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Wild Wales
by George Borrow
Scanned and proofed by David Price
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
Second proof by Jane Gammie
Wild Wales: Its People, Language and Scenery
INTRODUCTORY
WALES is a country interesting in many respects, and deserving of
more attention than it has hitherto met with. Though not very
extensive, it is one of the most picturesque countries in the
world, a country in which Nature displays herself in her wildest,
boldest, and occasionally loveliest forms. The inhabitants, who
speak an ancient and peculiar language, do not call this region
Wales, nor themselves Welsh. They call themselves Cymry or Cumry,
and their country Cymru, or the land of the Cumry. Wales or
Wallia, however, is the true, proper, and without doubt original
name, as it relates not to any particular race, which at present
inhabits it, or may have sojourned in it at any long bygone period,
but to the country itself. Wales signifies a land of mountains, of
vales, of dingles, chasms, and springs. It is connected with the
Cumbric bal, a protuberance, a springing forth; with the Celtic
beul or beal, a mouth; with the old English welle, a fountain; with
the original name of Italy, still called by the Germans Welschland;
with Balkan and Vulcan, both of which signify a casting out, an
eruption; with Welint or Wayland, the name of the Anglo-Saxon god
of the forge; with the Chaldee val, a forest, and the German wald;
with the English bluff, and the Sanscrit palava - startling
assertions, no doubt, at least to some; which are, however, quite
true, and which at some future time will be universally
acknowledged so to be.
But it is not for its scenery alone that Wales is deserving of
being visited; scenery soon palls unless it is associated with
remarkable events, and the names of remarkable men. Perhaps there
is no country in the whole world which has been the scene of events
more stirring and remarkable than those recorded in the history of
Wales. What other country has been the scene of a struggle so
deadly, so embittered, and protracted as that between the Cumro and
the Saxon? - A struggle which did not terminate at Caernarvon, when
Edward Longshanks foisted his young son upon the Welsh chieftains
as Prince of Wales; but was kept up till the battle of Bosworth
Field, when a prince of Cumric blood won the crown of fair Britain,
verifying the olden word which had cheered the hearts of the
Ancient Britons for at least a thousand years, even in times of the
darkest distress and gloom:-
"But after long pain
Repose we shall obtain,
When sway barbaric has purg'd us clean;
And Britons shall regain
Their crown and their domain,
And the foreign oppressor be no more seen."
Of remarkable men Wales has assuredly produced its full share.
First, to speak of men of action:- there was Madoc, the son of
Owain Gwynedd, who discovered America, centuries before Columbus
was born; then there was "the irregular and wild Glendower," who
turned rebel at the age of sixty, was crowned King of Wales at
Machynlleth, and for fourteen years contrived to hold his own
against the whole power of England; then there was Ryce Ap Thomas,
the best soldier of his time, whose hands placed the British crown
on the brow of Henry the Seventh, and whom bluff Henry the Eighth
delighted to call Father Preece; then there was - who? - why Harry
Morgan, who led those tremendous fellows the Buccaneers across the
Isthmus of Darien to the sack and burning of Panama.
What, a buccaneer in the list? Ay! and why not? Morgan was a
scourge, it is true, but he was a scourge of God on the cruel
Spaniards of the New World, the merciless task-masters and butchers
of the Indian race: on which account God favoured and prospered
him, permitting him to attain the noble age of ninety, and to die
peacefully and tranquilly at Jamaica, whilst smoking his pipe in
his shady arbour, with his smiling plantation of sugar-canes full
in view. How unlike the fate of Harry Morgan to that of Lolonois,
a being as daring and enterprising as the Welshman, but a monster
without ruth or discrimination, terrible to friend and foe, who
perished by the hands, not of the Spaniards, but of the Indians,
who tore him limb from limb, burning his members, yet quivering, in
the fire - which very Indians Morgan contrived to make his own firm
friends, and whose difficult language he spoke with the same
facility as English, Spanish, and his own South Welsh.
For men of genius Wales during a long period was particularly
celebrated. - Who has not heard of the Welsh Bards? though it is
true that, beyond the borders of Wales, only a very few are
acquainted with their songs, owing to the language, by no means an
easy one, in which they were composed. Honour to them all!
everlasting glory to the three greatest - Taliesin, Ab Gwilym and
Gronwy Owen: the first a professed Christian, but in reality a
Druid, whose poems fling great light on the doctrines of the
primitive priesthood of Europe, which correspond remarkably with
the philosophy of the Hindus, before the time of Brahma: the
second the grand poet of Nature, the contemporary of Chaucer, but
worth half a dozen of the accomplished word-master, the ingenious
versifier of Norman and Italian tales: the third a learned and
irreproachable minister of the Church of England, and one of the
greatest poets of the last century, who after several narrow
escapes from starvation both in England and Wales, died master of a
paltry school at New Brunswick, in North America, sometime about
the year 1780.
But Wales has something besides its wonderful scenery, its eventful
history, and its illustrious men of yore to interest the visitor.
Wales has a population, and a remarkable one. There are countries,
besides Wales, abounding with noble scenery, rich in eventful
histories, and which are not sparingly dotted with the birthplaces
of heroes and poets, in which at the present day there is either no
population at all, or one of a character which is anything but
attractive. Of a country in the first predicament, the Scottish
Highlands afford an example: What a country is that Highland
region! What scenery! and what associations! If Wales has its
Snowdon and Cader Idris, the Highlands have their Hill of the Water
Dogs, and that of the Swarthy Swine: If Wales has a history, so
have the Highlands - not indeed so remarkable as that of Wales, but
eventful enough: If Wales has had its heroes, its Glendower and
Father Pryce, the Highlands have had their Evan Cameron and Ranald
of Moydart; If Wales has had its romantic characters, its Griffith
Ap Nicholas and Harry Morgan, the Highlands have had Rob Roy and
that strange fellow Donald Macleod, the man of the broadsword, the
leader of the Freacadan Dhu, who at Fontenoy caused, the Lord only
knows, how many Frenchmen's heads to fly off their shoulders, who
lived to the age of one hundred and seven, and at seventy-one
performed gallant service on the Heights of Abraham: wrapped in
whose plaid the dying Wolfe was carried from the hill of victory. -
If Wales has been a land of song, have not the Highlands also? - If
Wales can boast of Ab Gwilym and Gronwy, the Highlands can boast of
Ossian and MacIntyre. In many respects the two regions are equals
or nearly so; - In one respect, however, a matter of the present
day, and a very important matter too, they are anything but equals:
Wales has a population - but where is that of the Highlands? -
Plenty of noble scene; Plenty of delightful associations,
historical, poetical, and romantic - but, but, where is the
population?
The population of Wales has not departed across the Atlantic, like
that of the Highlands; it remains at home, and a remarkable
population it is - very different from the present inhabitants of
several beautiful lands of olden fame, who have strangely
degenerated from their forefathers. Wales has not only a
population, but a highly interesting one - hardy and frugal, yet
kind and hospitable - a bit crazed, it is true, on the subject of
religion, but still retaining plenty of old Celtic peculiarities,
and still speaking Diolch i Duw! - the language of Glendower and
the Bards.
The present is a book about Wales and Welsh matters. He who does
me the honour of perusing it will be conducted to many a spot not
only remarkable for picturesqueness, but for having been the scene
of some extraordinary event, or the birth-place or residence of a
hero or a man of genius; he will likewise be not unfrequently
introduced to the genuine Welsh, and made acquainted with what they
have to say about Cumro and Saxon, buying and selling, fattening
hogs and poultry, Methodism and baptism, and the poor, persecuted
Church of England.
An account of the language of Wales will be found in the last
chapter. It has many features and words in common with the
Sanscrit, and many which seem peculiar to itself, or rather to the
family of languages, generally called the Celtic, to which it
belongs. Though not an original tongue, for indeed no original
tongue, or anything approximating to one, at present exists, it is
certainly of immense antiquity, indeed almost entitled in that
respect to dispute the palm with the grand tongue of India, on
which in some respects it flings nearly as much elucidation as it
itself receives in others. Amongst the words quoted in the chapter
alluded to I wish particularly to direct the reader's attention to
gwr, a man, and gwres, heat; to which may be added gwreichionen, a
spark. Does not the striking similarity between these words
warrant the supposition that the ancient Cumry entertained the idea
that man and fire were one and the same, even like the ancient
Hindus, who believed that man sprang from fire, and whose word
vira, (1) which signifies a strong man, a hero, signifies also
fire?
There are of course faults and inaccuracies in the work; but I have
reason to believe that they are neither numerous nor important: I
may have occasionally given a wrong name to a hill or a brook; or
may have overstated or understated, by a furlong, the distance
between one hamlet and another; or even committed the blunder of
saying that Mr Jones Ap Jenkins lived in this or that homestead,
whereas in reality Mr Jenkins Ap Jones honoured it with his
residence: I may be chargeable with such inaccuracies; in which
case I beg to express due sorrow for them, and at the same time a
hope that I have afforded information about matters relating to
Wales which more than atones for them. It would be as well if
those who exhibit eagerness to expose the faults of a book would
occasionally have the candour to say a word or two about its
merits; such a wish, however, is not likely to be gratified, unless
indeed they wisely take a hint from the following lines, translated
from a cywydd of the last of the great poets of Wales:
"All can perceive a fault, where there is one -
A dirty scamp will find one, where there's none." (2)
WILD WALES: ITS PEOPLE, LANGUAGE, AND SCENERY
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 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 porcupines." 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 - Kaempe
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 quieted, 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 Medeshamsted 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 Kaempe 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 has 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 facades 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 apologised, 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 the 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 thread-bare, 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 teetotaller 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 turned 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 in 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 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. Oh 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. Oh 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. Oh 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 head-quarters
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 country. 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 part 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 connection,
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 t'was 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 daresay 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
crenulated 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.
"Oh 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 wild 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 or Teg 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 mid-day, 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 this 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. Oh, 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 - Smollet'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.
"Oh, 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 think 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 recognised
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 that 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 well might 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
recognised 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 tumbrels
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.
"Oh 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 particularly 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 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 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 goruchaf," 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 zigzag and steep, and at last
arrived at the bottom of the valley, where there was a small
hamlet. On the further 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 eye 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 greatcoat.
"Good-day, friend," said I; "what 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 daresay 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?"
"Oh 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.
"Oh 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 come 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 Cyssyltau - 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 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 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 Beth Gelert, 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 Beth Gelert I stayed some
time. It was there I married, sir; my wife comes from a place
called Dol Gellyn near Beth Gelert."
"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?"
"Oh 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. Oh, 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 daresay, 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. Oh 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 farmyard, 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 doorway 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 Shakespeare."
I looked at it. The Welsh Shakespeare 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 Tom o'r Nant than I do;
and was he not a great poet?"
"I daresay 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 Shakespeare 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 enquiring 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?"
"Oh, 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 daresay 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 fish-pond, 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 the path which she
had pointed out, we went through a cornfield 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
Harry 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 the 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 daresay
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 came 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 Gwyddelaid (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 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 farmhouse 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 halfway 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?"
"Oh 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?"
"Oh 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.
"Oh, 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:
Glan 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 daresay 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 to 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? Oh, 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 grave-stones.
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 is 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
enquired 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 sele 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.
"Oh, 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 it 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.
Oh, 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 hills 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 grey-hound, 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.
"'Oh 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 further 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 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 four-score,
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. Oh, 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. Oh 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.
"Oh, 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 master-piece 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. Oh, 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.
"Oh 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 Bran, 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 in 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."
"Oh I daresay 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 daresay 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 enquired 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 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
birthplace 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 birth-place 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 Gof 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 while 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 grind-stone, 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 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 out-house 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 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 should 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.
"Oh 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 only cost 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 further 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 whisky."
"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 we 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
gripping 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 the 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 high-lows, 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 join 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 of 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
elvnion yn dyfod o Gaer Lleon. This is the hill of Owain
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
corn-fields, 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. "Oh, 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 farm-house - 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.
"Oh, 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 daresay," 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 bin - 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 -
Southey.
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 which 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?"
"Oh 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, sir," 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 daresay 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 high-lows.
"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
Coruna 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 birth-place 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 he 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 High-lows - 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 high-lows 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 morning 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 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 you wish to hear Croppies Get Up I can
oblige ye."
"You are a Roman Catholic, I suppose?"
"I am not, your hanner - I am a Catholic to the back-bone, 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 old
tune round Willie's image in College Green, even as I used some
twenty-seven years ago?"
"Oh 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. Oh 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 oh, 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 cridit
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 had 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 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 further
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" (Numb. 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 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 rolls 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
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 Gog - the high place of the cuckoo."
"Have you a father and mother?"
"We have."
"Are they in the house?"
"They are 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 a 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 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 gully 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 teetotaler," 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 ancients 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 in 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 main land.
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?"
"Oh dear no," said I; "I have long been tired of books; I have had
enough of them."
"I daresay, 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, yer 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 book-selling?" 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 book-selling 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, yer 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 daresay your hanner has. Every one 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 business 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 head-dresses; 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, stand 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 Mon, 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.
Oh, 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
Anglesea 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 Mon, cyn naw awr
Ciniewa'n Nghaer Lleon,
Pryd gosber yn y Werddon,
Prydnawn wrth dan mawn yn Mon."
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 the 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 Description of the Western Isles of Scotland," published
in the year 1703, 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. This
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." (3) 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 spamadr, 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 Thorlief Krak, from whom the Skogverjars are
come, and likewise of Thorgrim the big and Skorargeir. Nial dwelt
at Bergthorshval 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, authorised 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 wilt 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,
(4) 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 (5) 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 wild-fire 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 caleche
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 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
corracle, 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 enquired 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 through
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
outline 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 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,
(6) 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 ar,
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, 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 birth-place 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 birth-place 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 that 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 hedges 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 Lydiart!" 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 Lydiart forming a noble background.
"Who owns this wood?" said I in Welsh to two men who were limbing a
felled tree by the road-side.
"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 yet 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 he 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 tap-room, 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 birth-right."
"You speak very good English," said I; "have you any Welsh?"
"Oh 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?"
"Three pence," 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 - The Gronwy - Notable Little Girl -
The Sycamore Leaf - Home from California.
THE village of Pentraeth Goch 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 birth-place 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.
"Oh 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 have 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 Ty 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 mill-yard, 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 tir 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 Mathafam 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 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 farm-house, 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 averting 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 frighted 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, senor! he oido."
"Is his house far from here?" said I in Welsh.
"No, senor!" said the man, "no esta muy lejos."
"I am a stranger here, friend, can anybody show me the way?"
"Si senor! este mozo luego - acompanara 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:
"Ty Gronwy!"
A gleam of intelligence flashed now in her eyes.
"Ty 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 of 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 at 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, senor," 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 the 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 daresay it was so, sir," said the man. "I daresay 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 Goch.
After walking some way, I turned round in order to take a last look
of the 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 beaf-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 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 hesitations 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. "Oh, 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."
"Oh, 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 dispatched 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 fixed 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 shoe-makers, 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 all are 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 my 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 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."
"Oh, 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 the 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 pointing 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 into 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 shoe-makers 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.
"Oh 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.
P.
R. 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 Ynys 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 day, 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 |
