the matter short, the man was let +off with only a slight reprimand, and left the court. Scarcely, however, +had he gone twenty yards, when Tom was after him, and tapping him on the +shoulder said: ‘Honest friend, a word with you!’ Then the man turning +round, Tom said: ‘Do you know me, pray?’ ‘I think I do, your honour,’ +said the man. ‘I think your honour was one of the big wigs, who were +just now so kind as to let me off.’ ‘I was so,’ said Tom; ‘and it is +well for you that I was the biggest of those big wigs before whom you +stood placed, otherwise to a certainty you would have been hung up on +high; but did you ever see me before this affair?’ ‘No, your honour,’ +said the man, ‘I don’t remember ever to have seen your honour before.’ +Says Tom, ‘Don’t you remember one long time ago driving a pair of oxen +through Brecon for a man who stood scratching his head on the road?’ ‘O +yes,’ says the man; ‘I do remember that well enough.’ ‘Well,’ said Tom, +‘I was that man. I had stolen that pair of oxen, and I dared not drive +them through Brecon. You drove them for me; and for doing me that good +turn I have this day saved your life. I was thief then, but am now big +wig. I am Twm Shone Catti. Now lookee! I have saved your life this one +time, but I can never save it again. Should you ever be brought up +before me again, though but for stealing one kid, I will hang you as high +as ever Haman was hung. One word more: here are five pieces of gold. +Take them: employ them well, and reform as I have done, and perhaps in +time you may become one big wig, like myself.’ Well: the man took the +money, and laid it out to the best advantage, and became at last so +highly respectable a character that they made him constable. And now, my +gentleman, we are close upon Tregaron.” + +After descending a hill we came to what looked a small suburb, and +presently crossed a bridge over the stream, the waters of which sparkled +merrily in the beams of the moon which was now shining bright over some +lofty hills to the south-east. Beyond the bridge was a small +market-place, on the right-hand side of which stood an ancient-looking +church. The place upon the whole put me very much in mind of an +Andalusian village overhung by its sierra. “Where is the inn?” said I to +my companion. + +“Yonder it be,” said he, pointing to a large house at the farther end of +the market-place. “Very good inn that—Talbot Arms—where they are always +glad to see English gentlemans.” Then touching his hat, and politely +waving his hand, he turned on one side, and I saw him no more. + + + + +CHAPTER XCIII + + +Tregaron Church—The Minister—Good Morning—Tom Shone’s Disguises—Tom and +the Lady—Klim and Catti. + +I experienced very good entertainment at the Tregaron Inn, had an +excellent supper and a very comfortable bed. I arose at about eight in +the morning. The day was dull and misty. After breakfast, according to +my usual fashion, I took a stroll to see about. The town, which is very +small, stands in a valley, near some wild hills called the Berwyn, like +the range to the south of Llangollen. The stream, which runs through it +and which falls into the Teivi at a little distance from the town, is +called the Brennig, probably because it descends from the Berwyn hills. +These southern Berwyns form a very extensive mountain region, extending +into Brecon and Carmarthenshire, and contain within them, as I long +subsequently found, some of the wildest solitudes and most romantic +scenery in Wales. High up amidst them, at about five miles from +Tregaron, is a deep broad lake which constitutes the source of the Towy, +a very beautiful stream, which, after many turnings and receiving the +waters of numerous small streams, discharges itself into Carmarthen Bay. + +I did not fail to pay a visit to Tregaron church. It is an antique +building with a stone tower. The door being open, as the door of a +church always should be, I entered, and was kindly shown by the clerk, +whom I met in the aisle, all about the sacred edifice. There was not +much to be seen. Amongst the monuments was a stone tablet to John +Herbert, who died 1690. The clerk told me that the name of the clergyman +of Tregaron was Hughes; he said that he was an excellent charitable man, +who preached the Gospel, and gave himself great trouble in educating the +children of the poor. He certainly seemed to have succeeded in teaching +them good manners: as I was leaving the church, I met a number of little +boys belonging to the church school: no sooner did they see me than they +drew themselves up in a rank on one side, and as I passed took off their +caps and simultaneously shouted “Good morning!” + +And now something with respect to the celebrated hero of Tregaron, Tom +Shone Catti, concerning whom I picked up a good deal during my short stay +there, and of whom I subsequently read something in printed books. {524} + +According to the tradition of the country, he was the illegitimate son of +Sir John Wynn of Gwedir, by one Catharine Jones of Tregaron, and was born +at a place called Fynnon Lidiart, close by Tregaron, towards the +conclusion of the sixteenth century. He was baptised by the name of +Thomas Jones, but was generally called Tom Shone Catti, that is Tom +Jones, son of Catti, or Catharine. His mother, who was a person of some +little education, brought him up, and taught him to read and write. His +life, till his eighteenth year, was much like that of other peasant boys; +he kept crows, drove bullocks, and learned to plough and harrow, but +always showed a disposition to roguery and mischief. Between eighteen +and nineteen, in order to free himself and his mother from the poverty +which they had long endured, he adopted the profession of a thief, and +soon became celebrated through the whole of Wales for the cleverness and +adroitness which he exercised in his calling; qualities in which he +appears to have trusted much more than in strength and daring, though +well endowed with both. His disguises were innumerable, and all +impenetrable; sometimes he would appear as an ancient crone: sometimes as +a begging cripple; sometimes as a broken soldier. Though by no means +scrupulous as to what he stole, he was particularly addicted to horse and +cattle stealing, and was no less successful in altering the appearance of +animals than his own, as he would frequently sell cattle to the very +persons from whom he had stolen them, after they had been subject to such +a metamorphosis, by means of dyes and the scissors, that recognition was +quite impossible. Various attempts were made to apprehend him, but all +without success; he was never at home to people who particularly wanted +him, or if at home he looked anything but the person they came in quest +of. Once a strong and resolute man, a farmer, who conceived, and very +justly, that Tom had abstracted a bullock from his stall, came to +Tregaron well armed in order to seize him. Riding up to the door of +Tom’s mother, he saw an aged and miserable-looking object, with a +beggar’s staff and wallet, sitting on a stone bench beside the door. +“Does Tom Shone Catti live here?” said the farmer. “O yes: he lives +here,” replied the beggar. “Is he at home?” “O yes, he is at home.” +“Will you hold my horse whilst I go in and speak to him?” “O yes, I will +hold your horse.” Thereupon the man dismounted, took a brace of pistols +out of his holsters, gave the cripple his horse’s bridle and likewise his +whip, and entered the house boldly. No sooner was he inside than the +beggar, or rather Tom Shone Catti, for it was he, jumped on the horse’s +back, and rode away to the farmer’s house, which was some ten miles +distant, altering his dress and appearance as he rode along, having +various articles of disguise in his wallet. Arriving at the house he +told the farmer’s wife that her husband was in the greatest trouble, and +wanted fifty pounds, which she was to send by him, and that he came +mounted on her husband’s horse, and brought his whip, that she might know +he was authorised to receive the money. The wife seeing the horse and +the whip delivered the money to Tom without hesitation, who forthwith +made the best of his way to London, where he sold the horse, and made +himself merry with the price, and with what he got from the farmer’s +wife, not returning to Wales for several months. Though Tom was known by +everybody to be a thief, he appears to have lived on very good terms with +the generality of his neighbours, both rich and poor. The poor he +conciliated by being very free of the money which he acquired by theft +and robbery, and with the rich he ingratiated himself by humorous +jesting, at which he was a proficient, and by being able to sing a good +song. At length, being an extremely good-looking young fellow, he +induced a wealthy lady to promise to marry him. This lady is represented +by some as a widow, and by others as a virgin heiress. After some time, +however, she refused to perform her promise, and barred her doors against +him. Tom retired to a cave on the side of a steep wild hill near the +lady’s house, to which he frequently repaired, and at last, having +induced her to stretch her hand to him through the window bars, under the +pretence that he wished to imprint a parting kiss upon it, he won her by +seizing her hand and threatening to cut it off unless she performed her +promise. Then, as everything at the time at which he lived could be done +by means of money, he soon obtained for himself a general pardon, and +likewise a commission as justice of the peace, which he held to the time +of his death, to the satisfaction of everybody except thieves and +ill-doers, against whom he waged incessant war, and with whom he was +admirably qualified to cope, from the knowledge he possessed of their +ways and habits, from having passed so many years of his life in the +exercise of the thieving trade. In his youth he was much addicted to +poetry, and a great many pennillion of his composition, chiefly on his +own thievish exploits, are yet recited by the inhabitants of certain +districts of the Shires of Brecon, Carmarthen, and Cardigan. + +Such is the history, or rather the outline of the history of Twm Shone +Catti. Concerning the actions attributed to him it is necessary to say +that the greater part consist of myths which are told of particular +individuals of every country, from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic: for +example, the story of cutting off the bull’s tail is not only told of him +but of the Irish thief Delany, and is to be found in the “Lives of Irish +Rogues and Rapparees;” certain tricks related of him in the printed tale +bearing his name are almost identical with various rogueries related in +the story-book of Klim the Russian robber, {527} and the most poetical +part of Tom Shone’s history, namely, that in which he threatens to cut +off the hand of the reluctant bride unless she performs her promise, is, +in all probability, an offshoot of the grand myth of “the severed hand,” +which in various ways figures in the stories of most nations, and which +is turned to considerable account in the tale of the above-mentioned +Russian worthy Klim. + + + + +CHAPTER XCIV + + +Llan Ddewi Brefi—Pelagian Heresy—Hu Gadarn—God of Agriculture—The Silver +Cup—Rude Tablet. + +It was about eleven o’clock in the morning when I started from Tregaron; +the sky was still cloudy and heavy. I took the road to Lampeter, distant +about eight miles, intending, however, to go much farther ere I stopped +for the night. The road lay nearly south-west. I passed by Aber Coed, a +homestead near the bottom of a dingle down which runs a brook into the +Teivi, which flows here close by the road; then by Aber Carvan, where +another brook disembogues. Aber, as perhaps the reader already knows, is +a disemboguement, and wherever a place commences with Aber there to a +certainty does a river flow into the sea or a brook or rivulet into a +river. I next passed through Nant Derven, and in about three quarters of +an hour after leaving Tregaron reached a place of old renown called Llan +Ddewi Brefi. + +Llan Ddewi Brefi is a small village situated at the entrance of a gorge +leading up to some lofty hills which rise to the east and belong to the +same mountain range as those near Tregaron. A brook flowing from the +hills murmurs through it and at length finds its way into the Teivi—an +ancient church stands on a little rising ground just below the hills, +multitudes of rooks inhabit its steeple and fill throughout the day the +air with their cawing. The place wears a remarkable air of solitude, but +presents nothing of gloom and horror, and seems just the kind of spot in +which some quiet pensive man, fatigued but not soured by the turmoil of +the world, might settle down, enjoy a few innocent pleasures, make his +peace with God and then compose himself to his long sleep. + +It is not without reason that Llan Ddewi Brefi has been called a place of +old renown. In the fifth century, one of the most remarkable +ecclesiastical convocations which the world has ever seen was held in +this secluded spot. It was for the purpose of refuting certain doctrines +which had for some time past caused much agitation in the Church, and +which originated with one Morgan, a native of North Wales, who left his +country at an early age and repaired to Italy, where having adopted the +appellation of Pelagius, which is a Latin translation of his own name +Morgan, which signifies “by the seashore,” he soon became noted as a +theological writer. It is not necessary to enter into any detailed +exposition of his opinions; it will, however, be as well to state that +one of the points which he was chiefly anxious to inculcate was that it +is possible for a man to lead a life entirely free from sin by obeying +the dictates of his own reason without any assistance from the grace of +God—a dogma certainly to the last degree delusive and dangerous. When +the convocation met there were a great many sermons preached by various +learned and eloquent divines, but nothing was produced which was +pronounced by the general voice a satisfactory answer to the doctrines of +the heresiarch. At length it was resolved to send for Dewi, a celebrated +teacher of theology at Mynyw in Pembrokeshire, who from motives of +humility had not appeared in the assembly. Messengers therefore were +despatched to Dewi, who after repeated entreaties was induced to repair +to the place of meeting, where after three days’ labour in a cell he +produced a treatise in writing in which the tenets of Morgan were so +triumphantly overthrown that the convocation unanimously adopted it and +sent it into the world with a testimony of approbation as an antidote to +the heresy, and so great was its efficacy that from that moment the +doctrines of Morgan fell gradually into disrepute. {529} + +Dewi shortly afterwards became primate of Wales, being appointed to the +see of Minevai or Mynyw, which from that time was called Ty Ddewi or +David’s House, a name which it still retains amongst the Cumry, though at +present called by the Saxons Saint David’s. About five centuries after +his death, the crown of canonisation having been awarded to Dewi, various +churches were dedicated to him, amongst which was that now called Llan +Ddewi Brefi, which was built above the cell in which the good man +composed his celebrated treatise. + +If this secluded gorge or valley is connected with a remarkable +historical event it is also associated with one of the wildest tales of +mythology. Here according to old tradition died one of the humped oxen +of the team of Hu Gadarn. Distracted at having lost its comrade, which +perished from the dreadful efforts which it made along with the others in +drawing the avanc hen or old crocodile from the lake of lakes, it fled +away from its master, and wandered about till coming to the glen now +called that of Llan Ddewi Brefi it fell down and perished after excessive +bellowing, from which noise the place probably derived its name of Brefi, +for Bref in Cumric signifies a mighty bellowing or lowing. Horns of +enormous size, said to have belonged to this humped ox or bison, were for +many ages preserved in the church. + +Many will exclaim who was Hu Gadarn? Hu Gadarn in the Gwlad yr Haf or +summer country, a certain region of the East, perhaps the Crimea, which +seems to be a modification of Cumria, taught the Cumry the arts of +civilised life, to build comfortable houses, to sow grain and reap, to +tame the buffalo and the bison, and turn their mighty strength to +profitable account, to construct boats with wicker and the skins of +animals, to drain pools and morasses, to cut down forests, cultivate the +vine and encourage bees, make wine and mead, frame lutes and fifes and +play upon them, compose rhymes and verses, fuse minerals and form them +into various instruments and weapons, and to move in masses against their +enemies, and finally when the summer country became over-populated led an +immense multitude of his countrymen across many lands to Britain, a +country of forests in which bears, wolves and bisons wandered, and of +morasses and pools full of dreadful efync or crocodiles, a country +inhabited only by a few savage Gauls, but which shortly after the arrival +of Hu and his people became a smiling region, forests being thinned, +bears and wolves hunted down, efync annihilated, bulls and bisons tamed, +corn planted and pleasant cottages erected. After his death he was +worshipped as the God of agriculture and war by the Cumry and the Gauls. +The Germans paid him divine honours under the name of Heus, from which +name the province of Hesse in which there was a mighty temple devoted to +him derived its appellation. The Scandinavians worshipped him under the +name of Odin and Gautr, the latter word a modification of Cadarn or +mighty. The wild Finns feared him as a wizard and honoured him as a +musician under the name of Wainoemoinen, and it is very probable that he +was the wondrous being whom the Greeks termed Odysses. Till a late +period the word Hu amongst the Cumry was frequently used to express +God—Gwir Hu, God knows, being a common saying. Many Welsh poets have +called the Creator by the name of the creature, amongst others Iolo Goch +in his ode to the ploughman:— + + The Mighty Hu who lives for ever, + Of mead and wine to men the giver, + The emperor of land and sea, + And of all things that living be, + Did hold a plough with his good hand, + Soon as the Deluge left the land, + To show to men both strong and weak, + The haughty-hearted and the meek, + Of all the arts the heaven below + The noblest is to guide the plough. + +So much for Hu Gadarn or Hu the Mighty, whose name puts one strangely in +mind of the Al Kader Hu or the Almighty He of the Arabians. + +I went to see the church. The inside was very rude and plain—a rough +table covered with a faded cloth served for an altar—on the right-hand +side was a venerable-looking chest. + +“What is there in that box?” said I to the old sexton who attended me. + +“The treasure of the church, sir,” he replied in a feeble quaking voice. + +“Dear me!” said I, “what does the treasure consist of?” + +“You shall see, sir,” said he, and drawing a large key out of his pocket +he unlocked the chest and taking out a cup of silver he put it into my +hand saying:—“This is the treasure of the church, sir!” + +I looked at the cup. It was tolerably large and of very chaste +workmanship. Graven upon it were the following words:— + + “Poculum Eclesie De LXXN Dewy Brefy 1574.” + +“Do you always keep this cup in that chest?” said I. + +“Yes, sir! we have kept it there since the cup was given to us by de +godly Queen Elizabeth.” + +I said nothing, but I thought to myself:—“I wonder how long a cup like +this would have been safe in a crazy chest in a country church in +England.” + +I kissed the sacred relic of old times with reverence and returned it to +the old sexton. + +“What became of the horns of Hu Gadarn’s bull?” said I after he had +locked the cup again in its delapidated coffer. + +“They did dwindle away, sir, till they came to nothing.” + +“Did you ever see any part of them?” said I. + +“O no, sir; I did never see any part of them, but one very old man who is +buried here did tell me shortly before he died that he had seen one very +old man who had seen of dem one little tip.” + +“Who was the old man who said that to you?” said I. + +“I will show you his monument, sir,” then taking me into a dusky pew he +pointed to a small rude tablet against the church wall and said:—“That is +his monument, sir.” + +The tablet bore the following inscription, and below it a rude englyn on +death not worth transcribing:— + + Coffadwriaeth am + Thomas Jones + Diweddar o’r Draws Llwyn yn y Plwyf hwn: + Bu farw Chwefror 6 fed 1830 + Yn 92 oed. + + To the Memory of + Thomas Jones + Of Traws Llwyn (across the Grove) in this + parish who died February the sixth, 1830. + Aged 92. + +After copying the inscription I presented the old man with a trifle and +went my way. + + + + +CHAPTER XCV + + +Lampeter—The Monk Austin—The Three Publicans—The Tombstone—Sudden +Change—Trampers—A Catholic—The Bridge of Twrch. + +The country between Llan Ddewi and Lampeter presented nothing remarkable, +and I met on the road nothing worthy of being recorded. On arriving at +Lampeter I took a slight refreshment at the inn, and then went to see the +college which stands a little to the north of the town. It was founded +by Bishop Burgess in the year 1820, for the education of youths intended +for the ministry of the Church of England. It is a neat quadrate edifice +with a courtyard in which stands a large stone basin. From the courtyard +you enter a spacious dining-hall, over the door of which hangs a +well-executed portrait of the good bishop. From the hall you ascend by a +handsome staircase to the library, a large and lightsome room, well +stored with books in various languages. The grand curiosity is a +manuscript Codex containing a Latin synopsis of Scripture which once +belonged to the monks of Bangor Is Coed. It bears marks of blood with +which it was sprinkled when the monks were massacred by the heathen +Saxons, at the instigation of Austin the Pope’s missionary in Britain. +The number of students seldom exceeds forty. + +It might be about half-past two in the afternoon when I left Lampeter. I +passed over a bridge, taking the road to Llandovery which, however, I had +no intention of attempting to reach that night, as it was considerably +upwards of twenty miles distant. The road lay, seemingly, due east. +After walking very briskly for about an hour I came to a very small +hamlet consisting of not more than six or seven houses; of these three +seemed to be public-houses, as they bore large flaming signs. Seeing +three rather shabby-looking fellows standing chatting with their hands in +their pockets, I stopped and inquired in English the name of the place. + +“Pen- something,” said one of them, who had a red face and a large +carbuncle on his nose, which served to distinguish him from his +companions, who though they had both very rubicund faces had no +carbuncles. + +“It seems rather a small place to maintain three public-houses,” said I; +“how do the publicans manage to live?” + +“O, tolerably well, sir; we get bread and cheese and have a groat in our +pockets. No great reason to complain; have we, neighbours?” + +“No! no great reason to complain,” said the other two. + +“Dear me!” said I; “are you the publicans?” + +“We are, sir,” said the man with the carbuncle on his nose, “and shall be +each of us glad to treat you to a pint in his own house in order to +welcome you to Shire Car—shan’t we, neighbours?” + +“Yes, in truth we shall,” said the other two. + +“By Shire Car,” said I, “I suppose you mean Shire Cardigan?” + +“Shire Cardigan!” said the man; “no indeed; by Shire Car is meant +Carmarthenshire. Your honour has left beggarly Cardigan some way behind +you. Come, your honour, come and have a pint; this is my house,” said +he, pointing to one of the buildings. + +“But,” said I, “I suppose if I drink at your expense you will expect to +drink at mine?” + +“Why, we can’t say that we shall have any objection, your honour; I think +we will arrange the matter in this way: we will go into my house, where +we will each of us treat your honour with a pint, and for each pint we +treat your honour with your honour shall treat us with one.” + +“Do you mean each?” said I. + +“Why, yes! your honour, for a pint amongst three would be rather a short +allowance.” + +“Then it would come to this,” said I, “I should receive three pints from +you three, and you three would receive nine from me.” + +“Just so, your honour; I see your honour is a ready reckoner.” + +“I know how much three times three make,” said I. “Well, thank you, +kindly, but I must decline your offer; I am bound on a journey.” + +“Where are you bound to, master?” + +“To Llandovery, but if I can find an inn a few miles farther on I shall +stop there for the night.” + +“Then you will put up at the ‘Pump Saint,’ master; well, you can have +your three pints here and your three pipes too, and yet get there easily +by seven. Come in, master, come in! If you take my advice you will +think of your pint and your pipe and let all the rest go to the devil.” + +“Thank you,” said I, “but I can’t accept your invitation, I must be off;” +and in spite of yet more pressing solicitations I went on. + +I had not gone far when I came to a point where the road parted in two; +just at the point where a house and premises belonging apparently to a +stone-mason, as a great many pieces of half-cut granite were standing +about, and not a few tombstones. I stopped, and looked at one of the +latter. It was to the memory of somebody who died at the age of +sixty-six, and at the bottom bore the following bit of poetry:— + + “Ti ddaear o ddaear ystyria mewn braw, + Mai daear i ddaear yn fuan a ddaw; + A ddaear mewn ddaear raid aros bob darn + Nes daear o ddaear gyfrodir i farn.” + + “Thou earth from earth reflect with anxious mind + That earth to earth must quickly be consigned, + And earth in earth must lie entranced enthralled + Till earth from earth to judgment shall be called.” + +“What conflicting opinions there are in this world,” said I, after I had +copied the quatrain and translated it. “The publican yonder tells me to +think of my pint and pipe and let everything else go to the devil, and +the tombstone here tells me to reflect with dread—a much finer expression +by the bye than reflect with anxious mind, as I have got it—that in a +very little time I must die, and lie in the ground till I am called to +judgment. Now, which is most right, the tombstone or the publican? Why, +I should say the tombstone decidedly. The publican is too sweeping when +he tells you to think of your pint and pipe and nothing else. A pint and +pipe are good things. I don’t smoke myself, but I dare say a pipe is a +good thing for them who like it, but there are certainly things worth +being thought of in this world besides a pint and pipe—hills and dales, +woods and rivers, for example—death and judgment too are worthy now and +then of very serious thought. So it won’t do to go with the publican the +whole hog. But with respect to the tombstone, it is quite safe and right +to go with it its whole length. It tells you to think of death and +judgment—and assuredly we ought to think of them. It does not, however, +tell you to think of nothing but death and judgment and to eschew every +innocent pleasure within your reach. If it did it would be a tombstone +quite as sweeping in what it says as the publican, who tells you to think +of your pint and pipe and let everything else go to the devil. The +wisest course evidently is to blend the whole of the philosophy of the +tombstone with a portion of the philosophy of the publican and something +more, to enjoy one’s pint and pipe and other innocent pleasures, and to +think every now and then of death and judgment—that is what I intend to +do, and indeed is what I have done for the last thirty years.” + +I went on—desolate hills rose in the east, the way I was going, but on +the south were beautiful hillocks adorned with trees and hedge-rows. I +was soon amongst the desolate hills, which then looked more desolate than +they did at a distance. They were of a wretched russet colour, and +exhibited no other signs of life and cultivation than here and there a +miserable field and vile-looking hovel; and if there was here nothing to +cheer the eye, there was also nothing to cheer the ear. There were no +songs of birds, no voices of rills; the only sound I heard was the lowing +of a wretched bullock from a far-off slope. + +I went on slowly and heavily; at length I got to the top of this wretched +range—then what a sudden change! Beautiful hills in the far east, a fair +valley below me, and groves and woods on each side of the road which led +down to it. The sight filled my veins with fresh life, and I descended +this side of the hill as merrily as I had come up the other side +despondingly. About half-way down the hill I came to a small village. +Seeing a public-house I went up to it, and inquired in English of some +people within the name of the village. + +“Dolwen,” said a dark-faced young fellow of about four-and-twenty. + +“And what is the name of the valley?” said I. + +“Dolwen,” was the answer, “the valley is named after the village.” + +“You mean that the village is named after the valley,” said I, “for +Dolwen means fair valley.” + +“It may be,” said the young fellow, “we don’t know much here.” + +Then after a moment’s pause he said: + +“Are you going much farther?” + +“Only as far as the ‘Pump Saint.’” + +“Have you any business there?” said he. + +“No,” I replied, “I am travelling the country, and shall only put up +there for the night.” + +“You had better stay here,” said the young fellow. “You will be better +accommodated here than at the ‘Pump Saint.’” + +“Very likely,” said I; “but I have resolved to go there, and when I once +make a resolution I never alter it.” + +Then bidding him good evening I departed. Had I formed no resolution at +all about stopping at the “Pump Saint” I certainly should not have stayed +in this house, which had all the appearance of a tramper’s hostelry, and +though I am very fond of the conversation of trampers, who are the only +people from whom you can learn anything, I would much rather have the +benefit of it abroad than in their own lairs. A little farther down I +met a woman coming up the ascent. She was tolerably respectably dressed, +seemed about five-and-thirty, and was rather good-looking. She walked +somewhat slowly, which was probably more owing to a large bundle which +she bore in her hand than to her path being up-hill. + +“Good evening,” said I, stopping. + +“Good evening, your honour,” said she, stopping and slightly panting. + +“Do you come from far?” said I. + +“Not very far, your honour, but quite far enough for a poor feeble +woman.” + +“Are you Welsh?” said I. + +“Och no! your honour; I am Mary Bane from Dunmanway in the kingdom of +Ireland.” + +“And what are you doing here?” said I. + +“Och sure! I am travelling the country with soft goods.” + +“Are you going far?” said I. + +“Merely to the village a little farther up, your honour.” + +“I am going farther,” said I; “I am thinking of passing the night at the +‘Pump Saint.’” + +“Well, then, I would just advise your honour to do no such thing, but to +turn back with me to the village above, where there is an illigant inn +where your honour will be well accommodated.” + +“O, I saw that as I came past,” said I; “I don’t think there is much +accommodation there.” + +“O, your honour is clane mistaken; there is always an illigant fire and +an illigant bed too.” + +“Is there only one bed?” said I. + +“O yes, there are two beds, one for the accommodation of the people of +the house and the other for that of the visitors.” + +“And do the visitors sleep together then?” said I. + +“O yes! unless they wish to be unsociable. Those who are not disposed to +be sociable sleeps in the chimney-corners.” + +“Ah,” said I, “I see it is a very agreeable inn; however, I shall go on +to the ‘Pump Saint.’” + +“I am sorry for it, your honour, for your honour’s sake; your honour +won’t be half so illigantly served at the ‘Pump Saint’ as there above.” + +“Of what religion are you?” said I. + +“O, I’m a Catholic, just like your honour, for if I am not clane mistaken +your honour is an Irishman.” + +“Who is your spiritual director?” said I. + +“Why then, it is jist Father Toban, your honour, whom of course your +honour knows.” + +“O yes!” said I; “when you next see him present my respects to him.” + +“What name shall I mention, your honour?” + +“Shorsha Borroo,” said I. + +“Oh, then I was right in taking your honour for an Irishman. None but a +raal Paddy bears that name. A credit to your honour is your name, for it +is a famous name, {538} and a credit to your name is your honour, for it +is a neat man without a bend you are. God bless your honour and good +night! and may you find dacent quarters in the ‘Pump Saint.’” + +Leaving Mary Bane I proceeded on my way. The evening was rather fine but +twilight was coming rapidly on. I reached the bottom of the valley and +soon overtook a young man dressed something like a groom. We entered +into conversation. He spoke Welsh and a little English. His Welsh I had +great difficulty in understanding, as it was widely different from that +which I had been accustomed to. He asked me where I was going to; I +replied to the “Pump Saint,” and then inquired if he was in service. + +“I am,” said he. + +“With whom do you live?” said I. + +“With Mr. Johnes of Dol Cothi,” he answered. + +Struck by the word Cothi, I asked if Dol Cothi was ever called Glyn +Cothi. + +“O yes,” said he, “frequently.” + +“How odd,” thought I to myself, “that I should have stumbled all of a +sudden upon the country of my old friend Lewis Glyn Cothi, the greatest +poet after Ab Gwilym of all Wales!” + +“Is Cothi a river?” said I to my companion. + +“It is,” said he. + +Presently we came to a bridge over a small river. + +“Is this river the Cothi?” said I. + +“No,” said he, “this is the Twrch; the bridge is called Pont y Twrch.” + +“The bridge of Twrch or the hog,” said I to myself; “there is a bridge of +the same name in the Scottish Highlands, not far from the pass of the +Trossachs. I wonder whether it has its name from the same cause as this, +namely, from passing over a river called the Twrch or Torck, which word +in Gaelic signifies boar or hog even as it does in Welsh.” It had now +become nearly dark. After proceeding some way farther I asked the groom +if we were far from the inn of the “Pump Saint.” + +“Close by,” said he, and presently pointing to a large building on the +right-hand side he said: “This is the inn of the ‘Pump Saint,’ sir. Nos +Da’chi!” + + + + +CHAPTER XCVI + + +Pump Saint—Pleasant Residence—The Watery Coom—Philological Fact—Evening +Service—Meditation. + +I entered the inn of the “Pump Saint.” It was a comfortable +old-fashioned place, with a very large kitchen and a rather small +parlour. The people were kind and attentive, and soon set before me in +the parlour a homely but savoury supper, and a foaming tankard of ale. +After supper I went into the kitchen, and sitting down with the good +folks in an immense chimney-corner, listened to them talking in their +Carmarthenshire dialect till it was time to go to rest, when I was +conducted to a large chamber where I found an excellent and clean bed +awaiting me, in which I enjoyed a refreshing sleep occasionally visited +by dreams in which some of the scenes of the preceding day again appeared +before me, but in an indistinct and misty manner. + +Awaking in the very depth of the night I thought I heard the murmuring of +a river; I listened and soon found that I had not been deceived. “I +wonder whether that river is the Cothi,” said I, “the stream of the +immortal Lewis. I will suppose that it is”—and rendered quite happy by +the idea, I soon fell asleep again. + +I arose about eight and went out to look about me. The village consists +of little more than half-a-dozen houses. The name “Pump Saint” signifies +“Five Saints.” Why the place is called so I know not. Perhaps the name +originally belonged to some chapel which stood either where the village +now stands or in the neighbourhood. The inn is a good specimen of an +ancient Welsh hostelry. Its gable is to the road and its front to a +little space on one side of the way. At a little distance up the road is +a blacksmith’s shop. The country around is interesting: on the +north-west is a fine wooded hill—to the south a valley through which +flows the Cothi, a fair river, the one whose murmur had come so +pleasingly upon my ear in the depth of night. + +After breakfast I departed for Llandovery. Presently I came to a lodge +on the left-hand beside an ornamental gate at the bottom of an avenue +leading seemingly to a gentleman’s seat. On inquiring of a woman who sat +at the door of the lodge to whom the grounds belonged, she said to Mr. +Johnes, and that if I pleased I was welcome to see them. I went in and +advanced along the avenue, which consisted of very noble oaks; on the +right was a vale in which a beautiful brook was running north and south. +Beyond the vale to the east were fine wooded hills. I thought I had +never seen a more pleasing locality, though I saw it to great +disadvantage, the day being dull, and the season the latter fall. +Presently, on the avenue making a slight turn, I saw the house, a plain +but comfortable gentleman’s seat with wings. It looked to the south down +the dale. “With what satisfaction I could live in that house,” said I to +myself, “if backed by a couple of thousands a-year. With what gravity +could I sign a warrant in its library, and with what dreamy comfort +translate an ode of Lewis Glyn Cothi, my tankard of rich ale beside me. +I wonder whether the proprietor is fond of the old bard and keeps good +ale. Were I an Irishman instead of a Norfolk man I would go in and ask +him.” + +Returning to the road I proceeded on my journey. I passed over Pont y +Rhanedd or the bridge of the Rhanedd, a small river flowing through a +dale, then by Clas Hywel, a lofty mountain which appeared to have three +heads. After walking for some miles I came to where the road divided +into two. By a sign-post I saw that both led to Llandovery, one by Porth +y Rhyd and the other by Llanwrda. The distance by the first was six +miles and a half, by the latter eight and a half. Feeling quite the +reverse of tired I chose the longest road, namely the one by Llanwrda, +along which I sped at a great rate. + +In a little time I found myself in the heart of a romantic winding dell +overhung with trees of various kinds, which a tall man whom I met told me +was called Cwm Dwr Llanwrda, or the Watery Coom of Llanwrda; and well +might it be called the Watery Coom, for there were several bridges in it, +two within a few hundred yards of each other. The same man told me that +the war was going on very badly, that our soldiers were suffering much, +and that the snow was two feet deep at Sebastopol. + +Passing through Llanwrda, a pretty village with a singular-looking +church, close to which stood an enormous yew, I entered a valley which I +learned was the valley of the Towey. I directed my course to the north, +having the river on my right, which runs towards the south in a spacious +bed which, however, except in times of flood, it scarcely half fills. +Beautiful hills were on either side, partly cultivated, partly covered +with wood, and here and there dotted with farm-houses and gentlemen’s +seats; green pastures which descended nearly to the river occupying in +general the lower parts. After journeying about four miles amid this +kind of scenery I came to a noble suspension bridge, and crossing it +found myself in about a quarter of an hour at Llandovery. + +It was about half-past two when I arrived. I put up at the Castle Inn +and forthwith ordered dinner, which was served up between four and five. +During dinner I was waited upon by a strange old fellow who spoke Welsh +and English with equal fluency. + +“What countryman are you?” said I. + +“An Englishman,” he replied. + +“From what part of England?” + +“From Herefordshire.” + +“Have you been long here?” + +“O yes! upwards of twenty years.” + +“How came you to learn Welsh?” + +“O, I took to it and soon picked it up.” + +“Can you read it?” said I. + +“No, I can’t.” + +“Can you read English?” + +“Yes, I can; that is, a little.” + +“Why didn’t you try to learn to read Welsh?” + +“Well, I did; but I could make no hand of it. It’s one thing to speak +Welsh and another to read it.” + +“I can read Welsh much better than I can speak it,” said I. + +“Ah, you are a gentleman—gentlefolks always find it easier to learn to +read a foreign lingo than to speak it, but it’s quite the contrary with +we poor folks.” + +“One of the most profound truths ever uttered connected with language,” +said I to myself. I asked him if there were many Church of England +people in Llandovery. + +“A good many,” he replied. + +“Do you belong to the Church?” said I. + +“Yes, I do.” + +“If this were Sunday I would go to church,” said I. + +“O, if you wish to go to church you can go to-night. This is Wednesday, +and there will be service at half-past six. If you like I will come for +you.” + +“Pray do,” said I; “I should like above all things to go.” + +Dinner over I sat before the fire occasionally dozing, occasionally +sipping a glass of whiskey-and-water. A little after six the old fellow +made his appearance with a kind of Spanish hat on his head. We set out, +the night was very dark; we went down a long street seemingly in the +direction of the west. “How many churches are there in Llandovery?” said +I to my companion. + +“Only one, but you are not going to Llandovery Church, but to that of +Llanfair, in which our clergyman does duty once or twice a week.” + +“Is it far?” said I. + +“O no; just out of the town, only a few steps farther.” + +We seemed to pass over a bridge and began to ascend a rising ground. +Several people were going in the same direction. + +“There,” said the old man, “follow with these, and a little farther up +you will come to the church, which stands on the right hand.” + +He then left me. I went with the rest and soon came to the church. I +went in and was at once conducted by an old man who I believe was the +sexton to a large pew close against the southern wall. The inside of the +church was dimly lighted; it was long and narrow, and the walls were +painted with a yellow colour. The pulpit stood against the northern wall +near the altar, and almost opposite to the pew in which I sat. After a +little time the service commenced; it was in Welsh. When the litanies +were concluded the clergyman, who appeared to be a middle-aged man, and +who had rather a fine voice, began to preach. His sermon was from the +119th Psalm: “Am hynny hoffais dy gorchymynion yn mwy nag aur;” +“Therefore have I loved thy commandments more than gold.” The sermon, +which was extempore, was delivered with great earnestness, and I make no +doubt was a very excellent one, but owing to its being in South Welsh I +did not derive so much benefit from it as I otherwise might have done. +When it was over a great many got up and went away. Observing, however, +that not a few remained, I determined upon remaining too. When +everything was quiet the clergyman descending from the pulpit repaired to +the vestry, and having taken off his gown went into a pew, and standing +up began a discourse, from which I learned that there was to be a +sacrament on the ensuing Sabbath. He spoke with much fervency, enlarging +upon the high importance of the holy communion and exhorting people to +come to it in a fit state of mind. When he had finished a man in a +neighbouring pew got up and spoke about his own unworthiness, saying this +and that about himself, his sins of commission and omission, and dwelling +particularly on his uncharitableness and the malicious pleasure which he +took in the misfortunes of his neighbours. The clergyman listened +attentively, sometimes saying “Ah!” and the congregation also listened +attentively, a voice here and there frequently saying “Ah.” When the man +had concluded the clergyman again spoke, making observations on what he +had heard and hoping that the rest would be visited with the same +contrite spirit as their friend. Then there was a hymn and we went away. + +The moon was shining on high and cast its silvery light on the tower, the +church, some fine trees which surrounded it, and the congregation going +home; a few of the better dressed were talking to each other in English, +but with an accent and pronunciation which rendered the discourse almost +unintelligible to my ears. + +I found my way back to my inn and went to bed after musing awhile on the +concluding scene of which I had been witness in the church. + + + + +CHAPTER XCVII + + +Llandovery—Griffith ap Nicholas—Powerful Enemies—Last Words—Llandovery +Church—Rees Pritchard—The Wiser Creature—“God’s Better than All”—The Old +Vicarage. + +The morning of the ninth was very beautiful, with a slight tendency to +frost. I breakfasted, and having no intention of proceeding on my +journey that day, I went to take a leisurely view of Llandovery and the +neighbourhood. + +Llandovery is a small but beautiful town, situated amidst fertile +meadows. It is a water-girdled spot, whence its name Llandovery or +Llanymdyfri, which signifies the church surrounded by water. On its west +is the Towey, and on its east the river Bran or Brein, which descending +from certain lofty mountains to the north-east runs into the Towey a +little way below the town. The most striking object which Llandovery can +show is its castle, from which the inn, which stands near to it, has its +name. This castle, majestic though in ruins, stands on a green mound, +the eastern side of which is washed by the Bran. Little with respect to +its history is known. One thing, however, is certain, namely that it was +one of the many strongholds, which at one time belonged to Griffith ap +Nicholas, Lord of Dinevor, one of the most remarkable men which South +Wales has ever produced, of whom a brief account here will not be out of +place. + +Griffith ap Nicholas flourished towards the concluding part of the reign +of Henry the Sixth. He was a powerful chieftain of South Wales and +possessed immense estates in the counties of Carmarthen and Cardigan. +King Henry the Sixth, fully aware of his importance in his own country, +bestowed upon him the commission of the peace, an honour at that time +seldom vouchsafed to a Welshman, and the captaincy of Kilgarran, a strong +royal castle situated on the southern bank of the Teivi a few miles above +Cardigan. He had many castles of his own, in which he occasionally +resided, but his chief residence was Dinevor, half way between Llandovery +and Carmarthen, once a palace of the kings of South Wales, from whom +Griffith traced lineal descent. He was a man very proud at heart, but +with too much wisdom to exhibit many marks of pride, speaking generally +with the utmost gentleness and suavity, and though very brave never +addicted to dashing into danger for the mere sake of displaying his +valour. He was a great master of the English tongue, and well acquainted +with what learning it contained, but nevertheless was passionately +attached to the language and literature of Wales, a proof of which he +gave by holding a congress of bards and literati at Carmarthen, at which +various pieces of eloquence and poetry were recited, and certain +alterations introduced into the canons of Welsh versification. Though +holding offices of trust and emolument under the Saxon, he in the depths +of his soul detested the race and would have rejoiced to see it utterly +extirpated from Britain. This hatred of his against the English was the +cause of his doing that which cannot be justified on any principle of +honour, giving shelter and encouragement to Welsh thieves who were in the +habit of plundering and ravaging the English borders. Though at the head +of a numerous and warlike clan which was strongly attached to him on +various accounts, Griffith did not exactly occupy a bed of roses. He had +amongst his neighbours four powerful enemies who envied him his large +possessions, with whom he had continual disputes about property and +privilege. Powerful enemies they may well be called, as they were no +less personages than Humphrey Duke of Buckingham, Richard Duke of York, +who began the contest for the crown with King Henry the Sixth, Jasper +Earl of Pembroke, son of Owen Tudor, and half-brother of the king, and +the Earl of Warwick. These accused him at court of being a comforter and +harbourer of thieves, the result being that he was deprived not only of +the commission of the peace but of the captaincy of Kilgarran which the +Earl of Pembroke, through his influence with his half-brother, procured +for himself. They moreover induced William Borley and Thomas Corbet, two +justices of the peace for the county of Hereford, to grant a warrant for +his apprehension on the ground of his being in league with the thieves of +the Marches. Griffith in the bosom of his mighty clan bade defiance to +Saxon warrants, though once having ventured to Hereford he nearly fell +into the power of the ministers of justice, only escaping by the +intervention of Sir John Scudamore, with whom he was connected by +marriage. Shortly afterwards the civil war breaking out the Duke of York +apologised to Griffith and besought his assistance against the king, +which the chieftain readily enough promised, not out of affection for +York but from the hatred which he felt, on account of the Kilgarran +affair, for the Earl of Pembroke, who had sided, very naturally, with his +half-brother the king and commanded his forces in the west. Griffith +fell at the great battle of Mortimer’s Cross, which was won for York by a +desperate charge made right at Pembroke’s banner by Griffith and his +Welshmen when the rest of the Yorkists were wavering. His last words +were, “Welcome, Death! since honour and victory make for us.” + +The power and wealth of Griffith ap Nicholas and also parts of his +character have been well described by one of his bards, Gwilym ab Ieuan +Hen, in an ode to the following effect:— + + “Griffith ap Nicholas, who like thee + For wealth and power and majesty! + Which most abound, I cannot say, + On either side of Towey gay, + From hence to where it meets the brine, + Trees or stately towers of thine? + The chair of judgment thou didst gain, + But not to deal in judgments vain— + To thee upon thy judgment chair + From near and far do crowds repair; + But though betwixt the weak and strong + No questions rose of right and wrong, + The strong and weak to thee would hie; + The strong to do thee injury, + And to the weak thou wine wouldst deal + And wouldst trip up the mighty heel. + A lion unto the lofty thou, + A lamb unto the weak and low. + Much thou resemblest Nudd of yore, + Surpassing all who went before; + Like him thou’rt fam’d for bravery, + For noble birth and high degree. + Hail, captain of Kilgarran’s hold! + Lieutenant of Carmarthen old! + Hail chieftain, Cambria’s choicest boast! + Hail Justice at the Saxon’s cost! + Seven castles high confess thy sway, + Seven palaces thy hands obey. + Against my chief, with envy fired, + Three dukes and judges two conspired, + But thou a dauntless front didst show, + And to retreat they were not slow. + O, with what gratitude is heard + From mouth of thine, the whispered word; + The deepest pools in rivers found + In summer are of softest sound; + The sage concealeth what he knows, + A deal of talk no wisdom shows; + The sage is silent as the grave, + Whilst of his lips the fool is slave; + Thy smile doth every joy impart, + Of faith a fountain is thy heart; + Thy hand is strong, thine eye is keen, + Thy head o’er every head is seen.” + +The church of Llandovery is a large edifice standing at the southern +extremity of the town in the vicinity of the Towey. The outside exhibits +many appearances of antiquity, but the interior has been sadly +modernised. It contains no remarkable tombs; I was pleased, however, to +observe upon one or two of the monuments the name of Ryce, the +appellation of the great clan to which Griffith ap Nicholas belonged; of +old the regal race of South Wales. On inquiring of the clerk, an +intelligent young man who showed me over the sacred edifice, as to the +state of the Church of England at Llandovery, he gave me a very cheering +account, adding, however, that before the arrival of the present +incumbent it was very low indeed. “What is the clergyman’s name?” said +I; “I heard him preach last night.” + +“I know you did, sir,” said the clerk bowing, “for I saw you at the +service at Llanfair—his name is Hughes.” + +“Any relation of the clergyman at Tregaron?” said I. + +“Own brother, sir.” + +“He at Tregaron bears a very high character,” said I. + +“And very deservedly, sir,” said the clerk, “for he is an excellent man; +he is, however, not more worthy of his high character than his brother +here is of the one which he bears, which is equally high, and which the +very dissenters have nothing to say against.” + +“Have you ever heard,” said I, “of a man of the name of Rees Pritchard, +who preached within these walls some two hundred years ago?” + +“Rees Pritchard, sir! Of course I have—who hasn’t heard of the old +vicar—the Welshman’s candle? Ah, he was a man indeed! We have some good +men in the Church, very good; but the old vicar—where shall we find his +equal?” + +“Is he buried in this church?” said I. + +“No, sir, he was buried out abroad in the churchyard, near the wall by +the Towey.” + +“Can you show me his tomb?” said I. “No, sir, nor can any one; his tomb +was swept away more than a hundred years ago by a dreadful inundation of +the river, which swept away not only tombs but dead bodies out of graves. +But there’s his house in the market-place, the old vicarage, which you +should go and see. I would go and show it you myself, but I have church +matters just now to attend to—the place of church clerk at Llandovery, +long a sinecure, is anything but that under the present clergyman, who +though not a Rees Pritchard is a very zealous Christian, and not unworthy +to preach in the pulpit of the old vicar.” + +Leaving the church I went to see the old vicarage, but, before saying +anything respecting it, a few words about the old vicar. + +Rees Pritchard was born at Llandovery, about the year 1575, of +respectable parents. He received the rudiments of a classical education +at the school of the place, and at the age of eighteen was sent to +Oxford, being intended for the clerical profession. At Oxford he did not +distinguish himself in an advantageous manner, being more remarkable for +dissipation and riot than application in the pursuit of learning. +Returning to Wales he was admitted into the ministry, and after the lapse +of a few years was appointed vicar of Llandovery. His conduct for a +considerable time was not only unbecoming a clergyman but a human being +in any sphere. Drunkenness was very prevalent in the age in which he +lived, but Rees Pritchard was so inordinately addicted to that vice that +the very worst of his parishioners were scandalised and said: “Bad as we +may be we are not half so bad as the parson.” + +He was in the habit of spending the greater part of his time in the +public-house, from which he was generally trundled home in a wheelbarrow +in a state of utter insensibility. God, however, who is aware of what +every man is capable of, had reserved Rees Pritchard for great and noble +things, and brought about his conversion in a very remarkable manner. + +The people of the tavern which Rees Pritchard frequented had a large +he-goat, which went in and out and mingled with the guests. One day Rees +in the midst of his orgies called the goat to him and offered it some +ale; the creature, far from refusing it, drank greedily, and soon +becoming intoxicated fell down upon the floor, where it lay quivering, to +the great delight of Rees Pritchard, who made its drunkenness a subject +of jest to his boon companions, who, however, said nothing, being struck +with horror at such conduct in a person who was placed among them to be a +pattern and example. Before night, however, Pritchard became himself +intoxicated, and was trundled to the vicarage in the usual manner. +During the whole of the next day he was ill and kept at home, but on the +following one he again repaired to the public-house, sat down and called +for his pipe and tankard. The goat was now perfectly recovered and was +standing nigh. No sooner was the tankard brought than Rees, taking hold +of it, held it to the goat’s mouth. The creature, however, turned away +its head in disgust and hurried out of the room. This circumstance +produced an instantaneous effect upon Rees Pritchard. “My God!” said he +to himself, “is this poor dumb creature wiser than I? Yes, surely; it +has been drunk, but having once experienced the wretched consequences of +drunkenness, it refuses to be drunk again. How different is its conduct +to mine! I, after having experienced a hundred times the filthiness and +misery of drunkenness, have still persisted in debasing myself below the +condition of a beast. O, if I persist in this conduct what have I to +expect but wretchedness and contempt in this world and eternal perdition +in the next? But, thank God, it is not yet too late to amend; I am still +alive—I will become a new man—the goat has taught me a lesson.” Smashing +his pipe, he left his tankard untasted on the table, went home, and +became an altered man. + +Different as an angel of light is from the fiend of the pit was Rees +Pritchard from that moment from what he had been in former days. For +upwards of thirty years he preached the Gospel as it had never been +preached before in the Welsh tongue since the time of Saint Paul, +supposing the beautiful legend to be true which tells us that Saint Paul +in his wanderings found his way to Britain and preached to the +inhabitants the inestimable efficacy of Christ’s blood-shedding in the +fairest Welsh, having like all the other apostles the miraculous gift of +tongues. The good vicar did more. In the short intervals of relaxation +which he allowed himself from the labour of the ministry during those +years he composed a number of poetical pieces, which after his death were +gathered together into a volume and published, under the title of +“Canwyll y Cymry; or, the Candle of the Welshman.” This work, which has +gone through almost countless editions, is written in two common easy +measures, and the language is so plain and simple that it is intelligible +to the homeliest hind who speaks the Welsh language. All of the pieces +are of a strictly devotional character, with the exception of one, namely +a welcome to Charles, Prince of Wales, on his return from Spain, to which +country he had gone to see the Spanish ladye whom at one time he sought +as bride. Some of the pieces are highly curious, as they bear upon +events at present forgotten; for example, the song upon the year 1629, +when the corn was blighted throughout the land, and “A Warning to the +Cumry to repent when the Plague of Blotches and Boils was prevalent in +London.” Some of the pieces are written with astonishing vigour, for +example, “The Song of the Husbandman,” and “God’s Better than All,” of +which last piece the following is a literal translation. + + GOD’S BETTER THAN ALL. + + God’s better than heaven or aught therein, + Than the earth or aught we there can win, + Better than the world or its wealth to me— + God’s better than all that is or can be. + + Better than father, than mother, than nurse, + Better than riches, oft proving a curse, + Better than Martha or Mary even— + Better by far is the God of heaven. + + If God for thy portion thou hast ta’en + There’s Christ to support thee in every pain, + The world to respect thee thou wilt gain, + To fear the fiend and all his train. + + Of the best of portions thou choice didst make + When thou the high God to thyself didst take, + A portion which none from thy grasp can rend + Whilst the sun and the moon on their course shall wend. + + When the sun grows dark and the moon turns red, + When the stars shall drop and millions dread, + When the earth shall vanish with its pomps in fire, + Thy portion still shall remain entire. + + Then let not thy heart though distressed, complain! + A hold on thy portion firm maintain. + Thou didst choose the best portion, again I say— + Resign it not till thy dying day. + +The old vicarage of Llandovery is a very large-mansion of dark red brick, +fronting the principal street or market-place, and with its back to a +green meadow bounded by the river Bran. It is in a very dilapidated +condition, and is inhabited at present by various poor families. The +principal room, which is said to have been the old vicar’s library, and +the place where he composed his undying Candle, is in many respects a +remarkable apartment. It is of large dimensions. The roof is curiously +inlaid with stucco or mortar, and is traversed from east to west by an +immense black beam. The fire-place, which is at the south, is very large +and seemingly of high antiquity. The windows, which are two in number +and look westward into the street, have a quaint and singular appearance. +Of all the houses in Llandovery the old vicarage is by far the most +worthy of attention, irrespective of the wonderful monument of God’s +providence and grace who once inhabited it. + +The reverence in which the memory of Rees Pritchard is still held in +Llandovery the following anecdote will show. As I was standing in the +principal street staring intently at the antique vicarage, a +respectable-looking farmer came up and was about to pass, but observing +how I was employed he stopped, and looked now at me and now at the +antique house. Presently he said: + +“A fine old place, is it not, sir? but do you know who lived there?” + +Wishing to know what the man would say provided he thought I was ignorant +as to the ancient inmate, I turned a face of inquiry upon him; whereupon +he advanced towards me two or three steps, and placing his face so close +to mine that his nose nearly touched my cheek, he said in a kind of +piercing whisper: + +“The Vicar.” + +Then drawing his face back he looked me full in the eyes as if to observe +the effect of his intelligence, gave me two nods as if to say, “He did, +indeed,” and departed. + +_The_ Vicar of Llandovery had then been dead nearly two hundred years. +Truly the man in whom piety and genius are blended is immortal upon +earth. + + + + +CHAPTER XCVIII + + +Departure from Llandovery—A Bitter Methodist—North and South—The +Caravan—Captain Bosvile—Deputy Ranger—A Scrimmage—The Heavenly +Gwynfa—Dangerous Position. + +On the tenth I departed from Llandovery, which I have no hesitation in +saying is about the pleasantest little town in which I have halted in the +course of my wanderings. I intended to sleep at Gutter Vawr, a place +some twenty miles distant, just within Glamorganshire, to reach which it +would be necessary to pass over part of a range of wild hills, generally +called the Black Mountains. I started at about ten o’clock; the morning +was lowering, and there were occasional showers of rain and hail. I +passed by Rees Pritchard’s church, holding my hat in my hand as I did so, +not out of respect for the building, but from reverence for the memory of +the sainted man who of old from its pulpit called sinners to repentance, +and whose remains slumber in the churchyard unless washed away by some +frantic burst of the neighbouring Towey. Crossing a bridge over the Bran +just before it enters the greater stream, I proceeded along a road +running nearly south and having a range of fine hills on the east. +Presently violent gusts of wind came on, which tore the sear leaves by +thousands from the trees of which there were plenty by the roadsides. +After a little time, however, this elemental hurly-burly passed away, a +rainbow made its appearance and the day became comparatively fine. +Turning to the south-east under a hill covered with oaks, I left the vale +of the Towey behind me, and soon caught a glimpse of some very lofty +hills which I supposed to be the Black Mountains. It was a mere glimpse, +for scarcely had I descried them when mist settled down and totally +obscured them from my view. + +In about an hour I reached Llangadog, a large village. The name +signifies the Church of Gadog. Gadog was a British saint of the fifth +century, who after labouring amongst his own countrymen for their +spiritual good for many years, crossed the sea to Brittany, where he +died. Scarcely had I entered Llangadog when a great shower of rain came +down. Seeing an ancient-looking hostelry I at once made for it. In a +large and comfortable kitchen I found a middle-aged woman seated by a +huge deal table near a blazing fire, with a couple of large books open +before her. Sitting down on a chair I told her in English to bring me a +pint of ale. She did so and again sat down to her books, which on +inquiry I found to be a Welsh Bible and Concordance. We soon got into +discourse about religion, but did not exactly agree, for she was a bitter +Methodist, as bitter as her beer, only half of which I could get down. + +Leaving Llangadog I pushed forward. The day was now tolerably fine. In +two or three hours I came to a glen, the sides of which were beautifully +wooded. On my left was a river, which came roaring down from a range of +lofty mountains right before me to the southeast. The river, as I was +told by a lad, was the Sawdde or Southey, the lofty range the Black +Mountains. Passed a pretty village on my right standing something in the +shape of a semi-circle, and in about half-an-hour came to a bridge over a +river which I supposed to be the Sawdde which I had already seen, but +which I subsequently learned was an altogether different stream. It was +running from the south, a wild fierce flood amidst rocks and stones, the +waves all roaring and foaming. + +After some time I reached another bridge near the foot of a very lofty +ascent. On my left to the east upon a bank was a small house, on one +side of which was a wheel turned round by a flush of water running in a +little artificial canal; close by it were two small cascades, the waters +of which and also those of the canal passed under the bridge in the +direction of the west. Seeing a decent-looking man engaged in sawing a +piece of wood by the roadside, I asked him in Welsh whether the house +with the wheel was a flour-mill. + +“Nage,” said he, “it is a pandy, fulling mill.” + +“Can you tell me the name of a river,” said I, “which I have left about a +mile behind me? Is it the Sawdde?” + +“Nage,” said he. “It is the Lleidach.” + +Then looking at me with great curiosity he asked me if I came from the +north country. + +“Yes,” said I, “I certainly come from there.” + +“I am glad to hear it,” said he, “for I have long wished to see a man +from the north country.” + +“Did you never see one before?” said I. + +“Never in my life,” he replied: “men from the north country seldom show +themselves in these parts.” + +“Well,” said I; “I am not ashamed to say that I come from the north.” + +“Ain’t you? Well, I don’t know that you have any particular reason to be +ashamed, for it is rather your misfortune than your fault; but the idea +of any one coming from the north—ho, ho!” + +“Perhaps in the north,” said I, “they laugh at a man from the south.” + +“Laugh at a man from the south! No, no; they can’t do that.” + +“Why not?” said I; “why shouldn’t the north laugh at the south as well as +the south at the north?” + +“Why shouldn’t it? why, you talk like a fool. How could the north laugh +at the south as long as the south remains the south and the north the +north? Laugh at the south! you talk like a fool, David, and if you go on +in that way I shall be angry with you. However, I’ll excuse you; you are +from the north, and what can one expect from the north but nonsense? Now +tell me, do you of the north eat and drink like other people? What do +you live upon?” + +“Why, as for myself,” said I, “I generally live on the best I can get.” + +“Let’s hear what you eat; bacon and eggs?” + +“O yes! I eat bacon and eggs when I can get nothing better.” + +“And what do you drink? Can you drink ale?” + +“O yes,” said I; “I am very fond of ale when it’s good. Perhaps you will +stand a pint?” + +“H’m,” said the man looking somewhat blank; “there is no ale in the Pandy +and there is no public-house near at hand, otherwise—. Where are you +going to-night?” + +“To Gutter Vawr.” + +“Well, then, you had better not loiter. Gutter Vawr is a long way off +over the mountain. It will be dark, I am afraid, long before you get to +Gutter Vawr. Good evening, David! I am glad to have seen you, for I +have long wished to see a man from the north country. Good evening! you +will find plenty of good ale at Gutter Vawr!” + +I went on my way. The road led in a south-eastern direction gradually +upward to very lofty regions. After walking about half-an-hour I saw a +kind of wooden house on wheels drawn by two horses coming down the hill +towards me. A short black-looking fellow in brown top boots, corduroy +breeches, jockey coat and jockey cap sat on the box, holding the reins in +one hand and a long whip in the other. Beside him was a swarthy woman in +a wild flaunting dress. Behind the box out of the fore part of the +caravan peered two or three children’s black heads. A pretty little foal +about four months old came frisking and gambolling now before now beside +the horses, whilst a colt of some sixteen months followed more leisurely +behind. When the caravan was about ten yards distant I stopped, and, +raising my left hand with the little finger pointed aloft, I exclaimed: + +“Shoon, Kaulomengro, shoon! In Dibbel’s nav, where may tu be jawing to?” + +Stopping his caravan with considerable difficulty the small black man +glared at me for a moment like a wild cat, and then said in a voice +partly snappish, partly kind: + +“Savo shan tu? Are you one of the Ingrines?” + +“I am the chap what certain folks calls the Romany Rye.” + +“Well, I’ll be jiggered if I wasn’t thinking so and if I wasn’t penning +so to my juwa as we were welling down the chong.” + +“It is a long time since we last met, Captain Bosvile, for I suppose I +may call you Captain now?” + +“Yes! the old man has been dead and buried this many a year, and his +sticks and titles are now mine. Poor soul, I hope he is happy; indeed I +know he is, for he lies in Cockleshell churchyard, the place he was +always so fond of, and has his Sunday waistcoat on him with the fine gold +buttons, which he was always so proud of. Ah, you may well call it a +long time since we met—why, it can’t be less than thirty year.” + +“Something about that—you were a boy then of about fifteen.” + +“So I was, and you a tall young slip of about twenty; well, how did you +come to jin mande?” + +“Why, I knew you by your fighting mug—there an’t such another mug in +England.” + +“No more there an’t—my old father always used to say it was of no use +hitting it for it always broke his knuckles. Well, it was kind of you to +jin mande after so many years. The last time I think I saw you was near +Brummagem, when you were travelling about with Jasper Petulengro and—I +say, what’s become of the young woman you used to keep company with?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“You don’t? Well, she was a fine young woman and a vartuous. I remember +her knocking down and giving a black eye to my old mother, who was +wonderfully deep in Romany, for making a bit of a gillie about you and +she. What was the song? Lord, how my memory fails me. O, here it is:— + + “Ando berkho Rye canó + Oteh pivò teh khavó.— + Tu lerasque ando berkho piranee + Teh corbatcha por pico.” + +“Have you seen Jasper Petulengro lately?” said I. + +“Yes, I have seen him, but it was at a very considerable distance. +Jasper Petulengro doesn’t come near the likes of we now. Lord! you can’t +think what grand folks he and his wife have become of late years, and all +along of a trumpery lil which some body has written about them. Why, +they are hand and glove with the Queen and Prince, and folks say that his +wife is going to be made dame of honour, and Jasper Justice of the Peace +and Deputy Ranger of Windsor Park.” + +“Only think,” said I. “And now tell me, what brought you into Wales?” + +“What brought me into Wales? I’ll tell you; my own fool’s head. I was +doing nicely in the Kaulo Gav and the neighbourhood, when I must needs +pack up and come into these parts with bag and baggage, wife and childer. +I thought that Wales was what it was some thirty years agone when our +foky used to say—for I was never here before—that there was something to +be done in it; but I was never more mistaken in my life. The country is +overrun with Hindity mescrey, woild Irish, with whom the Romany foky +stand no chance. The fellows underwork me at tinkering, and the women +outscream my wife at telling fortunes—moreover, they say the country is +theirs and not intended for niggers like we, and as they are generally in +vast numbers what can a poor little Roman family do but flee away before +them? a pretty journey I have made into Wales. Had I not contrived to +pass off a poggado bav engro—a broken-winded horse—at a fair, I at this +moment should be without a tringoruschee piece in my pocket. I am now +making the best of my way back to Brummagem, and if ever I come again to +this Hindity country may Calcraft nash me.” + +“I wonder you didn’t try to serve some of the Irish out,” said I. + +“I served one out, brother; and my wife and childer helped to wipe off a +little of the score. We had stopped on a nice green, near a village over +the hills in Glamorganshire, when up comes a Hindity family, and bids us +take ourselves off. Now it so happened that there was but one man and a +woman and some childer, so I laughed, and told them to drive us off. +Well, brother, without many words, there was a regular scrimmage. The +Hindity mush came at me, the Hindity mushi at my juwa, and the Hindity +chaves at my chai. It didn’t last long, brother. In less than three +minutes I had hit the Hindity mush, who was a plaguey big fellow, but +couldn’t fight, just under the point of the chin, and sent him to the +ground with all his senses gone. My juwa had almost scratched an eye out +of the Hindity mushi, and my chai had sent the Hindity childer scampering +over the green. ‘Who has got to quit now?’ said I to the Hindity mush +after he had got on his legs, looking like a man who has been cut down +after hanging just a minute and a half. ‘Who has got notice to quit now, +I wonder?’ Well, brother, he didn’t say anything, nor did any of them, +but after a little time they all took themselves off, with a cart they +had, to the south. Just as they got to the edge of the green, however, +they turned round and gave a yell which made all our blood cold. I knew +what it meant, and said, ‘This is no place for us.’ So we got everything +together and came away, and, though the horses were tired, never stopped +till we had got ten miles from the place; and well it was we acted as we +did, for, had we stayed, I have no doubt that a whole Hindity clan would +have been down upon us before morning and cut our throats.” + +“Well,” said I, “farewell. I can’t stay any longer. As it is, I shall +be late at Gutter Vawr.” + +“Farewell, brother!” said Captain Bosvile; and, giving a cry, he cracked +his whip and set his horses in motion. + +“Won’t you give us sixpence to drink?” cried Mrs. Bosvile, with a rather, +shrill voice. + +“Hold your tongue, you she-dog,” said Captain Bosvile. “Is that the way +in which you take leave of an old friend? Hold your tongue, and let the +Ingrine gentleman jaw on his way.” + +I proceeded on my way as fast as I could, for the day was now closing in. +My progress, however, was not very great; for the road was steep, and was +continually becoming more so. In about half-an-hour I came to a little +village, consisting of three or four houses; one of them, at the door of +which several carts were standing, bore the sign of a tavern. + +“What is the name of this place?” said I to a man who was breaking stones +on the road. + +“Capel Gwynfa,” said he. + +Rather surprised at the name, which signifies in English the Chapel of +the place of bliss, I asked the man why it was called so. + +“I don’t know,” said the man. + +“Was there ever a chapel here?” said I. + +“I don’t know, sir; there is none now.” + +“I dare say there was in the old time,” said I to myself, as I went on, +“in which some holy hermit prayed and told his beads, and occasionally +received benighted strangers. What a poetical word that Gwynfa, place of +bliss, is. Owen Pugh uses it in his translation of _Paradise Lost_ to +express Paradise, for he has rendered the words Paradise Lost by Coll +Gwynfa—the loss of the place of bliss. I wonder whether the old scholar +picked up the word here. Not unlikely. Strange fellow that Owen Pugh. +Wish I had seen him. No hope of seeing him now, except in the heavenly +Gwynfa. Wonder whether there is such a place. Tom Payne thinks there’s +not. Strange fellow that Tom Payne. Norfolk man. Wish I had never read +him.” + +Presently I came to a little cottage with a toll-bar. Seeing a woman +standing at the door, I inquired of her the name of the gate. + +“Cowslip Gate, sir.” + +“Has it any Welsh name?” + +“None that I know of, sir.” + +This place was at a considerable altitude, and commanded an extensive +view to the south, west, and north. Heights upon heights rose behind it +to the east. From here the road ran to the south for a little way nearly +level, then turned abruptly to the east, and was more steep than ever. +After the turn, I had a huge chalk cliff towering over me on the right, +and a chalk precipice on my left. Night was now coming on fast, and, +rather to my uneasiness, masses of mist began to pour down the sides of +the mountain. I hurried on, the road making frequent turnings. +Presently the mist swept down upon me, and was so thick that I could only +see a few yards before me. I was now obliged to slacken my pace, and to +advance with some degree of caution. I moved on in this way for some +time, when suddenly I heard a noise, as if a number of carts were coming +rapidly down the hill. I stopped, and stood with my back close against +the high bank. The noise drew nearer, and in a minute I saw indistinctly +through the mist, horses, carts, and forms of men passing. In one or two +cases the wheels appeared to be within a few inches of my feet. I let +the train go by, and then cried out in English, “Am I right for Gutter +Vawr?” + +“Hey?” said a voice, after a momentary interval. + +“Am I right for Gutter Vawr?” I shouted yet louder. + +“Yes, sure!” said a voice, probably the same. + +Then instantly a much rougher voice cried, “Who the Devil are you?” + +I made no answer, but went on, whilst the train continued its way +rumbling down the mountain. At length I gained the top, where the road +turned and led down a steep descent towards the south-west. It was now +quite night, and the mist was of the thickest kind. I could just see +that there was a frightful precipice on my left, so I kept to the right, +hugging the side of the hill. As I descended I heard every now and then +loud noises in the vale probably proceeding from stone quarries. I was +drenched to the skin, nay, through the skin, by the mist, which I verily +believe was more penetrating than that described by Ab Gwilym. When I +had proceeded about a mile I saw blazes down below, resembling those of +furnaces, and soon after came to the foot of the hill. It was here +pouring with rain, but I did not put up my umbrella as it was impossible +for me to be more drenched than I was. Crossing a bridge over a kind of +torrent, I found myself amongst some houses. I entered one of them from +which a blaze of light and a roar of voices proceeded, and, on inquiring +of an old woman who confronted me in the passage, I found that I had +reached my much needed haven of rest, the tavern of Gutter Vawr in the +county of Glamorgan. + + + + +CHAPTER XCIX + + +Inn at Gutter Vawr—The Hurly-burly—Bara y Caws—Change of Manner—Welsh +Mistrust—Wonders of Russia—The Emperor—The grand Ghost Story. + +The old woman who confronted me in the passage of the inn turned out to +be the landlady. On learning that I intended to pass the night at her +house, she conducted me into a small room on the right-hand side of the +passage, which proved to be the parlour. It was cold and comfortless, +for there was no fire in the grate. She told me, however, that one +should be lighted, and going out presently returned with a couple of +buxom wenches, who I soon found were her daughters. The good lady had +little or no English; the girls, however, had plenty, and of a good kind +too. They soon lighted a fire and then the mother inquired if I wished +for any supper. + +“Certainly,” said I, “for I have not eaten anything since I left +Llandovery. What can I have?” + +“We have veal and bacon,” said she. + +“That will do,” said I; “fry me some veal and bacon, and I shan’t +complain. But pray tell me what prodigious noise is that which I hear on +the other side of the passage?” + +“It is only the miners and the carters in the kitchen making merry,” said +one of the girls. + +“Is there a good fire there?” said I. + +“O yes,” said the girl, “we have always a good fire in the kitchen.” + +“Well then,” said I, “I shall go there till supper is ready, for I am wet +to the skin, and this fire casts very little heat.” + +“You will find them a rough set in the kitchen,” said the girl. + +“I don’t care if I do,” said I; “when people are rough I am civil, and I +have always found that civility beats roughness in the long run.” Then +going out I crossed the passage and entered the kitchen. + +It was nearly filled with rough, unkempt fellows smoking, drinking, +whistling, singing, shouting or jabbering, some in a standing, some in a +sitting posture. My entrance seemed at once to bring everything to a +dead stop; the smokers ceased to smoke, the hand that was conveying the +glass or the mug to the mouth was arrested in air, the hurly-burly ceased +and every eye was turned upon me with a strange inquiring stare. Without +allowing myself to be disconcerted I advanced to the fire, spread out my +hands before it for a minute, gave two or three deep ahs of comfort, and +then turning round said: “Rather a damp night, gentlemen—fire cheering to +one who has come the whole way from Llandovery—Taking a bit of a walk in +Wales, to see the scenery and to observe the manners and customs of the +inhabitants—Fine country, gentlemen, noble prospects, hill and dale—Fine +people too—open-hearted and generous; no wonder! descendants of the +Ancient Britons—Hope I don’t intrude—other room rather cold and +smoking—If I do will retire at once—don’t wish to interrupt any gentlemen +in their avocations or deliberations—scorn to do anything ungenteel or +calculated to give offence—hope I know how to behave myself—ought to do +so—learnt grammar at the High School at Edinburgh.” + +“Offence, intrusion!” cried twenty voices. “God bless your honour! no +intrusion and no offence at all—sit down—sit here—won’t you drink?” + +“Please to sit here, sir,” said an old grimy-looking man, getting up from +a seat in the chimney-corner—“this is no seat for me whilst you are here, +it belongs to you—sit down in it,” and laying hold of me he compelled me +to sit down in the chair of dignity, whilst half-a-dozen hands pushed +mugs of beer towards my face; these, however, I declined to partake of on +the very satisfactory ground that I had not taken supper, and that it was +a bad thing to drink before eating, more especially after coming out of a +mist. + +“Have you any news to tell of the war, sir?” said a large rough fellow, +who was smoking a pipe. + +“The last news that I heard of the war,” said I, “was that the snow was +two feet deep at Sebastopol.” + +“I heard three,” said the man; “however, if there be but two it must be +bad work for the poor soldiers. I suppose you think that we shall beat +the Russians in the end.” + +“No, I don’t,” said I; “the Russians are a young nation and we are an +old; they are coming on and we are going off; every dog has its day.” + +“That’s true,” said the man, “but I am sorry that you think we shall not +beat the Russians, for the Russians are a bad set.” + +“Can you speak Welsh?” said a darkish man with black bristly hair and a +small inquisitive eye. + +“O, I know two words in Welsh,” said I, “bara y caws.” + +“That’s bread and cheese,” said the man, then turning to a neighbour of +his he said in Welsh: “He knows nothing of Cumraeg, only two words; we +may say anything we please; he can’t understand us. What a long nose he +has!” + +“Mind that he an’t nosing us,” said his neighbour. “I should be loth to +wager that he doesn’t understand Welsh; and after all he didn’t say that +he did not, but got off by saying he understood those two words.” + +“No, he doesn’t understand Welsh,” said the other; “no Sais understands +Welsh, and this is a Sais. Now with regard to that piece of job-work +which you and I undertook.” And forthwith he and the other entered into +a disquisition about the job-work. + +The company soon got into its old train, drinking and smoking and making +a most terrific hullabaloo. Nobody took any farther notice of me. I sat +snug in the chimney-corner, trying to dry my wet things, and as the heat +was very great partially succeeded. In about half-an-hour one of the +girls came to tell me that my supper was ready, whereupon I got up and +said: “Gentlemen, I thank you for your civility; I am now going to +supper; perhaps before I turn in for the night I may look in upon you +again.” Then without waiting for an answer I left the kitchen and went +into the other room, where I found a large dish of veal cutlets and fried +bacon awaiting me, and also a smoking bowl of potatoes. Ordering a jug +of ale I sat down, and what with hunger and the goodness of the fare, for +everything was first-rate, made one of the best suppers I ever made in my +life. + +Supper over, I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, over which I +trifled for about half-an-hour and then betook myself again to the +kitchen. Almost as soon as I entered, the company, who seemed to be +discussing some point, and were not making much hurly-burly, became +silent and looked at me in a suspicious and uneasy manner. I advanced +towards the fire. The old man who had occupied the seat in the +chimney-corner and had resigned it to me, had again taken possession of +it. As I drew near to the fire he looked upon the ground, and seemed by +no means disposed to vacate the place of honour; after a few moments, +however, he got up and offered me the seat with a slight motion of his +hand and without saying a word. I did not decline it, but sat down, and +the old gentleman took a chair near. Universal silence now prevailed; +sullen looks were cast at me; and I saw clearly enough that I was not +welcome. Frankness was now my only resource. “What’s the matter, +gentlemen?” said I; “you are silent and don’t greet me kindly; have I +given you any cause of offence?” No one uttered a word in reply for +nearly a minute, when the old man said slowly and deliberately: “Why, +sir, the long and short of it is this: we have got it into our heads that +you understand every word of our discourse; now, do you or do you not?” + +“Understand every word of your discourse,” said I; “I wish I did; I would +give five pounds to understand every word of your discourse.” + +“That’s a clever attempt to get off, sir,” said the old man, “but it +won’t exactly do. Tell us whether you know more Welsh than bara y caws; +or to speak more plainly, whether you understand a good deal of what we +say.” + +“Well,” said I, “I do understand more Welsh than bara y caws—I do +understand a considerable part of a Welsh conversation—moreover, I can +read Welsh, and have the life of Tom O’r Nant at my fingers’ ends.” + +“Well, sir, that is speaking plain, and I will tell you plainly that we +don’t like to have strangers among us who understand our discourse, more +especially if they be gentlefolks.” + +“That’s strange,” said I; “a Welshman or foreigner, gentle or simple, may +go into a public-house in England, and nobody cares a straw whether he +understands the discourse of the company or not.” + +“That may be the custom in England,” said the old man; “but it is not so +in Wales.” + +“What have you got to conceal?” said I. “I suppose you are honest men.” + +“I hope we are, sir,” said the old man; “but I must tell you, once for +all, that we don’t like strangers to listen to our discourse.” + +“Come,” said I, “I will not listen to your discourse, but you shall +listen to mine. I have a wonderful deal to say if I once begin; I have +been everywhere.” + +“Well, sir,” said the old man, “if you have anything to tell us about +where you have been and what you have seen we shall be glad to hear you.” + +“Have you ever been in Russia?” shouted a voice, that of the large rough +fellow who asked me the question about the Russian war. + +“O yes, I have been in Russia,” said I. + +“Well, what kind of a country is it?” + +“Very different from this,” said I, “which is a little country up in a +corner, full of hills and mountains; that is an immense country, +extending from the Baltic Sea to the confines of China, almost as flat as +a pancake, there not being a hill to be seen for nearly two thousand +miles.” + +“A very poor country, isn’t it, always covered with ice and snow?” + +“O no; it is one of the richest countries in the world, producing all +kinds of grain, with noble rivers intersecting it, and in some parts +covered with stately forests. In the winter, which is rather long, there +is a good deal of ice and snow, it is true, but in the summer the weather +is warmer than here.” + +“And are there any towns and cities in Russia, sir, as there are in +Britain?” said the old man, who had resigned his seat in the +chimney-corner to me; “I suppose not, or, if there be, nothing equal to +Hereford or Bristol, in both of which I have been.” + +“O yes,” said I, “there are plenty of towns and cities. The two +principal ones are Moscow and Saint Petersburg, both of which are +capitals. Moscow is a fine old city, far up the country, and was the +original seat of empire. In it there is a wonderful building called the +Kremlin, situated on a hill. It is partly palace, partly temple, and +partly fortress. In one of its halls are I don’t know how many crowns, +taken from various kings, whom the Russians have conquered. But the most +remarkable thing in the Kremlin is a huge bell in a cellar or cave, close +by one of the churches; it is twelve feet high, and the sound it gives +when struck with an iron bar, for there are no clappers to Russian bells, +is so loud that the common Russians say it can be heard over the empire. +The other city, Saint Petersburg, where the court generally reside, is a +modern and very fine city; so fine indeed, that I have no hesitation in +saying that neither Bristol nor Hereford is worthy to be named in the +same day with it. Many of the streets are miles in length and straight +as an arrow. The Nefsky Prospect, as it is called, a street which runs +from the grand square, where stands the Emperor’s palace, to the +monastery of Saint Alexander Nefsky, is nearly three miles in length and +is full of noble shops and houses. The Neva, a river twice as broad and +twice as deep as the Thames, and whose waters are clear as crystal, runs +through the town, having on each side of it a superb quay, fenced with +granite, which affords one of the most delightful walks imaginable. If I +had my choice of all the cities of the world to live in, I would chose +Saint Petersburg.” + +“And did you ever see the Emperor?” said the rough fellow, whom I have +more than once mentioned, “did you ever see the Emperor Nicholas?” + +“O yes; I have seen him frequently.” + +“Well, what kind of a man is he? we should like to know.” + +“A man of colossal stature, with a fine, noble, but rather stern and +severe aspect. I think I now see him, with his grey cloak, cocked hat, +and white waving plumes, striding down the Nefsky Prospect, and towering +by a whole head over other people.” + +“Bravo! Did you ever see him at the head of his soldiers?” + +“O yes! I have seen the Emperor review forty thousand of his chosen +troops in the Champs de Mars, and a famous sight it was. There stood the +great, proud man looking at his warriors as they manœuvred before him. +Two-thirds of them were cavalry, and each horseman was mounted on a +beautiful blood charger of Cossack or English breed, and arrayed in a +superb uniform. The blaze, glitter and glory were too much for my eyes, +and I was frequently obliged to turn them away. The scene upon the whole +put me in mind of an immense field of tulips of various dyes, for the +colours of the dresses, of the banners and the plumes, were as gorgeous +and manifold as the hues of those queenly flowers.” + +“Bravo!” said twenty voices; “the gentleman speaks like an areithiwr. +Have you been in other countries besides Russia?” + +“O yes! I have been in Turkey, the people of which are not Christians, +but frequently put Christians to shame by their good faith and honesty. +I have been in the land of the Maugrabins, or Moors—a people who live on +a savoury dish, called couscousoo, and have the gloomiest faces and the +most ferocious hearts under heaven. I have been in Italy, whose people, +though the most clever in the world, are the most unhappy, owing to the +tyranny of a being called the Pope, who, when I saw him, appeared to be +under the influence of strong drink. I have been in Portugal, the people +of which supply the whole world with wine, and drink only water +themselves. I have been in Spain, a very fine country, the people of +which are never so happy as when paying other folks’ reckonings. I have +been—but the wind is blowing wildly without, and the rain pelting against +the windows;—this is a capital night for a ghost story: shall I tell you +a ghost story which I learnt in Spain?” + +“Yes, sir, pray do; we all love ghost stories. Do tell us the ghost +story of Spain.” + +Thereupon I told the company Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is +decidedly the best ghost story in the world. + +Long and loud was the applause which followed the conclusion of the grand +ghost story of the world, in the midst of which I got up, bade the +company good night, and made my exit. Shortly afterwards I desired to be +shown to my sleeping apartment. It was a very small room upstairs, in +the back part of the house; and I make no doubt was the chamber of the +two poor girls, the landlady’s daughters, as I saw various articles of +female attire lying about. The spirit of knight-errantry within me was +not, however, sufficiently strong to prevent me from taking possession of +the female dormitory; so, forthwith divesting myself of every portion of +my habiliments, which were steaming like a boiling tea-kettle, I got into +bed between the blankets, and in a minute was fast in the arms of +Morpheus. + + + + +CHAPTER C + + +Morning—A Cheerless Scene—The Carter—Ode to Glamorgan—Startling +Halloo—One-sided Liberty—Clerical Profession—De Courcy—Love of the +Drop—Independent Spirit—Another People. + +I slept soundly through the night. At about eight o’clock on the +following morning I got up and looked out of the window of my room, which +fronted the north. A strange scene presented itself: a roaring brook was +foaming along towards the west, just under the window. Immediately +beyond it was a bank, not of green turf, grey rock, or brown mould, but +of coal rubbish, coke and cinders; on the top of this bank was a fellow +performing some dirty office or other, with a spade and barrow; beyond +him, on the side of a hill, was a tramway, up which a horse was +straining, drawing a load of something towards the north-west. Beyond +the tramway was a grove of yellow-looking firs; beyond the grove a range +of white houses with blue roofs, occupied, I supposed, by miners and +their families; and beyond these I caught a sight of the mountain on the +top of which I had been the night before, only a partial one, however, as +large masses of mist were still hanging about it. The morning was moist +and dripping, and nothing could look more cheerless and uncomfortable +than the entire scene. + +I put on my things, which were still not half dry, and went down into the +little parlour, where I found an excellent fire awaiting me, and a table +spread for breakfast. The breakfast was delicious, consisting of +excellent tea, buttered toast and Glamorgan sausages, which I really +think are not a whit inferior to those of Epping. After breakfast I went +into the kitchen, which was now only occupied by two or three people. +Seeing a large brush on a dresser, I took it up, and was about to brush +my nether habiliments, which were terribly bespattered with half-dried +mire. Before, however, I could begin, up started one of the men, a wild +shock-headed fellow dressed like a carter, in rough blue frieze coat, +yellow broad corduroy trowsers, grey woollen stockings and highlows, and +snatching the brush out of my hand, fell to brushing me most vigorously, +purring and blowing all the time in a most tremendous manner. I did not +refuse his services, but let him go on, and to reward him, as I thought, +spoke kindly to him, asking him various questions. “Are you a carter?” +said I. No answer. “One of Twm O’r Nant’s people?” No answer. “Famous +fellow that Twm O’r Nant, wasn’t he? Did you ever hear how he got the +great tree in at Carmarthen Gate? What is wood per foot at present? +Whom do you cart for? Or are you your own master? If so, how many +horses do you keep?” + +To not one of these questions, nor to a dozen others which I put, both in +English and Welsh, did my friend with the brush return any verbal answer, +though I could occasionally hear a kind of stifled giggle proceeding from +him. Having at length thoroughly brushed not only my clothes, but my +boots and my hat, which last article he took from my head, and placed on +again very dexterously, after brushing it, he put the brush down on the +dresser, and then advancing to me made me a bow, and waving his +forefinger backwards and forwards before my face, he said, with a broad +grin: “Nice gentleman—will do anything for him but answer questions, and +let him hear my discourse. Love to listen to his pleasant stories of +foreign lands, ghosts and tylwith teg; but before him deem it wise to be +mum, quite mum. Know what he comes about. Wants to hear discourse of +poor man, that he may learn from it poor man’s little ways and +invirmities, and mark them down in one small, little book to serve for +fun to Lord Palmerston and the other great gentlefolks in London. Nice +man, civil man, I don’t deny; and clebber man too, for he knows Welsh, +and has been everywhere—but fox—old fox—lives at Plas y Cadno.” {570} + +Having been informed that there was a considerable iron foundry close by, +I thought it would be worth my while to go and see it. I entered the +premises, and was standing and looking round, when a man with the +appearance of a respectable mechanic came up and offered to show me over +the place. I gladly accepted his offer, and he showed me all about the +iron-foundry. I saw a large steam-engine at full play, terrible +furnaces, and immense heaps of burning, crackling cinders, and a fiery +stream of molten metal rolling along. After seeing what there was to be +seen, I offered a piece of silver to my kind conductor, which he at once +refused. On my asking him, however, to go to the inn and have a friendly +glass, he smiled, and said he had no objection. So we went to the inn, +and had two friendly glasses of whiskey-and-water together, and also some +discourse. I asked him if there were any English employed on the +premises. “None,” said he, “nor Irish either; we are all Welsh.” Though +he was a Welshman, his name was a very common English one. + +After paying the reckoning, which only amounted to three and sixpence, I +departed for Swansea, distant about thirteen miles. Gutter Vawr consists +of one street, extending for some little way along the Swansea road, the +foundry, and a number of huts and houses scattered here and there. The +population is composed almost entirely of miners, the workers at the +foundry, and their families. For the first two or three miles the +country through which I passed did not at all prepossess me in favour of +Glamorganshire: it consisted of low, sullen, peaty hills. Subsequently, +however, it improved rapidly, becoming bold, wild, and pleasantly wooded. +The aspect of the day improved, also, with the appearance of the country. +When I first started the morning was wretched and drizzly, but in less +than an hour it cleared up wonderfully, and the sun began to flash out. +As I looked on the bright luminary I thought of Ab Gwilym’s ode to the +sun and Glamorgan, and with breast heaving and with eyes full of tears, I +began to repeat parts of it, or rather of a translation made in my happy +boyish years: + + “Each morn, benign of countenance, + Upon Glamorgan’s pennon glance! + Each afternoon in beauty clear + Above my own dear bounds appear! + Bright outline of a blessed clime, + Again, though sunk, arise sublime— + Upon my errand, swift repair, + And unto green Glamorgan bear + Good days and terms of courtesy + From my dear country and from me! + Move round—but need I thee command?— + Its chalk-white halls, which cheerful stand— + Pleasant thy own pavilions too— + Its fields and orchards fair to view. + + “O, pleasant is thy task and high + In radiant warmth to roam the sky, + To keep from ill that kindly ground, + Its meads and farms, where mead is found, + A land whose commons live content, + Where each man’s lot is excellent. + Where hosts to hail thee shall upstand, + Where lads are bold and lasses bland, + A land I oft from hill that’s high + Have gazed upon with raptur’d eye; + Where maids are trained in virtue’s school, + Where duteous wives spin dainty wool; + A country with each gift supplied, + Confronting Cornwall’s cliffs of pride.” + +Came to Llanguick, a hamlet situated near a tremendous gorge, the sides +of which were covered with wood. Thence to the village of Tawy Bridge, +at the bottom of a beautiful valley, through which runs the Tawy, which, +after the Taf, is the most considerable river in Glamorganshire. +Continuing my course, I passed by an enormous edifice which stood on my +right hand. It had huge chimneys, which were casting forth smoke, and +from within I heard the noise of a steam-engine and the roar of furnaces. + +“What place is this?” said I to a boy. + +“Gwaith haiarn, sir; ym perthyn i Mr. Pearson. Mr. Pearson’s iron works, +sir.” + +I proceeded, and in about half-an-hour saw a man walking before me in the +same direction in which I was. He was going very briskly, but I soon +came up to him. He was a small, well-made fellow, with reddish hair and +ruddy, determined countenance, somewhat tanned. He wore a straw hat, +checkered shirt, open at the neck, canvas trowsers, and blue jacket. On +his feet were shoes remarkably thin, but no stockings, and in his hand he +held a stout stick, with which, just before I overtook him, he struck a +round stone which lay on the ground, sending it flying at least fifty +yards before him on the road, and following it in its flight with a wild +and somewhat startling halloo. + +“Good day, my friend,” said I; “you seem to be able to use a stick.” + +“And sure I ought to be, your honour, seeing as how my father taught me, +who was the best fighting man with a stick that the Shanavests ever had. +Many is the head of a Caravaut that he has broken with some such an +Alpeen wattle as the one I am carrying with me here.” + +“A good thing,” said I, “that there are no Old Waistcoats and Cravats at +present, at least bloody factions bearing those names.” + +“Your honour thinks so! Faith! I am clane of a contrary opinion. I +wish the ould Shanavests and Caravauts were fighting still; and I among +them. Faith! there was some life in Ireland in their days.” + +“And plenty of death too,” said I. “How fortunate it is that the Irish +have the English among them, to prevent their cutting each other’s +throats.” + +“The English prevent the Irish from cutting each other’s throats! Well! +if they do, it is only that they may have the pleasure of cutting them +themselves. The bloody tyrants! too long has their foot been upon the +neck of poor old Ireland.” + +“How do the English tyrannise over Ireland?” + +“How do they tyrannise over her? Don’t they prevent her from having the +free exercise of her Catholic religion, and make her help to support +their own Protestant one?” + +“Well, and don’t the Roman Catholics prevent the Protestants from having +the free exercise of their religion, whenever they happen to be the most +numerous, and don’t they make them help to support the Roman Catholic +religion?” + +“Of course they do, and quite right. Had I my will there shouldn’t be a +place of Protestant worship left standing, or a Protestant churl allowed +to go about with a head unbroken.” + +“Then why do you blame the Protestants for keeping the Romans a little +under?” + +“Why do I blame them? A purty question! Why, an’t they wrong, and an’t +we right?” + +“But they say that they are right and you wrong.” + +“They say! who minds what they say? Havn’t we the word of the blessed +Pope that we are right?” + +“And they say that they have the word of the blessed Gospel that you are +wrong.” + +“The Gospel! who cares for the Gospel? Surely you are not going to +compare the Gospel with the Pope?” + +“Well, they certainly are not to be named in the same day.” + +“They are not? Then good luck to you! We are both of the same opinion. +Ah, I thought your honour was a rale Catholic. Now, tell me from what +kingdom of Ireland does your honour hail?” + +“Why, I was partly educated in Munster.” + +“In Munster! Hoorah! Here’s the hand of a countryman to your honour. +Ah, it was asy to be seen from the learning which your honour shows, that +your honour is from Munster. There’s no spot in Ireland like Munster for +learning. What says the old song? + + “‘Ulster for a soldier + Connaught for a thief, + Munster for learning, + And Leinster for beef.’” + +“Hoorah for learned Munster! and down with beggarly, thievish Connaught! +I would that a Connaught man would come athwart me now, that I might +break his thief’s head with my Alpeen.” + +“You don’t seem to like the Connaught men,” said I. + +“Like them! who can like them? a parcel of beggarly thievish blackguards. +So your honour was edicated in Munster, I mane partly edicated. I +suppose by your saying that you were partly edicated, that your honour +was intended for the clerical profession, but being over fond of the drop +was forced to lave college before your edication was quite completed, and +so for want of a better profession took up with that of merchandise. Ah, +the love of the drop at college has prevented many a clever young fellow +from taking holy orders. Well, it’s a pity, but it can’t be helped. I +am fond of a drop myself, and when we get to — shall be happy to offer +your honour a glass of whiskey. I hope your honour and I shall splice +the mainbrace together before we part.” + +“I suppose,” said I, “by your talking of splicing the mainbrace that you +are a sailor.” + +“I am, your honour, and hail from the Cove of Cork in the kingdom of +Munster.” + +“I know it well,” said I. “It is the best sea-basin in the world. Well, +how came you into these parts?” + +“I’ll tell your honour; my ship is at Swansea, and having a relation +working at the foundry behind us, I came to see him.” + +“Are you in the royal service?” + +“I am not, your honour; I was once in the royal service, but having a +dispute with the boatswain at Spithead, I gave him a wipe, jumped +overboard and swam ashore. After that I sailed for Cuba, got into the +merchants’ service there and made several voyages to the Black Coast. At +present I am in the service of the merchants of Cork.” + +“I wonder that you are not now in the royal service,” said I, “since you +are so fond of fighting. There is hot work going on at present up the +Black Sea, and brave men, especially Irishmen, are in great request.” + +“Yes, brave Irishmen are always in great request with England when she +has a battle to fight. At other times they are left to lie in the mud +with the chain round their necks. It has been so ever since the time of +De Courcy, and I suppose always will be so, unless Irishmen all become of +my mind, which is not likely. Were the Irish all of my mind, the English +would find no Irish champion to fight their battles when the French or +the Russians come to beard them.” + +“By De Courcy,” said I, “you mean the man whom the King of England +confined in the Tower of London after taking him from his barony in the +county of Cork.” + +“Of course, your honour, and whom he kept in the Tower till the King of +France sent over a champion to insult and beard him, when the king was +glad to take De Courcy out of the dungeon to fight the French champion, +for divil a one of his own English fighting men dared take the Frenchman +in hand.” + +“A fine fellow that De Courcy,” said I. + +“Rather too fond of the drop though, like your honour and myself, for +after he had caused the French champion to flee back into France he lost +the greater part of the reward which the King of England promised him +solely by making too free with the strong drink. Does your honour +remember that part of the story?” + +“I think I do,” said I, “but I should be very glad to hear you relate +it.” + +“Then your honour shall. Right glad was the King of England when the +French champion fled back to France, for no sooner did the dirty spalpeen +hear that they were going to bring De Courcy against him, the fame of +whose strength and courage filled the whole world, than he betook himself +back to his own country and was never heard of more. Right glad, I say, +was the King of England, and gave leave to De Courcy to return to +Ireland, ‘And you shall have,’ said he, ‘of the barony which I took from +you all that you can ride round on the first day of your return.’ So De +Courcy betook himself to Ireland and to his barony, but he was anything +but a lucky man, this De Courcy, for his friends and relations and +tenantry, hearing of his coming, prepared a grand festival for him with +all kinds of illigant viands and powerful liquors, and when he arrived +there it was waiting for him, and down to it he sat, and ate and drank, +and for joy of seeing himself once more amongst his friends and tenantry +in the hall of his forefathers and for love of the drop, which he always +had, he drank of the powerful liquors more than he ought, and the upshot +was that he became drunk, agus do bhi an duine maith sin misgeadh do +ceathar o glog; the good gentleman was drunk till four o’clock, and when +he awoke he found that he had but two hours of day remaining to win back +his brave barony. However, he did not lose heart, but mounted his horse +and set off riding as fast as a man just partly recovered from +intoxication could be expected to do, and he contrived to ride round four +parishes, and only four, and these four parishes were all that he +recovered of his brave barony, and all that he had to live upon till his +dying day, and all that he had to leave to his descendants, so that De +Courcy could scarcely be called a very lucky man, after all.” + +Shortly after my friend the sailor had concluded his account of De Courcy +we arrived in the vicinity of a small town or rather considerable +village. It stood on the right-hand side of the road, fronting the east, +having a high romantic hill behind it on the sides of which were woods, +groves, and pleasant-looking white houses. + +“What place is this?” said I to my companion. + +“This is —, your honour; and here, if your honour will accept a glass of +whiskey we will splice the mainbrace together.” + +“Thank you,” said I; “but I am in haste to get to Swansea. Moreover, if +I am over fond of the drop, as you say I am, the sooner I begin to +practise abstinence the better.” + +“Very true, your honour! Well, at any rate, when your honour gets to +Swansea you will not be able to say that Pat Flannagan walked for miles +with your honour along the road without offering your honour a glass of +whiskey.” + +“Nor shall Pat Flannagan be able to say the same thing of my honour. I +have a shilling in my pocket at Pat Flannagan’s service, if he chooses to +splice with it the mainbrace for himself and for me.” + +“Thank your honour; but I have a shilling in my own pocket, and a dollar +too, and a five-pound note besides; so I needn’t be beholden for drink +money to anybody under the sun.” + +“Well then, farewell! Here’s my hand!—Slan leat a Phatraic ui +Flannagan!” + +“Slan leat a dhuine-uasail!” said Patrick, giving me his hand; “and +health, hope and happiness to ye.” + +Thereupon he turned aside to —, and I continued my way to Swansea. +Arrived at a place called Glandwr, about two miles from Swansea, I found +that I was splashed from top to toe, for the roads were frightfully miry, +and was sorry to perceive that my boots had given way at the soles, large +pieces of which were sticking out. I must, however, do the poor things +the justice to say that it was no wonder that they were in this +dilapidated condition, for in those boots I had walked at least two +hundred miles, over all kinds of paths, since I had got them soled at +Llangollen. “Well,” said I to myself, “it won’t do to show myself at +Swansea in this condition, more especially as I shall go to the best +hotel; I must try and get myself made a little decent here.” Seeing a +little inn on my right I entered it, and addressing myself to a neat, +comfortable landlady, who was standing within the bar, I said— + +“Please to let me have a glass of ale!—and hearkee; as I have been +walking along the road, I should be glad of the services of the ‘boots.’” + +“Very good, sir,” said the landlady with a curtsey. + +Then showing me into a nice little sanded parlour, she brought me the +glass of ale, and presently sent in a lad with a boot-jack to minister to +me. O, what can’t a little money effect? For sixpence in that small +nice inn I had a glass of ale, my boots cleaned and the excrescences cut +off, my clothes wiped with a dwile, and then passed over with a brush, +and was myself thanked over and over again. Starting again with all the +spirited confidence of one who has just cast off his slough, I soon found +myself in the suburbs of Swansea. As I passed under what appeared to be +a railroad bridge I inquired in Welsh of an ancient-looking man, in coaly +habiliments, if it was one. He answered in the same language that it +was, then instantly added in English— + +“You have taken your last farewell of Wales, sir; it’s no use speaking +Welsh farther on.” + +I passed some immense edifices, probably manufactories, and was soon +convinced that, whether I was in Wales or not, I was no longer amongst +Welsh. The people whom I met did not look like Welsh. They were taller +and bulkier than the Cambrians, and were speaking a dissonant English +jargon. The women had much the appearance of Dutch fisherwomen; some of +them were carrying huge loads on their heads. I spoke in Welsh to two or +three whom I overtook. + +“No Welsh, sir!” + +“Why don’t you speak Welsh?” said I. + +“Because we never learnt it. We are not Welsh.” + +“Who are you then?” + +“English; some call us Flamings.” + +“Ah, ah!” said I to myself, “I had forgot.” + +Presently I entered the town, a large, bustling, dirty, gloomy place, and +inquiring for the first hotel was directed to the “Mackworth Arms,” in +Wine Street. + +As soon as I was shown into the parlour I summoned the “boots,” and on +his making his appearance I said in a stern voice: “My boots want soling; +let them be done by to-morrow morning.” + +“Can’t be, sir; it’s now Saturday afternoon, and the shoemaker couldn’t +begin them to-night!” + +“But you must make him!” said I; “and look here, I shall give him a +shilling extra, and you an extra shilling for seeing after him.” + +“Yes, sir; I’ll see after him—they shall be done, sir. Bring you your +slippers instantly. Glad to see you again in Swansea, sir, looking so +well.” + + + + +CHAPTER CI + + +Swansea—The Flemings—Towards England. + +Swansea is called by the Welsh Abertawé, which signifies the mouth of the +Tawy. Aber, as I have more than once had occasion to observe, signifies +the place where a river enters into the sea or joins another. It is a +Gaelic as well as a Cumric word, being found in the Gaelic names Aberdeen +and Lochaber, and there is good reason for supposing that the word +harbour is derived from it. Swansea or Swansey is a compound word of +Scandinavian origin, which may mean either a river abounding with swans, +or the river of Swanr, the name of some northern adventurer who settled +down at its mouth. The final ea or ey is the Norwegian aa, which +signifies a running water; it is of frequent occurrence in the names of +rivers in Norway, and is often found, similarly modified, in those of +other countries where the adventurous Norwegians formed settlements. + +Swansea first became a place of some importance shortly after the +beginning of the twelfth century. In the year 1108 the greater part of +Flanders having been submerged by the sea {579} an immense number of +Flemings came over to England, and entreated of Henry the First, the king +then occupying the throne, that he would allot to them lands in which +they might settle. The king sent them to various parts of Wales which +had been conquered by his barons or those of his predecessors: a +considerable number occupied Swansea and the neighbourhood; but far the +greater part went to Dyfed, generally but improperly called Pembroke, the +south-eastern part of which, by far the most fertile, they entirely took +possession of, leaving to the Welsh the rest, which is very mountainous +and barren. + +I have already said that the people of Swansea stand out in broad +distinctness from the Cumry, differing from them in stature, language, +dress, and manners, and wish to observe that the same thing may be said +of the inhabitants of every part of Wales which the Flemings colonised in +any considerable numbers. + +I found the accommodation very good at the “Mackworth Arms;” I passed the +Saturday evening very agreeably, and slept well throughout the night. +The next morning to my great joy I found my boots, capitally repaired, +awaiting me before my chamber door. + +O the mighty effect of a little money! After breakfast I put them on, +and as it was Sunday went out in order to go to church. The streets were +thronged with people; a new mayor had just been elected, and his worship, +attended by a number of halbert and javelin men, was going to church too. +I followed the procession, which moved with great dignity and of course +very slowly. The church had a high square tower and looked a very fine +edifice on the outside and no less so within, for the nave was lofty with +noble pillars on each side. I stood during the whole of the service as +did many others, for the congregation was so great that it was impossible +to accommodate all with seats. The ritual was performed in a very +satisfactory manner and was followed by an excellent sermon. I am +ashamed to say that I have forgot the text, but I remember a good deal of +the discourse. The preacher said amongst other things that the Gospel +was not preached in vain, and that he very much doubted whether a sermon +was ever delivered which did not do some good. On the conclusion of the +services I strolled about in order to see the town and what pertained to +it. The town is of considerable size with some remarkable edifices, +spacious and convenient quays, and a commodious harbour into which the +river Tawy flowing from the north empties itself. The town and harbour +are overhung on the side of the east by a lofty green mountain with a +Welsh name, no doubt exceedingly appropriate, but which I regret to say +has escaped my memory. + +After having seen all that I wished I returned to my inn and discharged +all my obligations. I then departed, framing my course eastward towards +England, having traversed Wales nearly from north to south. + + + + +CHAPTER CII + + +Leave Swansea—The Pandemonium—Neath Abbey—Varied Scenery. + +It was about two o’clock of a dull and gloomy afternoon when I started +from Abertawy or Swansea, intending to stop at Neath, some eight miles +distant. As I passed again through the suburbs I was struck with their +length and the evidences of enterprise which they exhibited—enterprise, +however, evidently chiefly connected with iron and coal, for almost every +object looked awfully grimy. Crossing a bridge I proceeded to the east +up a broad and spacious valley, the eastern side of which was formed by +russet-coloured hills, through a vista of which I could descry a range of +tall blue mountains. As I proceeded I sometimes passed pleasant groves +and hedgerows, sometimes huge works; in this valley there was a singular +mixture of nature and art, of the voices of birds and the clanking of +chains, of the mists of heaven and the smoke of furnaces. + +I reached Llan—, a small village half-way between Swansea and Neath, and +without stopping continued my course, walking very fast. I had +surmounted a hill and had nearly descended that side of it which looked +towards the east, having on my left, that is to the north, a wooded +height, when an extraordinary scene presented itself to my eyes. +Somewhat to the south rose immense stacks of chimneys surrounded by grimy +diabolical-looking buildings, in the neighbourhood of which were huge +heaps of cinders and black rubbish. From the chimneys, notwithstanding +it was Sunday, smoke was proceeding in volumes, choking the atmosphere +all around. From this pandemonium, at the distance of about a quarter of +a mile to the southwest, upon a green meadow, stood, looking darkly grey, +a ruin of vast size with window holes, towers, spires, and arches. +Between it and the accursed pandemonium, lay a horrid filthy place, part +of which was swamp and part pool: the pool black as soot, and the swamp +of a disgusting leaden colour. Across this place of filth stretched a +tramway leading seemingly from the abominable mansions to the ruin. So +strange a scene I had never beheld in nature. Had it been on canvas, +with the addition of a number of diabolical figures, proceeding along the +tramway, it might have stood for Sabbath in Hell—devils proceeding to +afternoon worship, and would have formed a picture worthy of the powerful +but insane painter Jerome Bos. + +After standing for a considerable time staring at the strange spectacle I +proceeded. Presently meeting a lad, I asked him what was the name of the +ruin. + +“The Abbey,” he replied. + +“Neath Abbey?” said I. + +“Yes!” + +Having often heard of this abbey, which in its day was one of the most +famous in Wales, I determined to go and inspect it. It was with some +difficulty that I found my way to it. It stood, as I have already +observed, in a meadow, and was on almost every side surrounded by +majestic hills. To give any clear description of this ruined pile would +be impossible, the dilapidation is so great, dilapidation evidently less +the effect of time than of awful violence, perhaps that of gunpowder. +The southern is by far the most perfect portion of the building; there +you see not only walls but roofs. Fronting you full south, is a mass of +masonry with two immense arches, other arches behind them: entering, you +find yourself beneath a vaulted roof, and passing on you come to an +oblong square which may have been a church; an iron-barred window on your +right enables you to look into a mighty vault, the roof of which is +supported by beautiful pillars. Then but I forbear to say more +respecting these remains for fear of stating what is incorrect, my stay +amongst them having been exceedingly short. + +The Abbey of Glen Neath was founded in the twelfth century by Richard +Grenfield, one of the followers of Robert Fitzhamon, who subjugated +Glamorgan. Neath Abbey was a very wealthy one, the founder having +endowed it with extensive tracts of fertile land along the banks of the +rivers Neath and Tawy. In it the unfortunate Edward of Carnarvon sought +a refuge for a few days from the rage of his revolted barons, whilst his +favourite the equally unfortunate Spencer endeavoured to find a covert +amidst the thickets of the wood-covered hill to the north. When Richmond +landed at Milford Haven to dispute the crown with Richard the Second, the +then Abbot of Neath repaired to him and gave him his benediction, in +requital for which the adventurer gave him his promise that in the event +of his obtaining the crown he would found a college in Glen Neath, which +promise, however, after he had won the crown, he forgot to perform. {583} +The wily abbot, when he hastened to pay worship to what he justly +conceived to be the rising sun, little dreamt that he was about to bless +the future father of the terrible man doomed by Providence to plant the +abomination of desolation in Neath Abbey and in all the other nests of +monkery throughout the land. + +Leaving the ruins I proceeded towards Neath. The scenery soon became +very beautiful; not that I had left machinery altogether behind, for I +presently came to a place where huge wheels were turning and there was +smoke and blast, but there was much that was rural and beautiful to be +seen, something like park scenery, and then there were the mountains near +and in the distance. I reached Neath at about half-past four, and took +up my quarters at an inn which had been recommended to me by my friend +the boots at Swansea. + + + + +CHAPTER CIII + + +Town of Neath—Hounds and Huntsman—Spectral Chapel—The Glowing Mountain. + +Neath is a place of some antiquity, for it can boast of the remains of a +castle and is a corporate town. There is but little Welsh spoken in it. +It is situated on the Neath, and exports vast quantities of coal and +iron, of both of which there are rich mines in the neighbourhood. It +derives its name from the river Nedd or Neth on which it stands. Nedd or +Neth is the same word as Nith the name of a river in Scotland, and is in +some degree connected with Nidda the name of one in Germany. Nedd in +Welsh signifies a dingle, and the word in its various forms has always +something to do with lowness or inferiority of position. Amongst its +forms are Nether and Nieder. The term is well applied to the +Glamorganshire river, which runs through dingles and under mountains. + +The Neath has its source in the mountains of Brecon, and enters the sea +some little way below the town of Neath. + +On the Monday morning I resumed my journey, directing my course up the +vale of Neath towards Merthyr Tydvil, distant about four-and-twenty +miles. The weather was at first rainy, misty, and miserable, but +improved by degrees. I passed through a village which I was told was +called Llanagos; close to it were immense establishments of some kind. +The scenery soon became exceedingly beautiful; hills covered with wood to +the tops were on either side of the dale. I passed an avenue leading +somewhere through groves, and was presently overtaken and passed by +hounds and a respectable-looking old huntsman on a black horse; a minute +afterwards I caught a glimpse of an old redbrick mansion nearly embosomed +in groves, from which proceeded a mighty cawing. Probably it belonged to +the proprietor of the dogs, and certainly looked a very fit mansion for a +Glamorganshire squire, justice of the peace, and keeper of a pack of +hounds. + +I went on, the vale increasing in beauty; there was a considerable +drawback, however: one of those detestable contrivances a railroad was on +the farther side—along which trains were passing, rumbling and screaming. + +I saw a bridge on my right hand with five or six low arches over the +river, which was here full of shoals. Asked a woman the name of the +bridge. + +“_Pont Fawr_ ei galw, sir.” + +I was again amongst the real Welsh—this woman had no English. + +I passed by several remarkable mountains, both on the south and northern +side of the vale. Late in the afternoon I came to the eastern extremity +of the vale and ascended a height. Shortly afterwards I reached Rhigos, +a small village. + +Entering a public-house I called for ale and sat down amidst some grimy +fellows, who said nothing to me and to whom I said nothing—their +discourse was in Welsh and English. Of their Welsh I understood but +little, for it was a strange corrupt jargon. In about half-an-hour after +leaving this place I came to the beginning of a vast moor. It was now +growing rather dusk and I could see blazes here and there; occasionally I +heard horrid sounds. Came to Irvan, an enormous mining-place with a +spectral-looking chapel, doubtless a Methodist one. The street was +crowded with rough savage-looking men. “Is this the way to Merthyr +Tydvil?” said I to one. + +“Yes!” bawled the fellow at the utmost stretch of his voice. + +“Thank you!” said I, taking off my hat and passing on. + +Forward I went, up hill and down dale. Night now set in. I passed a +grove of trees and presently came to a collection of small houses at the +bottom of a little hollow. Hearing a step near me I stopped and said in +Welsh: “How far to Merthyr Tydvil?” + +“Dim Cumrag, sir!” said a voice, seemingly that of a man. + +“Good-night!” said I, and without staying to put the question in English, +I pushed on up an ascent and was presently amongst trees. Heard for a +long time the hooting of an owl or rather the frantic hollo. Appeared to +pass by where the bird had its station. Toiled up an acclivity and when +on the top stood still and looked around me. There was a glow on all +sides in the heaven except in the north-east quarter. Striding on I saw +a cottage on my left-hand, and standing at the door the figure of a +woman. “How far to Merthyr?” said I in Welsh. + +“Tair milltir—three miles, sir.” + +Turning round a corner at the top of a hill I saw blazes here and there +and what appeared to be a glowing mountain in the south-east. I went +towards it down a descent which continued for a long, long way; so great +was the light cast by the blazes and that wonderful glowing object that I +could distinctly see the little stones upon the road. After walking +about half-an-hour, always going downwards, I saw a house on my left hand +and heard a noise of water opposite to it. It was a pistyll. I went to +it, drank greedily, and then hurried on, more and more blazes and the +glowing object looking more terrible than ever. It was now above me at +some distance to the left, and I could see that it was an immense +quantity of heated matter like lava, occupying the upper and middle parts +of a hill and descending here and there almost to the bottom in a zigzag +and tortuous manner. Between me and the hill of the burning object lay a +deep ravine. After a time I came to a house, against the door of which a +man was leaning. + +“What is all that burning stuff above, my friend?” + +“Dross from the iron forges, sir!” + +I now perceived a valley below me full of lights, and descending reached +houses and a tramway. I had blazes now all around me. I went through a +filthy slough, over a bridge, and up a street, from which dirty lanes +branched off on either side, passed throngs of savage-looking people +talking clamorously, shrank from addressing any of them, and finally +undirected found myself before the Castle Inn at Merthyr Tydvil. + + + + +CHAPTER CIV + + +Iron and Coal—The Martyred Princess—Cyfartha Fawr—Diabolical Structure. + +Merthyr Tydvil is situated in a broad valley through which roll the +waters of the Taf. It was till late an inconsiderable village, but is at +present the greatest mining place in Britain, and may be called with much +propriety the capital of the iron and coal. + +It bears the name of Merthyr Tydvil, which signifies the Martyr Tydvil, +because in the old time a Christian British princess was slain in the +locality which it occupies. Tydvil was the daughter of Brychan Prince of +Brecon, surnamed Brycheiniawg, or the Breconian, who flourished in the +fifth century and was a contemporary of Hengist. He was a man full of +Christian zeal and a great preacher of the Gospel, and gave his children, +of which he had many both male and female by various wives, an education +which he hoped would not only make them Christians, but enable them to +preach the Gospel to their countrymen. They proved themselves worthy of +his care, all of them without one exception becoming exemplary +Christians, and useful preachers. In his latter days he retired to a +hermitage in Glamorganshire near the Taf and passed his time in devotion, +receiving occasionally visits from his children. Once, when he and +several of them, amongst whom was Tydvil, were engaged in prayer a band +of heathen Saxons rushed in upon them and slew Tydvil with three of her +brothers. Ever since that time the place has borne the name of Martyr +Tydvil. {587} + +The Taf, which runs to the south of Merthyr, comes down from Breconshire, +and enters the Bristol Channel at Cardiff, a place the name of which in +English is the city on the Taf. It is one of the most beautiful of +rivers, but is not navigable on account of its numerous shallows. The +only service which it renders to commerce is feeding a canal which +extends from Merthyr to Cardiff. It is surprising how similar many of +the Welsh rivers are in name: Taf, Tawey, Towey, Teivi, and Duffy differ +but very little in sound. Taf and Teivi have both the same meaning, +namely a tendency to spread out. The other names, though probably +expressive of the properties or peculiarities of the streams to which +they respectively belong, I know not how to translate. + +The morning of the fourteenth was very fine. After breakfast I went to +see the Cyfartha Fawr iron works, generally considered to be the great +wonder of the place. After some slight demur I obtained permission from +the superintendent to inspect them. I was attended by an intelligent +mechanic. What shall I say about the Cyfartha Fawr? I had best say but +very little. I saw enormous furnaces. I saw streams of molten metal. I +saw a long ductile piece of red-hot iron being operated upon. I saw +millions of sparks flying about. I saw an immense wheel impelled round +with frightful velocity by a steam engine of two hundred and forty horse +power. I heard all kinds of dreadful sounds. The general effect was +stunning. These works belong to the Crawshays, a family distinguished by +a strange kind of eccentricity, but also by genius and enterprising +spirit, and by such a strict feeling of honour that it is a common saying +that the word of any one of them is as good as the bond of other people. + +After seeing the Cyfartha I roamed about making general observations. +The mountain of dross which had startled me on the preceding night with +its terrific glare, and which stands to the north-west of the town, +looked now nothing more than an immense dark heap of cinders. It is only +when the shades of night have settled down that the fire within manifests +itself, making the hill appear an immense glowing mass. All the hills +around the town, some of which are very high, have a scorched and +blackened look. An old Anglesea bard, rather given to bombast, wishing +to extol the abundant cheer of his native isle, said: “The hills of +Ireland are blackened by the smoke from the kitchens of Mona.” With much +more propriety might a bard of the banks of the Taf who should wish to +apologise for the rather smutty appearance of his native vale exclaim: +“The hills around the Taf once so green are blackened by the smoke from +the chimneys of Merthyr.” The town is large and populous. The +inhabitants for the most part are Welsh, and Welsh is the language +generally spoken, though all have some knowledge of English. The houses +are in general low and mean, and built of rough grey stone. Merthyr, +however, can show several remarkable edifices, though of a gloomy, horrid +Satanic character. There is the hall of the Iron, with its arches, from +whence proceeds incessantly a thundering noise of hammers. Then there is +an edifice at the foot of a mountain, half way up the side of which is a +blasted forest, and on the top an enormous crag. A truly wonderful +edifice it is, such as Bos would have imagined had he wanted to paint the +palace of Satan. There it stands; a house of reddish brick with a slate +roof—four horrid black towers behind, two of them belching forth smoke +and flame from their tops—holes like pigeon holes here and there—two +immense white chimneys standing by themselves. What edifice can that be +of such strange mad details? I ought to have put that question to some +one in Tydvil, but did not, though I stood staring at the diabolical +structure with my mouth open. It is of no use putting the question to +myself here. + +After strolling about for some two hours with my hands in my pockets, I +returned to my inn, called for a glass of ale, paid my reckoning, flung +my satchel over my shoulder, and departed. + + + + +CHAPTER CV + + +Start for Caerfili—Johanna Colgan—Alms-Giving—The Monstrous Female—The +Evil Prayer—The Next Day—The Aifrionn—Unclean +Spirits—Expectation—Wreaking Vengeance—A Decent Alms. + +I left Merthyr about twelve o’clock for Caerfili. My course lay along +the valley to the south-east. I passed a large village called Troed y +Rhiw, or the foot of the slope, from its being at the foot of a lofty +elevation, which stands on the left-hand side of the road, and was +speeding onwards fast, with the Taf at some distance on my right, when I +saw a strange-looking woman advancing towards me. She seemed between +forty and fifty, was bare-footed and bare-headed, with grizzled hair +hanging in elf locks, and was dressed in rags and tatters. When about +ten yards from me, she pitched forward, gave three or four grotesque +tumbles, heels over head, then standing bolt upright, about a yard before +me, she raised her right arm, and shouted in a most discordant +voice—“Give me an alms, for the glory of God.” + +I stood still, quite confounded. Presently, however, recovering myself, +I said:—“Really, I don’t think it would be for the glory of God to give +you alms.” + +“Ye don’t! Then, Biadh an taifronn—however, I’ll give ye a chance yet. +Am I to get my alms or not?” + +“Before I give you alms I must know something about you. Who are you?” + +“Who am I? Who should I be but Johanna Colgan, a bedivilled woman from +the county of Limerick?” + +“And how did you become bedevilled?” + +“Because a woman something like myself said an evil prayer over me for +not giving her an alms, which prayer I have at my tongue’s end, and +unless I get my alms will say over you. So for your own sake, honey, +give me my alms, and let me go on my way.” + +“O, I am not to be frightened by evil prayers! I shall give you nothing +till I hear all about you.” + +“If I tell ye all about me will ye give me an alms?” + +“Well, I have no objection to give you something if you tell me your +story.” + +“Will ye give me a dacent alms?” + +“O, you must leave the amount to my free will and pleasure. I shall give +you what I think fit.” + +“Well, so ye shall, honey; and I make no doubt ye will give me a dacent +alms, for I like the look of ye, and knew ye to be an Irishman +half-a-mile off. Only four years ago, instead of being a bedivilled +woman, tumbling about the world, I was as quiet and respectable a widow +as could be found in the county of Limerick. I had a nice little farm at +an aisy rint, horses, cows, pigs, and servants, and, what was better than +all, a couple of fine sons, who were a help and comfort to me. But my +black day was not far off. I was a mighty charitable woman, and always +willing to give to the bacahs and other beggars that came about. Every +morning, before I opened my door, I got ready the alms which I intended +to give away in the course of the day to those that should ask for them, +and I made so good a preparation that, though plenty of cripples and +other unfortunates wandering through the world came to me every day, part +of the alms was sure to remain upon my hands every night when I closed my +door. The alms which I gave away consisted of meal; and I had always a +number of small measures of male standing ready on a board, one of which +I used to empty into the poke of every bacah or other unfortunate who +used to place himself at the side of my door and cry out ‘Ave Maria!’ or +‘In the name of God!’ Well, one morning I sat within my door spinning, +with a little bit of a colleen beside me who waited upon me as servant. +My measures of meal were all ready for the unfortunates who should come, +filled with all the meal in the house; for there was no meal in the house +save what was in those measures—divil a particle, the whole stock being +exhausted; though by evening I expected plenty more, my two sons being +gone to the ballybetagh, which was seven miles distant, for a fresh +supply, and for other things. Well, I sat within my door, spinning, with +my servant by my side to wait upon me, and my measures of male ready for +the unfortunates who might come to ask for alms. There I sat, quite +proud, and more happy than I had ever felt in my life before; and the +unfortunates began to make their appearance. First came a bacah on +crutches; then came a woman with a white swelling; then came an +individual who had nothing at all the matter with him, and was only a +poor unfortunate, wandering about the world; then came a far cake, {591} +a dark man, who was led about by a gossoon; after him a simpley, and +after the simpleton somebody else as much or more unfortunate. And as +the afflicted people arrived and placed themselves by the side of the +door and said ‘Ave Mary,’ or ‘In the name of God,’ or crossed their arms, +or looked down upon the ground, each according to his practice, I got up +and emptied my measure of male into his poke, or whatever he carried +about with him for receiving the alms which might be given to him; and my +measures of male began to be emptied fast, for it seemed that upon that +day, when I happened to be particularly short of meal, all the +unfortunates in the county of Limerick had conspired together to come to +ask me for alms. At last every measure of meal was emptied, and there I +sat in my house with nothing to give away provided an unfortunate should +come. Says I to the colleen: ‘What shall I do provided any more come, +for all the meal is gone and there will be no more before the boys come +home at night from the ballybetagh.’ Says the colleen: ‘If any more +come, can’t ye give them something else?’ Says I: ‘It has always been my +practice to give in meal, and loth should I be to alter it; for if once I +begin to give away other things, I may give away all I have.’ Says the +colleen: ‘Let’s hope no one else will come: there have been thirteen of +them already.’ Scarcely had she said these words, when a monstrous +woman, half-naked, and with a long staff in her hand, on the top of which +was a cross, made her appearance; and placing herself right before the +door, cried out so that you might have heard her for a mile, ‘Give me an +alms for the glory of God.’ + +“‘Good woman,’ says I to her, ‘you will be kind enough to excuse me: all +the preparation I had made for alms has been given away, for I have +relieved thirteen unfortunates this blessed morning—so may the Virgin +help ye, good woman!’ ‘Give me an alms,’ said the Beanvore, with a +louder voice than before, ‘or it will be worse for you.’ ‘You must +excuse me, dear mistress,’ says I, ‘but I have no more meal in the house. +Those thirteen measures which you see there empty were full this morning, +for what was in them I have given away to unfortunates. So the Virgin +and Child help you.’ ‘Do you choose to give me an alms?’ she shrieked, +so that you might have heard her to Londonderry. ‘If ye have no male +give me something else.’ ‘You must excuse me, good lady,’ said I: ‘it is +my custom to give alms in meal, and in nothing else. I have none in the +house now; but if ye come on the morrow ye shall have a triple measure. +In the meanwhile may the Virgin, Child, and the Holy Trinity assist ye!’ +Thereupon she looked at me fixedly for a moment, and then said, not in a +loud voice, but in a low, half-whispered way, which was ten times more +deadly— + + “‘Biaidh an taifrionn gan sholas duit a bhean shalach!’ + +Then turning from the door she went away with long strides. Now, honey, +can ye tell me the meaning of those words?” + +“They mean,” said I, “unless I am much mistaken: ‘May the Mass never +comfort ye, you dirty quean!’” + +“Ochone! that’s the maning of them, sure enough. They are cramped words, +but I guessed that was the meaning, or something of the kind. Well, +after hearing the evil prayer, I sat for a minute or two quite stunned; +at length recovering myself a bit I said to the colleen: ‘Get up, and run +after the woman and tell her to come back and cross the prayer.’ I meant +by crossing that she should call it back or do something that would take +the venom out of it. Well, the colleen was rather loth to go, for she +was a bit scared herself, but on my beseeching her, she got up and ran +after the woman, and being rather swift of foot, at last, though with +much difficulty, overtook her, and begged her to come back and cross the +prayer, but the divil of a woman would do no such thing, and when the +colleen persisted she told her that if she didn’t go back, she would say +an evil prayer over her too. So the colleen left her, and came back +crying and frightened. All the rest of the day I remained sitting on the +stool speechless, thinking of the prayer which the woman had said, and +wishing I had given her everything I had in the world, rather than she +should have said it. At night came home the boys, and found their mother +sitting on the stool, like one stupefied. ‘What’s the matter with you, +mother?’ they said. ‘Get up and help us to unpack. We have brought home +plenty of things on the car, and amongst others a whole boll of meal.’ +‘You might as well have left it behind you,’ said I; ‘this morning a +single measure of male would have been to me of all the assistance in the +world, but I quistion now if I shall ever want meal again.’ They asked +me what had happened to me, and after some time I told them how a +monstrous woman had been to me, and had said an evil prayer over me, +because having no meal in the house I had not given her an alms. ‘Come, +mother,’ said they, ‘get up and help us to unload! never mind the prayer +of the monstrous woman—it is all nonsense.’ Well, I got up and helped +them to unload, and cooked them a bit and sat down with them, and tried +to be merry, but felt that I was no longer the woman that I was. The +next day I didn’t seem to care what became of me, or how matters went on, +and though there was now plenty of meal in the house, not a measure did I +fill with it to give away in the shape of alms; and when the bacahs, and +the liprous women, and the dark men, and the other unfortunates placed +themselves at the side of the door, and gave me to understand that they +wanted alms, each in his or her particular manner, divil an alms did I +give them, but let them stand and took no heed of them, so that at last +they took themselves off grumbling and cursing. And little did I care +for their grumblings and cursings. Two days before I wouldn’t have had +an unfortunate grumble at me, or curse me, for all the riches below the +sun; but now their grumblings and curses didn’t give me the slightest +uneasiness, for I had an evil prayer spoken against me in the Shanna +Gailey by the monstrous woman, and I knew that I was blighted in this +world and the next. In a little time I ceased to pay any heed to the +farming business, or to the affairs of the house, so that my sons had no +comfort in their home. And I took to drink and induced my eldest son to +take to drink too—my youngest son, however, did not take to drink, but +conducted himself well, and toiled and laboured like a horse, and often +begged me and his brother to consider what we were about, and not to go +on in a way which would bring us all to ruin, but I paid no regard to +what he said, and his brother followed my example, so that at last seeing +things were getting worse every day, and that we should soon be turned +out of house and home, for no rint was paid, every penny that could be +got being consumed in waste, he bade us farewell and went and listed for +a sodger. But if matters were bad enough before he went away, they +became much worse after; for now when the unfortunates came to the door +for alms, instead of letting them stand in pace till they were tired, and +took themselves off, I would mock them and point at them, and twit them +with their sores and other misfortunes, and not unfrequently I would +fling scalding water over them, which would send them howling and honing +away, till at last there was not an unfortunate but feared to come within +a mile of my door. Moreover, I began to misconduct myself at chapel, +more especially at the Aifrionn or Mass, for no sooner was the bell rung, +and the holy corpus raised, than I would shout and hoorah, and go +tumbling and toppling along the floor before the holy body, as I just now +tumbled along the road before you, so that the people were scandalised, +and would take me by the shoulders and turn me out of doors, and began to +talk of ducking me in the bog. The priest of the parish, however, took +my part, saying that I ought not to be persecuted, for that I was not +accountable for what I did, being a possessed person, and under the +influence of divils. ‘These, however,’ said he, ‘I’ll soon cast out from +her, and then the woman will be a holy cratur, much better than she ever +was before.’ A very learned man was Father Hogan, especially in casting +out divils, and a portly good-looking man too, only he had a large +rubicon nose, which people said he got by making over free with the +cratur in sacret. I had often looked at the nose, when the divil was +upon me, and felt an inclination to seize hold of it, jist to see how it +felt. Well, he had me to his house several times, and there he put holy +cloths upon me, and tied holy images to me, and read to me out of holy +books, and sprinkled holy water over me, and put questions to me, and at +last was so plased with the answers I gave him, that he prached a sermon +about me in the chapel, in which he said that he had cast six of my +divils out of me, and should cast out the seventh, which was the last, by +the next Sabbath, and then should present me to the folks in the chapel +as pure a vessel as the blessed Mary herself—and that I was destined to +accomplish great things, and to be a mighty instrument in the hands of +the Holy Church, for that he intended to write a book about me describing +the miracle he had performed in casting the seven divils out of me, which +he should get printed at the printing-press of the blessed Columba, and +should send me through all Ireland to sell the copies, the profits of +which would go towards the support of the holy society for casting out +unclane spirits, to which he himself belonged. Well, the people showed +that they were plased by a loud shout, and went away longing for the next +Sunday when I was to be presented to them without a divil in me. Five +times the next week did I go to the priest’s house, to be read to, and be +sprinkled, and have cloths put upon me, in order that the work of casting +out the last divil, which it seems was stronger than all the rest, might +be made smooth and aisy, and on the Saturday I came to have the last +divil cast out, and found his riverince in full canonicals, seated in his +aisy chair. ‘Daughter,’ said he when he saw me, ‘the work is nearly +over. Now kneel down before me, and I will make the sign of the cross +over your forehead, and then you will feel the last and strongest of the +divils, which have so long possessed ye, go out of ye through your eyes, +as I expect you will say to the people assembled in the chapel +to-morrow.’ So I put myself on my knees before his reverence, who after +muttering something to himself, either in Latin or Shanna Gailey—I +believe it was Latin, said, ‘Look me in the face, daughter!’ Well, I +looked his reverence in the face, and there I saw his nose looking so +large, red, and inviting that I could not resist the temptation, and +before his reverence could make the sign of the cross, which doubtless +would have driven the divil out of me, I made a spring at it, and seizing +hold of it with fore-finger and thumb, pulled hard at it. Hot and +inctious did it feel. O, the yell that his reverence gave! However, I +did not let go my hold, but kept pulling at the nose, till at last to +avoid the torment his reverence came tumbling down upon me, causing me by +his weight to fall back upon the floor. At the yell which he gave, and +at the noise of the fall, in came rushing his reverence’s housekeeper and +stable-boy, who seeing us down on the floor, his reverence upon me and my +hand holding his reverence’s nose, for I felt loth to let it go, they +remained in astonishment and suspense. When his reverence, however, +begged them, for the Virgin’s sake, to separate him from the divil of a +woman, they ran forward, and having with some difficulty freed his +reverence’s nose from my hand, they helped him up. The first thing that +his reverence did, on being placed on his legs, was to make for a +horsewhip, which stood in one corner of the room, but I guessing how he +meant to use it, sprang up from the floor, and before he could make a cut +at me, ran out of the room, and hasted home. The next day, when all the +people for twenty miles round met in the chapel, in the expectation of +seeing me presented to them a purified and holy female, and hearing from +my mouth the account of the miracle which his reverence had performed, +his reverence made his appearance in the pulpit with a dale of +gould-bater’s leaf on his nose, and from the pulpit he told the people +how I had used him, showing them the gould-bater’s leaf on his feature as +testimony of the truth of his words, finishing by saying that if at first +there were seven devils there were now seven times seven within me. +Well, when the people heard the story, and saw his nose with the bater’s +leaf upon it, they at first began to laugh, but when he appealed to their +consciences, and asked them if such was fitting tratement for a praist, +they said it was not, and that if he would only but curse me, they would +soon do him justice upon me. His reverence then cursed by book, bell, +and candle, and the people, setting off from the chapel, came in a crowd +to the house where I lived, to wrake vengeance upon me. Overtaking my +son by the way, who was coming home in a state of intoxication, they bate +him within an inch of his life, and left him senseless on the ground, and +no doubt would have served me much worse, only seeing them coming, and +guessing what they came about, though I was a bit intoxicated myself, I +escaped by the back of the house out into the bog, where I hid myself +amidst a copse of hazels. The people coming to the house, and not +finding me there, broke and destroyed every bit of furniture, and would +have pulled the house down, or set fire to it, had not an individual +among them cried out that doing so would be of no use, for that the house +did not belong to me, and that destroying it would merely be an injury to +the next tenant. So the people, after breaking my furniture and +ill-trating two or three dumb beasts, which happened not to have been +made away with, went away, and in the dead of night I returned to the +house, where I found my son, who had just crawled home covered with blood +and bruises. We hadn’t, however, a home long, for the agents of the +landlord came to seize for rent, took all they could find, and turned us +out upon the wide world. Myself and son wandered together for an hour or +two, then, having a quarrel with each other, we parted, he going one way +and I another. Some little time after I heard that he was transported. +As for myself, I thought I might as well take a leaf out of the woman’s +book, who had been the ruin of me. So I went about bidding people give +me alms for the glory of God, and threatening those who gave me nothing +that the mass should never comfort them. It’s a dreadful curse that, +honey; and I would advise people to avoid it even though they give away +all they have. If you have no comfort in the mass, you will have comfort +in nothing else. Look at me: I have no comfort in the mass, for as soon +as the priest’s bell rings I shouts and hoorahs, and performs tumblings +before the blessed corpus, getting myself kicked out of chapel, and as +little comfort as I have in the mass have I in other things, which should +be a comfort to me. I have two sons who ought to be the greatest comfort +to me, but are they so? We’ll see—one is transported, and of course is +no comfort to me at all. The other is a sodger. Is he a comfort to me? +not a bit. A month ago when I was travelling through the black north, +tumbling and toppling about, and threatening people with my prayer, +unless they gave me alms, a woman, who knew me, told me that he was with +his regiment at Cardiff, here in Wales, whereupon I determined to go and +see him, and crossing the water got into England, from whence I walked to +Cardiff asking alms of the English in the common English way, and of the +Irish, and ye are the first Irish I have met, in the way in which I asked +them of you. But when I got to Cardiff did I see my son? I did not, for +the day before he had sailed with his regiment to a place ten thousand +miles away, so I shall never see his face again nor derive comfort from +him. Oh, if there’s no comfort from the mass there’s no comfort from +anything else, and he who has the evil prayer in the Shanna Gailey +breathed upon him, will have no comfort from the mass. Now, honey, ye +have heard the story of Johanna Colgan, the bedivilled woman. Give her +now a dacent alms and let her go!” + +“Would you consider sixpence a decent alms?” + +“I would. If you give me sixpence, I will not say my prayer over ye.” + +“Would you give me a blessing?” + +“I would not. A bedivilled woman has no blessing to give.” + +“Surely if you are able to ask people to give you alms for the glory of +God, you are able to give a blessing.” + +“Bodderation! are ye going to give me sixpence?” + +“No! here’s a shilling for you! Take it and go in peace.” + +“There’s no pace for me,” said Johanna Colgan, taking the money. “What +did the monstrous female say to me? Biadh an taifrionn gan sholas duit a +bhean shalach.’ {599} This is my pace—hoorah! hoorah!” then giving two +or three grotesque topples she hurried away in the direction of Merthyr +Tydvil. + + + + +CHAPTER CVI + + +Pen y Glas—Salt of the Earth—The Quakers’ Yard—The Rhugylgroen. + +As I proceeded on my way the scenery to the south on the farther side of +the river became surprisingly beautiful. On that side noble mountains +met the view, green fields and majestic woods, the latter brown it is +true, for their leaves were gone, but not the less majestic for being +brown. Here and there were white farm-houses: one of them, which I was +told was called Pen y Glas, was a truly lovely little place. It stood on +the side of a green hill with a noble forest above it, and put me +wonderfully in mind of the hunting lodge, which Ifor Hael allotted as a +retreat to Ab Gwilym and Morfydd, when they fled to him from Cardigan to +avoid the rage of the Bow Bach, and whose charming appearance made him +say to his love: + + “More bliss for us our fate propounds + On Taf’s green banks than Teivy’s bounds.” + +On I wandered. After some time the valley assumed the form of an immense +basin, enormous mountains composed its sides. In the middle rose hills +of some altitude, but completely overcrowned by the mountains around. +These hills exhibited pleasant inclosures, and were beautifully dotted +with white farm-houses. Down below meandered the Taf, its reaches +shining with a silver-like splendour. The whole together formed an +exquisite picture, in which there was much sublimity, much still, quiet +life, and not a little of fantastic fairy loveliness. + +The sun was hastening towards the west as I passed a little cascade on +the left, the waters of which, after running under the road, tumbled down +a gulley into the river. Shortly afterwards meeting a man I asked him +how far it was to Caerfili. + +“When you come to the Quakers’ Yard, which is a little way further on, +you will be seven miles from Caerfili.” + +“What is the Quakers’ Yard?” + +“A place where the people called Quakers bury their dead.” + +“Is there a village near it?” + +“There is, and the village is called by the same name.” + +“Are there any Quakers in it?” + +“Not one, nor in the neighbourhood, but there are some, I believe, in +Cardiff.” + +“Why do they bury their dead there?” + +“You should ask them, not me. I know nothing about them, and don’t want; +they are a bad set of people.” + +“Did they ever do you any harm?” + +“Can’t say they did. Indeed I never saw one in the whole of my life.” + +“Then why do you call them bad?” + +“Because everybody says they are.” + +“Not everybody. I don’t; I have always found them the salt of the +earth.” + +“Then it is salt that has lost its savour. But perhaps you are one of +them?” + +“No, I belong to the Church of England.” + +“O you do. Then good night to you. I am a Methodist. I thought at +first that you were one of our ministers, and had hoped to hear from you +something profitable and conducive to salvation, but—” + +“Well, so you shall. Never speak ill of people of whom you know nothing. +If that isn’t a saying conducive to salvation I know not what is. Good +evening to you.” + +I soon reached the village. Singularly enough, the people of the very +first house, at which I inquired about the Quakers’ Yard, were entrusted +with the care of it. On my expressing a wish to see it a young woman +took down a key, and said that if I would follow her she would show it +me. The Quakers’ burying-place is situated on a little peninsula or +tongue of land, having a brook on its eastern and northern sides, and on +its western the Taf. It is a little oblong yard, with low walls, partly +overhung with ivy. The entrance is a porch to the south. The Quakers +are no friends to tombstones, and the only visible evidence that this was +a place of burial was a single flagstone, with a half-obliterated +inscription, which with some difficulty I deciphered, and was as +follows:— + + To the Memory of Thomas Edmunds + Who died April the ninth 1802 aged 60 + years + And of Mary Edmunds + Who died January the fourth 1810 aged 70. + +The beams of the descending sun gilded the Quakers’ burial-ground as I +trod its precincts. A lovely resting-place looked that little oblong +yard on the peninsula, by the confluence of the waters, and quite in +keeping with the character of the quiet Christian people who sleep within +it. The Quakers have for some time past been a decaying sect, but they +have done good work in their day, and when they are extinct they are not +destined to be soon forgotten. Soon forgotten! How should a sect ever +be forgotten, to which have belonged three such men as George Fox, +William Penn and Joseph Gurney? + +Shortly after I left the Quakers’ Yard the sun went down and twilight +settled upon the earth. Pursuing my course I reached some woodlands, and +on inquiring of a man, whom I saw standing at the door of a cottage, the +name of the district, was told that it was called Ystrad Manach—the +Monks’ Strath or valley. This name it probably acquired from having +belonged in times of old to some monkish establishment. The moon now +arose, and the night was delightful. As I was wandering along I heard +again the same wild noise which I had heard the night before, on the +other side of Merthyr Tydvil. The cry of the owl afar off in the +woodlands. O that strange bird! O that strange cry! The Welsh as I +have said on a former occasion call the owl Dylluan. Amongst the cowydds +of Ab Gwilym there is one to the dylluan. It is full of abuse against +the bird, with whom the poet is very angry for having with its cry +frightened Morfydd back, who was coming to the wood to keep an +assignation with him, but not a little of this abuse is wonderfully +expressive and truthful. He calls the owl a grey thief—the haunter of +the ivy bush—the chick of the oak, a blinking-eyed witch, greedy of mice, +with a visage like the bald forehead of a big ram, or the dirty face of +an old abbess, which bears no little resemblance to the chine of an ape. +Of its cry he says that it is as great a torment as an agonising +recollection, a cold shrill laugh from the midst of a kettle of ice; the +rattling of sea-pebbles in an old sheep-skin, on which account many call +the owl the hag of the Rhugylgroen. The Rhugylgroen, it will be as well +to observe, is a dry sheep-skin containing a number of pebbles, and is +used as a rattle for frightening crows. The likening the visage of the +owl to the dirty face of an old abbess is capital, and the likening the +cry to the noise of the Rhugylgroen is anything but unfortunate. For, +after all, what does the voice of the owl so much resemble as a +diabolical rattle! I’m sure I don’t know. Reader, do you? + +I reached Caerfili at about seven o’clock, and went to the “Boar’s Head,” +near the ruins of a stupendous castle, on which the beams of the moon +were falling. + + + + +CHAPTER CVII + + +Caerfili Castle—Sir Charles—The Waiter—Inkerman. + +I slept well during the night. In the morning after breakfast I went to +see the castle, over which I was conducted by a woman who was intrusted +with its care. It stands on the eastern side of the little town, and is +a truly enormous structure, which brought to my recollection a saying of +our great Johnson, to be found in the account of his journey to the +Western Islands, namely “that for all the castles which he had seen +beyond the Tweed the ruins yet remaining of some one of those which the +English built in Wales would find materials.” The original founder was +one John De Bryse, a powerful Norman, who married the daughter of +Llewellyn Ap Jorwerth, the son-in-law of King John, and the most warlike +of all the Welsh princes, whose exploits, and particularly a victory +which he obtained over his father-in-law, with whom he was always at war, +have been immortalised by the great war-bard, Dafydd Benfras. It was one +of the strongholds which belonged to the Spencers, and served for a short +time as a retreat to the unfortunate Edward the Second. It was ruined by +Cromwell, the grand foe of the baronial castles of Britain, but not in so +thorough and sweeping a manner as to leave it a mere heap of stones. +There is a noble entrance porch fronting the west—a spacious courtyard, a +grand banqueting-room, a corridor of vast length, several lofty towers, a +chapel, a sally-port, a guard-room, and a strange underground vaulted +place called the mint, in which Caerfili’s barons once coined money, and +in which the furnaces still exist which were used for melting metal. The +name Caerfili is said to signify the Castle of Haste, and to have been +bestowed on the pile because it was built in a hurry. Caerfili, however, +was never built in a hurry, as the remains show. Moreover the Welsh word +for haste is not fil but ffrwst. Fil means a scudding or darting through +the air, which can have nothing to do with the building of a castle. +Caerfili signifies Philip’s City, and was called so after one Philip, a +saint. It no more means the castle of haste than Tintagel in Cornwall +signifies the castle of guile, as the learned have said it does, for +Tintagel simply means the house in the gill of the hill, a term admirably +descriptive of the situation of the building. + +I started from Caerfili at eleven for Newport, distant about seventeen +miles. Passing through a toll-gate I ascended an acclivity, from the top +of which I obtained a full view of the castle, looking stern, dark, and +majestic. Descending the hill I came to a bridge over a river called the +Rhymni or Rumney, much celebrated in Welsh and English song—thence to +Pentref Bettws, or the village of the bead-house, doubtless so called +from its having contained in old times a house in which pilgrims might +tell their beads. + +The scenery soon became very beautiful—its beauty, however, was to a +certain extent marred by a horrid black object, a huge coal work, the +chimneys of which were belching forth smoke of the densest description. +“Whom does that work belong to?” said I to a man nearly as black as a +chimney sweep. + +“Who does it belong to? Why, to Sir Charles.” + +“Do you mean Sir Charles Morgan?” + +“I don’t know. I only know that it belongs to Sir Charles, the kindest +heart and richest man in Wales and in England too.” + +Passing some cottages I heard a group of children speaking English. +Asked an intelligent-looking girl if she could speak Welsh. + +“Yes,” said she, “I can speak it, but not very well. There is not much +Welsh spoken by the children hereabout. The old folks hold more to it.” + +I saw again the Rhymni river, and crossed it by a bridge; the river here +was filthy and turbid owing of course to its having received the foul +drainings of the neighbouring coal works—shortly afterwards I emerged +from the coom or valley of the Rhymni and entered upon a fertile and +tolerably level district. Passed by Llanawst and Machen. The day which +had been very fine now became dark and gloomy. Suddenly, as I was +descending a slope, a brilliant party consisting of four young ladies in +riding habits, a youthful cavalier, and a servant in splendid livery—all +on noble horses, swept past me at full gallop down the hill. Almost +immediately afterwards seeing a road-mender who was standing holding his +cap in his hand—which he had no doubt just reverentially doffed—I said in +Welsh: “Who are those ladies?” + +“Merched Sir Charles—the daughters of Sir Charles,” he replied. + +“And is the gentleman their brother?” + +“No! The brother is in the Crim—fighting with the Roosiaid. I don’t +know who yon gentleman be.” + +“Where does Sir Charles live?” + +“Down in the Dyfryn, not far from Basallaig.” + +“If I were to go and see him,” I said, “do you think he would give me a +cup of ale?” + +“I dare say he would; he has given me one many a time.” + +I soon reached Basallaig, a pleasant village standing in a valley and +nearly surrounded by the groves of Sir Charles Morgan. Seeing a decent +public-house I said to myself, “I think I shall step in and have my ale +here, and not go running after Sir Charles, whom perhaps after all I +shouldn’t find at home.” So I went in and called for a pint of ale. +Over my ale I trifled for about half-an-hour, then paying my groat I got +up and set off for Newport in the midst of a thick mist which had +suddenly come on and which speedily wetted me nearly to the skin. + +I reached Newport at about half-past four and put up at a large and +handsome inn called the King’s Head. During dinner the waiter unasked +related to me his history. He was a short thick fellow of about forty, +with a very disturbed and frightened expression of countenance. He said +that he was a native of Brummagem, and had lived very happily at an inn +there as waiter, but at length had allowed himself to be spirited away to +an establishment high up in Wales amidst the scenery. That very few +visitors came to the establishment, which was in a place so awfully +lonesome that he soon became hipped and was more than once half in a mind +to fling himself into a river which ran before the door and moaned +dismally. That at last he thought his best plan would be to decamp, and +accordingly took French leave early one morning. That after many frights +and much fatigue he had found himself at Newport and taken service at the +King’s Head, but did not feel comfortable and was frequently visited at +night by dreadful dreams. That he should take the first opportunity of +getting to Brummagem, though he was afraid that he should not be able to +get into his former place owing to his ungrateful behaviour. He then +uttered a rather eloquent eulogium on the beauties of the black capital, +and wound up all by saying that he would rather be a brazier’s dog at +Brummagem than head waiter at the best establishment in Wales. + +After dinner I took up a newspaper and found in it an account of the +battle of Inkerman, which appeared to have been fought on the fifth of +November, the very day on which I had ascended Plinlymmon. I was sorry +to find that my countrymen had suffered dreadfully, and would have been +utterly destroyed but for the opportune arrival of the French. “In my +childhood,” said I, “the Russians used to help us against the French; now +the French help us against the Russians. Who knows but before I die I +may see the Russians helping the French against us?” + + + + +CHAPTER CVIII + + +Town of Newport—The Usk—Note of Recognition—An Old Acquaintance—Connamara +Quean—The Wake—The Wild Irish—The Tramping Life—Business and +Prayer—Methodists—Good Counsel. + +Newport is a large town in Monmouthshire, and had once walls and a +castle. It is called in Welsh Cas Newydd ar Wysg, or the New Castle upon +the Usk. It stands some miles below Caerlleon ar Wysg, and was probably +built when that place, at one time one of the most considerable towns in +Britain, began to fall into decay. The Wysg or Usk has its source among +some wild hills in the south-west of Breconshire, and, after absorbing +several smaller streams, amongst which is the Hondu, at the mouth of +which Brecon stands, which on that account is called in Welsh Aber Hondu, +and traversing the whole of Monmouthshire, enters the Bristol Channel +near Newport, to which place vessels of considerable burden can ascend. +Wysg or Usk is an ancient British word, signifying water, and is the same +as the Irish word uisge or whiskey, for whiskey, though generally serving +to denote a spirituous liquor, in great vogue amongst the Irish, means +simply water. The proper term for the spirit is uisquebaugh, literally +acqua vitæ, but the compound being abbreviated by the English, who have +always been notorious for their habit of clipping words, one of the +strongest of spirits is now generally denominated by a word which is +properly expressive of the simple element water. + +Monmouthshire is at present considered an English county, though +certainly with little reason, for it not only stands on the western side +of the Wye, but the names of almost all its parishes are Welsh, and many +thousands of its population still speak the Welsh language. It is called +in Welsh Sir, or Shire, Fynwy, and takes its name from the town Mynwy or +Monmouth, which receives its own appellation from the river Mynwy or +Minno on which it stands. There is a river of much the same name, not in +Macedon, but in the Peninsula, namely the Minho, which probably got its +denomination from that race cognate to the Cumry, the Gael, who were the +first colonisers of the Peninsula, and whose generic name yet stares us +in the face and salutes our ears in the words Galicia and Portugal. + +I left Newport at about ten o’clock on the 16th, the roads were very wet, +there having been a deluge of rain during the night. The morning was a +regular November one, dull and gloomy. Desirous of knowing whereabouts +in these parts the Welsh language ceased I interrogated several people +whom I met. First spoke to Esther Williams. She told me she came from +Pennow some miles farther on, that she could speak Welsh, and that indeed +all the people could for at least eight miles to the east of Newport. +This latter assertion of hers was, however, anything but corroborated by +a young woman, with a pitcher on her head, whom I shortly afterwards met, +for she informed me that she could speak no Welsh, and that for one who +could speak it, from where I was to the place where it ceased altogether, +there were ten who could not. I believe the real fact is that about half +the people for seven or eight miles to the east of Newport speak Welsh, +more or less, as about half those whom I met and addressed in Welsh +answered me in that tongue. + +Passed through Penow or Penhow, a small village. The scenery in the +neighbourhood of this place is highly interesting. To the north-west at +some distance is Mynydd Turvey, a sharp-pointed blue mountain. To the +south-east, on the right, much nearer, are two beautiful green hills, the +lowest prettily wooded, and having on its top a fair white mansion called +Penhow Castle, which belongs to a family of the name of Cave. Thence to +Llanvaches, a pretty little village. When I was about the middle of this +place I heard an odd sound something like a note of recognition, which +attracted my attention to an object very near to me, from which it seemed +to proceed, and which was coming from the direction in which I was going. +It was the figure seemingly of a female, wrapped in a coarse blue cloak, +the feet bare and the legs bare also nearly up to the knee, both terribly +splashed with the slush of the road. The head was surmounted by a kind +of hood which just permitted me to see coarse red hair, a broad face, +grey eyes, a snubbed nose, blubber lips and great white teeth—the eyes +were staring intently at me. I stopped and stared too, and at last +thought I recognised the features of the uncouth girl I had seen on the +green near Chester with the Irish tinker Tourlough and his wife. + +“Dear me!” said I, “did I not see you near Chester last summer?” + +“To be sure ye did; and ye were going to pass me without a word of notice +or kindness had I not given ye a bit of a hail.” + +“Well,” said I, “I beg your pardon. How is it all wid ye?” + +“Quite well. How is it wid yere hanner?” + +“Tolerably. Where do you come from?” + +“From Chepstow, yere hanner.” + +“And where are you going to?” + +“To Newport, yere hanner.” + +“And I come from Newport, and am going to Chepstow. Where’s Tourlough +and his wife?” + +“At Cardiff, yere hanner; I shall join them again to-morrow.” + +“Have you been long away from them?” + +“About a week, yere hanner.” + +“And what have you been doing?” + +“Selling my needles, yere hanner.” + +“Oh! you sell needles. Well, I am glad to have met you. Let me see. +There’s a nice little inn on the right: won’t you come in and have some +refreshment?” + +“Thank yere hanner; I have no objection to take a glass wid an old +friend.” + +“Well, then, come in; you must be tired, and I shall be glad to have some +conversation with you.” + +We went into the inn—a little tidy place. On my calling a +respectable-looking old man made his appearance behind a bar. After +serving my companion with a glass of peppermint, which she said she +preferred to anything else, and me with a glass of ale, both of which I +paid for, he retired, and we sat down on two old chairs beneath a window +in front of the bar. + +“Well,” said I, “I suppose you have Irish: here’s slainte—” + +“Slainte yuit a shaoi,” said the girl, tasting her peppermint. + +“Well, how do you like it?” + +“It’s very nice indeed.” + +“That’s more than I can say of the ale, which, like all the ale in these +parts, is bitter. Well, what part of Ireland do you come from?” + +“From no part at all. I never was in Ireland in my life. I am from +Scotland Road, Manchester.” + +“Why, I thought you were Irish!” + +“And so I am; and all the more from being born where I was. There’s not +such a place for Irish in all the world as Scotland Road.” + +“Were your father and mother from Ireland?” + +“My mother was from Ireland; my father was Irish of Scotland Road, where +they met and married.” + +“And what did they do after they married?” + +“Why, they worked hard, and did their best to get a livelihood for +themselves and children, of which they had several besides myself, who +was the eldest. My father was a bricklayer, and my mother sold apples +and oranges and other fruits, according to the season, and also whiskey, +which she made herself, as she well knew how; for my mother was not only +a Connacht woman, but an out-and-out Connamara quean, and when only +thirteen had wrought with the lads who used to make the raal cratur on +the islands between Ochterard and Bally na hinch. As soon as I was able, +I helped my mother in making and disposing of the whiskey and in selling +the fruit. As for the other children, they all died when young, of +favers, of which there is always plenty in Scotland Road. About four +years ago—that is, when I was just fifteen—there was a great quarrel +among the workmen about wages. Some wanted more than their masters were +willing to give; others were willing to take what was offered them. +Those who were dissatisfied were called bricks; those who were not were +called dungs. My father was a brick; and, being a good man with his +fists, was looked upon as a very proper person to fight a principal man +amongst the dungs. They fought in the fields near Salford for a pound a +side. My father had it all his own way for the first three rounds, but +in the fourth, receiving a blow under the ear from the dung, he dropped, +and never got up again, dying suddenly. A grand wake my father had, for +which my mother furnished usquebaugh galore; and comfortably and decently +it passed over till about three o’clock in the morning, when, a dispute +happening to arise—not on the matter of wages, for there was not a dung +amongst the Irish of Scotland Road—but as to whether the O’Keefs or +O’Kellys were kings of Ireland a thousand years ago, a general fight took +place, which brought in the police, who, being soon dreadfully baten, as +we all turned upon them, went and fetched the military, with whose help +they took and locked up several of the party, amongst whom were my mother +and myself, till the next morning, when we were taken before the +magistrates, who, after a slight scolding, set us at liberty, one of them +saying that such disturbances formed part of the Irish funeral service; +whereupon we returned to the house, and the rest of the party joining us, +we carried my father’s body to the churchyard, where we buried it very +dacently, with many tears and groanings.” + +“And how did your mother and you get on after your father was buried?” + +“As well as we could, yere hanner; we sold fruit and now and then a drop +of whiskey which we made; but this state of things did not last long, for +one day mother seeing the dung who had killed my father she flung a large +flint stone and knocked out his right eye, for doing which she was taken +up and tried and sentenced to a year’s imprisonment, chiefly it was +thought because she had been heard to say that she would do the dung a +mischief the first time she met him. She, however, did not suffer all +her sentence, for before she had been in prison three months she caught a +disorder which carried her off. I went on selling fruit by myself whilst +she was in trouble, and for some time after her death, but very lonely +and melancholy. At last my uncle Tourlough, or as the English would call +him, Charles, chancing to come to Scotland Road along with his family, I +was glad to accept an invitation to join them which he gave me, and with +them I have been ever since, travelling about England and Wales and +Scotland, helping my aunt with the children and driving much the same +trade which she has driven for twenty years past, which is not an +unprofitable one.” + +“Would you have any objection to tell me all you do?” + +“Why I sells needles, as I said before, and sometimes I buys things of +servants, and sometimes I tells fortunes.” + +“Do you ever do anything in the way of striopachas?” + +“O, no! I never do anything in that line; I would be burnt first. I +wonder you should dream of such a thing.” + +“Why surely it is not worse than buying things of servants, who no doubt +steal them from their employers, or telling fortunes, which is dealing +with the devil.” + +“Not worse? Yes a thousand times worse; there is nothing so very +particular in doing them things, but striopachas—O dear!” + +“It’s a dreadful thing I admit, but the other things are quite as bad; +you should do none of them.” + +“I’ll take good care that I never do one, and that is striopachas; them +other things I know are not quite right, and I hope soon to have done wid +them; any day I can shake them off and look people in the face, but were +I once to do striopachas I could never hold up my head.” + +“How comes it that you have such a horror of striopachas?” + +“I got it from my mother and she got it from hers. All Irish women have +a dread of striopachas. It’s the only thing that frights them; I manes +the wild Irish, for as for the quality women I have heard they are no bit +better than the English. Come, yere hanner, let’s talk of something +else.” + +“You were saying now that you were thinking of leaving off +fortune-telling and buying things of servants. Do you mean to depend +upon your needles alone?” + +“No; I am thinking of leaving off tramping altogether and going to the +Tir na Siar.” + +“Isn’t that America?” + +“It is, yere hanner; the land of the west is America.” + +“A long way for a lone girl.” + +“I should not be alone, yere hanner; I should be wid my uncle Tourlough +and his wife.” + +“Are they going to America?” + +“They are, yere hanner; they intends leaving off business and going to +America next spring.” + +“It will cost money.” + +“It will, yere hanner; but they have got money, and so have I.” + +“Is it because business is slack that you are thinking of going to +America?” + +“O no, yere hanner; we wish to go there in order to get rid of old ways +and habits, amongst which are fortune-telling and buying things of +sarvants, which yere hanner was jist now checking me wid.” + +“And can’t you get rid of them here?” + +“We cannot, yere hanner. If we stay here we must go on tramping, and it +is well known that doing them things is part of tramping.” + +“And what would you do in America?” + +“O we could do plenty of things in America—most likely we should buy a +piece of land and settle down.” + +“How came you to see the wickedness of the tramping life?” + +“By hearing a great many sermons and preachings, and having often had the +Bible read to us by holy women who came to our tent.” + +“Of what religion do you call yourselves now?” + +“I don’t know, yere hanner; we are clane unsettled about religion. We +were once Catholics and carried Saint Colman of Cloyne about wid us in a +box; but after hearing a sermon at a church about images, we went home, +took the saint out of his box and cast him into a river.” + +“O it will never do to belong to the Popish religion, a religion which +upholds idol-worship and persecutes the Bible—you should belong to the +Church of England.” + +“Well, perhaps we should, yere hanner, if its ministers were not such +proud violent men. O, you little know how they look down upon all poor +people, especially on us tramps. Once my poor aunt, Tourlough’s wife, +who has always had stronger convictions than any of us, followed one of +them home after he had been preaching, and begged him to give her God, +and was told by him that she was a thief, and if she didn’t take herself +out of the house he would kick her out.” + +“Perhaps, after all,” said I, “you had better join the Methodists—I +should say that their ways would suit you better than those of any other +denomination of Christians.” + +“Yere hanner knows nothing about them, otherwise ye wouldn’t talk in that +manner. Their ways would never do for people who want to have done with +lying and staling, and have always kept themselves clane from +striopachas. Their word is not worth a rotten straw, yere hanner, and in +every transaction which they have with people they try to cheat and +overreach—ask my uncle Tourlough, who has had many dealings with them. +But what is far worse, they do that which the wildest calleen t’other +side of Ougteraarde would be burnt rather than do. Who can tell ye more +on that point than I, yere hanner? I have been at their chapels at +nights and have listened to their screaming prayers, and have seen what’s +been going on outside the chapels after their services, as they call +them, were over—I never saw the like going on outside Father Toban’s +chapel, yere hanner! Yere hanner’s hanner asked me if I ever did +anything in the way of striopachas—now I tell ye that I was never asked +to do anything in that line but by one of them folks—a great man amongst +them he was, both in the way of business and prayer, for he was a +commercial traveller during six days of the week and a preacher on the +seventh—and such a preacher. Well, one Sunday night after he had +preached a sermon an hour and a half long, which had put half-a-dozen +women into what they call static fits, he overtook me in a dark street +and wanted me to do striopachas with him—he didn’t say striopachas, yer +hanner, for he had no Irish—but he said something in English which was +the same thing.” + +“And what did you do?” + +“Why I asked him what he meant by making fun of a poor ugly girl—for no +one knows better than myself, yere hanner, that I am very ugly—whereupon +he told me that he was not making fun of me, for it had long been the +chief wish of his heart to commit striopachas with a wild Irish Papist, +and that he believed if he searched the world he should find none wilder +than myself.” + +“And what did you reply?” + +“Why I said to him, yere hanner, that I would tell the congregation, at +which he laughed and said that he wished I would, for that the +congregation would say they didn’t believe me, though at heart they +would, and would like him all the better for it.” + +“Well, and what did you say then?” + +“Nothing at all, yere hanner; but I spat in his face and went home and +told my uncle Tourlough, who forthwith took out a knife and began to +sharp it on a whetstone, and I make no doubt would have gone and stuck +the fellow like a pig, had not my poor aunt begged him not on her knees. +After that we had nothing more to do with the Methodists as far as +religion went.” + +“Did this affair occur in England or Wales?” + +“In the heart of England, yere hanner; we have never been to the Welsh +chapels, for we know little of the language.” + +“Well, I am glad it didn’t happen in Wales; I have rather a high opinion +of the Welsh Methodists. The worthiest creature I ever knew was a Welsh +Methodist. And now I must leave you and make the best of my way to +Chepstow.” + +“Can’t yere hanner give me God before ye go?” + +“I can give you half-a-crown to help you on your way to America.” + +“I want no half-crowns, yere hanner; but if ye would give me God I’d +bless ye.” + +“What do you mean by giving you God?” + +“Putting Him in my heart by some good counsel which will guide me through +life.” + +“The only good counsel I can give you is to keep the commandments; one of +them it seems you have always kept. Follow the rest and you can’t go +very wrong.” + +“I wish I knew them better than I do, yere hanner.” + +“Can’t you read?” + +“O no, yere hanner, I can’t read, neither can Tourlough nor his wife.” + +“Well, learn to read as soon as possible. When you have got to America +and settled down you will have time enough to learn to read.” + +“Shall we be better, yere hanner, after we have learnt to read?” + +“Let’s hope you will.” + +“One of the things, yere hanner, that have made us stumble is that some +of the holy women, who have come to our tent and read the Bible to us, +have afterwards asked my aunt and me to tell them their fortunes.” + +“If they have the more shame for them, for they can have no excuse. +Well, whether you learn to read or not still eschew striopachas, don’t +steal, don’t deceive, and worship God in spirit, not in image. That’s +the best counsel I can give you.” + +“And very good counsel it is, yere hanner, and I will try to follow it, +and now, yere hanner, let us go our two ways.” + +We placed our glasses upon the bar and went out. In the middle of the +road we shook hands and parted, she going towards Newport and I towards +Chepstow. After walking a few yards I turned round and looked after her. +There she was in the damp lowering afternoon wending her way slowly +through mud and puddle, her upper form huddled in the rough frieze +mantle, and her coarse legs bare to the top of the calves. “Surely,” +said I to myself, “there never was an object less promising in +appearance. Who would think that there could be all the good sense and +proper feeling in that uncouth girl which there really is?” + + + + +CHAPTER CIX + + +Arrival at Chepstow—Stirring Lyric—Conclusion. + +I passed through Caer Went, once an important Roman station, and for a +long time after the departure of the Romans a celebrated British city, +now a poor desolate place consisting of a few old-fashioned houses and a +strange-looking dilapidated church. No Welsh is spoken at Caer Went, nor +to the east of it, nor indeed for two or three miles before you reach it +from the west. + +The country between it and Chepstow, from which it is distant about four +miles, is delightfully green, but somewhat tame. + +Chepstow stands on the lower part of a hill, near to where the beautiful +Wye joins the noble Severn. The British name of the place is Aber Wye or +the disemboguement of the Wye. The Saxons gave it the name of Chepstow, +which in their language signifies a place where a market is held, because +even in the time of the Britons it was the site of a great cheap or +market. After the Norman Conquest it became the property of De Clare, +one of William’s followers, who built near it an enormous castle, which +enjoyed considerable celebrity during several centuries from having been +the birthplace of Strongbow, the conqueror of Ireland, but which is at +present chiefly illustrious from the mention which is made of it in one +of the most stirring lyrics of modern times, a piece by Walter Scott, +called the “Norman Horseshoe,” commemorative of an expedition made by a +De Clare of Chepstow with the view of insulting with the print of his +courser’s shoe the green meads of Glamorgan, and which commences thus:— + + “Red glows the forge”— + +I went to the principal inn, where I engaged a private room and ordered +the best dinner which the people could provide. Then leaving my satchel +behind me I went to the castle, amongst the ruins of which I groped and +wandered for nearly an hour, occasionally repeating verses of the “Norman +Horseshoe.” I then went to the Wye and drank of the waters at its mouth, +even as sometime before I had drunk of the waters at its source. Then +returning to my inn I got my dinner, after which I called for a bottle of +port, and placing my feet against the sides of the grate I passed my time +drinking wine and singing Welsh songs till ten o’clock at night, when I +paid my reckoning, amounting to something considerable. Then shouldering +my satchel I proceeded to the railroad station, where I purchased a +first-class ticket, and ensconcing myself in a comfortable carriage was +soon on the way to London, where I arrived at about four o’clock in the +morning, having had during the whole of my journey a most uproarious set +of neighbours a few carriages behind me, namely some hundred and fifty of +Napier’s tars returning from their expedition to the Baltic. + + * * * * * + + THE END + + * * * * * + + RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, + BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND + BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. + + + + +Footnotes + + +{0} “The old land of my father is dear unto me.” + +{169} One or two of the characters and incidents in this Saga are +mentioned in the _Romany Rye_. London, 1857, vol. i. p. 240; vol. i. p. +150. + +A partial translation of the _Saga_, made by myself, has been many years +in existence. It forms part of a mountain of unpublished translations +from the Northern languages. In my younger days no London publisher, or +indeed magazine editor, would look at anything from the Norse, Danish, +etc. + +{172a} All these three names are very common in Norfolk, the population +of which is of Norse origin. Skarphethin is at present pronounced +Sharpin, Helgi Heely. Skarphethin, interpreted, is a keen pirate. + +{172b} Eryri likewise signifies an excrescence or scrofulous eruption. +It is possible that many will be disposed to maintain that in the case of +Snowdon the word is intended to express a rugged excrescence or eruption +on the surface of the earth. + +{177} It will not be amiss to observe that the original term is gwyddfa; +but gwyddfa being a feminine noun or compound commencing with g, which is +a mutable consonant, loses the initial letter before y the definite +article—you say Gwyddfa a tumulus, but not y gwyddfa _the_ tumulus. + +{349} _Essay on the Origin of the English Stage_, by Bishop Percy. +London, 1793. + +{371} The above account is chiefly taken from the curious Welsh book +called “Drych y prif Oesoedd.” + +{397} Spirits. + +{398} Eel. + +{400} For an account of this worm, which has various denominations, see +article Fasciola Hepatica in any encyclopædia. + +{402} As the umbrella is rather a hackneyed subject two or three things +will of course be found in the above eulogium on an umbrella which have +been said by other folks on that subject; the writer, however, flatters +himself that in his eulogium on an umbrella two or three things will also +be found which have never been said by any one else about an umbrella. + +{506} Bitter root. + +{524} Amongst others a kind of novel called _The Adventures of Twm Shon +Catty_, _a Wild Wag of Wales_. It possesses considerable literary merit, +the language being pure, and many of the descriptions graphic. By far +the greater part of it, however, would serve for the life of any young +Welsh peasant, quite as well as for that of Twm Shone Catti. Its grand +fault is endeavouring to invest Twm Shone with a character of honesty, +and to make his exploits appear rather those of a wild young waggish +fellow than of a robber. This was committing a great mistake. When +people take up the lives of bad characters the more rogueries and +villanies they find, the better are they pleased, and they are very much +disappointed and consider themselves defrauded by any attempt to +apologise for the actions of the heroes. If the thieves should chance to +have reformed, the respectable readers wish to hear nothing of their +reformation till just at the close of the book, when they are very happy +to have done with them for ever. + +{527} Skazka O Klimkie. Moscow, 1829. + +{529} Hanes Crefydd Yn Nghymru. + +{538} The good gentlewoman was probably thinking of the celebrated king +Brian Boromhe slain at the battle of Clontarf. + +{570} Fox’s Court—perhaps London. + +{579} Drych y Prif Oesoedd, p. 100. + +{583} Y Greal, p. 279. + +{587} Hanes Crefydd Yn NGhymru. + +{591} Fear caoch: vir cæcus. + +{599} Curses of this description, or evil prayers as they are called, +are very common in the Irish language, and are frequently turned to +terrible account by that most singular class or sect the Irish +mendicants. Several cases have occurred corresponding in many respects +with the one detailed above. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILD WALES*** + + +******* This file should be named 37665-0.txt or 37665-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/7/6/6/37665 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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