Chapter LII
The Treachery of the Long Knives—The North Briton—The Wounded Butcher—The Prisoner.
On the tenth of September our little town was flung into some confusion by one butcher having attempted to cut the throat of another. The delinquent was a Welshman, who it was said had for some time past been somewhat out of his mind; the other party was an Englishman, who escaped without further injury than a deep gash in the cheek. The Welshman might be mad, but it appeared to me that there was some method in his madness. He tried to cut the throat of a butcher; didn’t this look like wishing to put a rival out of the way? and that butcher an Englishman; didn’t this look like wishing to pay back upon the Saxon what the Welsh call bradwriaeth y cyllyll hirion, the treachery of the long knives? So reasoned I to myself. But here perhaps the reader will ask what is meant by “the treachery of the long knives?” whether he does or not I will tell him.
Hengist, wishing to become paramount in Southern Britain, thought that the easiest way to accomplish his wish would be by destroying the South British chieftains. Not believing that he should be able to make away with them by open force, he determined to see what he could do by treachery. Accordingly he invited the chieftains to a banquet, to be held near Stonehenge, or the Hanging Stones, on Salisbury Plain. The unsuspecting chieftains accepted the invitation, and on the appointed day repaired to the banquet, which was held in a huge tent. Hengist received them with a smiling countenance, and every appearance of hospitality, and caused them to sit down to table, placing by the side of every Briton one of his own people. The banquet commenced, and all seemingly was mirth and hilarity. Now Hengist had commanded his people that, when he should get up and cry “nemet eoure saxes,” that is, take your knives, each Saxon should draw his long sax, or knife, which he wore at his side, and should plunge it into the throat of his neighbour. The banquet went on, and in the midst of it, when the unsuspecting Britons were revelling on the good cheer which had been provided for them, and half-drunken with the mead and beer which flowed in torrents, uprose Hengist, and with a voice of thunder uttered the fatal words, “nemet eoure saxes;” the cry was obeyed, each Saxon grasped his knife, and struck with it at the throat of his defenceless neighbour. Almost every blow took effect; only three British chieftains escaping from the banquet of blood. This infernal carnage the Welsh have appropriately denominated the treachery of the long knives. It will be as well to observe that the Saxons derived their name from the saxes, or long knives, which they wore at their sides, and at the use of which they were terribly proficient.
Two or three days after the attempt at murder at Llangollen, hearing that the Welsh butcher was about to be brought before the magistrates, I determined to make an effort to be present at the examination. Accordingly I went to the police station and inquired of the superintendent whether I could be permitted to attend. He was a North Briton, as I have stated somewhere before, and I had scraped acquaintance with him, and had got somewhat into his good graces by praising Dumfries, his native place, and descanting to him upon the beauties of the poetry of his celebrated countryman, my old friend, Allan Cunningham, some of whose works he had perused, and with whom, as he said, he had once the honour of shaking hands. In reply to my question he told me that it was doubtful whether any examination would take place, as the wounded man was in a very weak state, but that if I would return in half-an-hour he would let me know. I went away, and at the end of the half-hour returned, when he told me that there would be no public examination, owing to the extreme debility of the wounded man, but that one of the magistrates was about to proceed to his house and take his deposition in the presence of the criminal, and also of the witnesses of the deed, and that if I pleased I might go along with him, and he had no doubt that the magistrate would have no objection to my being present. We set out together; as we were going along I questioned him about the state of the country, and gathered from him that there was occasionally a good deal of crime in Wales.
“Are the Welsh a clannish people?” I demanded.
“Very,” said he.
“As clannish as the Highlanders?” said I.
“Yes,” said he, “and a good deal more.”
We came to the house of the wounded butcher, which was some way out of the town in the north-western suburb. The magistrate was in the lower apartment with the clerk, one or two officials, and the surgeon of the town. He was a gentleman of about two or three-and-forty, with a military air and large moustaches, for besides being a justice of the peace, and a landed proprietor, he was an officer in the army. He made me a polite bow when I entered, and I requested of him permission to be present at the examination. He hesitated a moment, and then asking me my motive for wishing to be present at it.
“Merely curiosity,” said I.
He then observed that, as the examination would be a private one, my being permitted or not was quite optional.
“I am aware of that,” said I, “and if you think my remaining is objectionable, I will forthwith retire.” He looked at the clerk, who said there could be no objection to my staying, and turning round to his superior, said something to him which I did not hear, whereupon the magistrate again bowed, and said that he should be very happy to grant my request.
We went upstairs, and found the wounded man in bed, with a bandage round his forehead, and his wife sitting by his bedside. The magistrate and his officials took their seats, and I was accommodated with a chair. Presently the prisoner was introduced under the charge of a policeman. He was a fellow somewhat above thirty, of the middle size, and wore a dirty white frock coat; his right arm was partly confined by a manacle—a young girl was sworn, who deposed that she saw the prisoner run after the other with something in his hand. The wounded man was then asked whether he thought he was able to make a deposition; he replied in a very feeble tone that he thought he was, and after being sworn, deposed that on the preceding Saturday, as he was going to his stall, the prisoner came up to him and asked whether he had ever done him any injury? he said no. “I then,” said he, “observed the prisoner’s countenance undergo a change, and saw him put his hand to his waistcoat pocket and pull out a knife. I straight became frightened, and ran away as fast as I could; the prisoner followed, and overtaking me, stabbed me in the face. I ran into the yard of a public-house, and into the shop of an acquaintance, where I fell down, the blood spouting out of my wound.” Such was the deposition of the wounded butcher. He was then asked whether there had been any quarrel between him and the prisoner? He said there had been no quarrel, but that he had refused to drink with the prisoner when he requested him, which he had done very frequently, and had more than once told him that he did not wish for his acquaintance. The prisoner, on being asked, after the usual caution, whether he had anything to say, said that he merely wished to mark the man, but not to kill him. The surgeon of the place deposed to the nature of the wound, and on being asked his opinion with respect to the state of the prisoner’s mind, said that he believed that he might be labouring under a delusion. After the prisoner’s bloody weapon and coat had been produced, he was committed.
It was generally said that the prisoner was disordered in his mind; I held my tongue, but judging from his look and manner, I saw no reason to suppose that he was any more out of his senses than I myself, or any person present, and I had no doubt that what induced him to commit the act was rage at being looked down upon by a quondam acquaintance, who was rising a little in the world, exacerbated by the reflection that the disdainful quondam acquaintance was one of the Saxon race, against which every Welshman entertains a grudge more or less virulent, which, though of course very unchristianlike, is really, brother Englishman, after the affair of the long knives, and two or three other actions of a somewhat similar character, of our noble Anglo-Saxon progenitors, with which all Welshmen are perfectly well acquainted, not very much to be wondered at.
LIII. The Dylluan—The Oldest Creatures
Much rain fell about the middle of the month; in the intervals of the showers I occasionally walked by the banks of the river, which speedily became much swollen; it was quite terrible both to the sight and ear near the “Robber’s Leap;” there were breakers above the higher stones at least five feet high, and a roar around almost sufficient “to scare a hundred men.” The pool of Catherine Lingo was strangely altered; it was no longer the quiet pool which it was in summer, verifying the words of the old Welsh poet that the deepest pool of the river is always the stillest in the summer and of the softest sound, but a howling turbid gulf, in which branches of trees, dead animals, and rubbish were whirling about in the wildest confusion. The nights were generally less rainy than the days, and sometimes by the pallid glimmer of the moon I would take a stroll along some favourite path or road. One night, as I was wandering slowly along the path leading through the groves of Pen y Coed, I was startled by an unearthly cry—it was the shout of the dylluan, or owl, as it flitted over the tops of the trees on its nocturnal business.
Oh, that cry of the dylluan! what a strange, wild cry it is; how unlike any other sound in nature! a cry which no combination of letters can give the slightest idea of. What resemblance does Shakespear’s to-whit-to-whoo bear to the cry of the owl? none whatever; those who hear it for the first time never know what it is, however accustomed to talk of the cry of the owl and to-whit-to-whoo. A man might be wandering through a wood with Shakespear’s owl-chorus in his mouth, but were he then to hear for the first time the real shout of the owl, he would assuredly stop short and wonder whence that unearthly cry could proceed.
Yet no doubt that strange cry is a fitting cry for the owl, the strangest in its habits and look of all birds, the bird of whom by all nations the strangest tales are told. Oh, what strange tales are told of the owl, especially in connection with its long-lifedness; but of all the strange, wild tales connected with the age of the owl, strangest of all is the old Welsh tale. When I heard the owl’s cry in the groves of Pen y Coed, that tale rushed into my mind. I had heard it from the singular groom, who had taught me to gabble Welsh in my boyhood, and had subsequently read it in an old tattered Welsh story-book, which by chance fell into my hands. The reader will perhaps be obliged by my relating it.
“The eagle of the alder grove, after being long married, and having had many children by his mate, lost her by death, and became a widower. After some time he took it into his head to marry the owl of the Cowlyd Coomb; but fearing he should have issue by her, and by that means sully his lineage, he went first of all to the oldest creatures in the world, in order to obtain information about her age. First he went to the stag of Ferny-side brae, whom he found sitting by the old stump of an oak, and inquired the age of the owl. The stag said: ‘I have seen this oak an acorn which is now lying on the ground without either leaves or bark: nothing in the world wore it up but my rubbing myself against it once a day when I got up, so I have seen a vast number of years, but I assure you that I have never seen the owl older or younger than she is to-day. However, there is one older than myself, and that is the salmon-trout of Glyn Llifon.’ To him went the eagle, and asked him the age of the owl, and got for answer: ‘I have a year over my head for every gem on my skin, and for every egg in my roe, yet have I always seen the owl look the same; but there is one older than myself, and that is the ousel of Cilgwry.’ Away went the eagle to Cilgwry, and found the ousel standing upon a little rock, and asked him the age of the owl. Quoth the ousel: ‘You see that the rock below me is not larger than a man can carry in one of his hands: I have seen it so large that it would have taken a hundred oxen to drag it, and it has never been worn save by my drying my beak upon it once every night, and by my striking the tip of my wing against it in rising in the morning, yet never have I known the owl older or younger than she is to-day. However, there is one older than I, and that is the toad of Cors Fochnod; and unless he knows her age no one knows it.’ To him went the eagle, and asked the age of the owl, and the toad replied: ‘I have never eaten anything save what I have sucked from the earth, and have never eaten half my fill in all the days of my life; but do you see those two great hills beside the cross? I have seen the place where they stand level ground, and nothing produced those heaps save what I discharged from my body, who have ever eaten so very little—yet never have I known the owl anything else but an old hag who cried Too-hoo-hoo, and scared children with her voice, even as she does at present.’ So the eagle of Gwernabwy, the stag of Ferny-side brae, the salmon-trout of Glyn Llifon, the ousel of Cilgwry, the toad of Cors Fochnod, and the owl of Coomb Cowlyd, are the oldest creatures in the world, the oldest of them all being the owl.”
Chapter LIV
Chirk—The Middleton Family—Castell y Waen—The Park—The Court Yard—The Young Housekeeper—The Portraits—Melin y Castell—Humble Meal—Fine Chests for the Dead—Hales and Hercules.
The weather having become fine, myself and family determined to go and see Chirk Castle, a mansion ancient and beautiful, and abounding with all kinds of agreeable and romantic associations. It was founded about the beginning of the fifteenth century by a St. John, Lord of Bletsa, from a descendant of whom it was purchased in the year 1615 by Sir Thomas Middleton, the scion of an ancient Welsh family who, following commerce, acquired a vast fortune, and was Lord Mayor of London. In the time of the great civil war it hoisted the banner of the king, and under Sir Thomas, the son of the Lord Mayor, made a brave defence against Lambert, the Parliamentary General, though eventually compelled to surrender. It was held successively by four Sir Thomas Middletons, and if it acquired a warlike celebrity under the second, it obtained a peculiarly hospitable one under the fourth, whose daughter, the fruit of a second marriage, became Countess of Warwick, and eventually the wife of the poet and moralist, Addison. In his time the hospitality of Chirk became the theme of many a bard, particularly of Huw Morris, who, in one of his songs, has gone so far as to say that were the hill of Cefn Uchaf turned into beef and bread, and the rill Ceiriog into beer or wine, they would be consumed in half a year by the hospitality of Chirk. Though no longer in the hands of one of the name of Middleton, Chirk Castle is still possessed by one of the blood, the mother of the present proprietor being the eldest of three sisters, lineal descendants of the Lord Mayor, between whom, in default of an heir male, the wide possessions of the Middleton family were divided. This gentleman, who bears the name of Biddulph, is Lord Lieutenant of the county of Denbigh, and notwithstanding his war-breathing name, which is Gothic, and signifies Wolf of Battle, is a person of highly amiable disposition, and one who takes great interest in the propagation of the Gospel of peace and love.
To view this place which, though in English called Chirk Castle, is styled in Welsh Castell y Waen, or the Castle of the Meadow, we started on foot about ten o’clock of a fine bright morning, attended by John Jones. There are two roads from Llangollen to Chirk, one the low or post road, and the other leading over the Berwyn. We chose the latter. We passed by the Yew cottage, which I have described on a former occasion, and began to ascend the mountain, making towards its north-eastern corner. The road at first was easy enough, but higher up became very steep, and somewhat appalling, being cut out of the side of the hill which shelves precipitously down towards the valley of the Dee. Near the top of the mountain were three lofty beech trees, growing on the very verge of the precipice. Here the road for about twenty yards is fenced on its dangerous side by a wall, parts of which are built between the stems of the trees. Just beyond the wall a truly noble prospect presented itself to our eyes. To the north were bold hills, their sides and skirts adorned with numerous woods and white farmhouses; a thousand feet below us was the Dee, and its wondrous Pont y Cysultau. John Jones said that if certain mists did not intervene we might descry “the sea of Liverpool;” and perhaps the only thing wanting to make the prospect complete was that sea of Liverpool. We were, however, quite satisfied with what we saw, and turning round the corner of the hill, reached its top, where for a considerable distance there is level ground, and where, though at a great altitude, we found ourselves in a fair and fertile region, and amidst a scene of busy rural life. We saw fields and inclosures, and here and there corn-stacks, some made, and others not yet completed, about which people were employed, and waggons and horses moving. Passing over the top of the hill, we began to descend the southern side, which was far less steep than the one we had lately surmounted. After a little way the road descended through a wood, which John Jones told us was the beginning of the “Park of Biddulph.”
“There is plenty of game in this wood,” said he; “pheasant cocks and pheasant hens, to say nothing of hares and coneys; and in the midst of it there is a space sown with a particular kind of corn for the support of the pheasant hens and pheasant cocks, which in the shooting-season afford pleasant sport for Biddulph and his friends.”
Near the foot of the descent, just where the road made a turn to the east, we passed by a building which stood amidst trees, with a pond and barns near it.
“This,” said John Jones, “is the house where the bailiff lives, who farms and buys and sells for Biddulph, and fattens the beeves and swine, and the geese, ducks, and other poultry which Biddulph consumes at his table.”
The scenery was now very lovely, consisting of a mixture of hill and dale, open space and forest, in fact the best kind of park scenery. We caught a glimpse of a lake, in which John Jones said there were generally plenty of swans, and presently saw the castle, which stands on a green grassy slope, from which it derives its Welsh name of Castell y Waen; gwaen in the Cumrian language signifying a meadow or unenclosed place. It fronts the west, the direction from which we were coming; on each side it shows five towers, of which the middlemost, which protrudes beyond the rest, and at the bottom of which is the grand gate, is by far the bulkiest. A noble edifice it looked, and to my eye bore no slight resemblance to Windsor Castle.
Seeing a kind of ranger, we inquired of him what it was necessary for us to do, and by his direction proceeded to the southern side of the castle, and rung the bell at a small gate. The southern side had a far more antique appearance than the western; huge towers, with small windows, and partly covered with ivy, frowned down upon us. A servant making his appearance, I inquired whether we could see the house; he said we could, and that the housekeeper would show it to us in a little time, but that at present she was engaged. We entered a large quadrangular court; on the left hand side was a door and staircase leading into the interior of the building, and farther on was a gateway, which was no doubt the principal entrance from the park. On the eastern side of the spacious court was a kennel, chained to which was an enormous dog, partly of the bloodhound, partly of the mastiff species, who occasionally uttered a deep magnificent bay. As the sun was hot we took refuge from it under the gateway, the gate of which, at the farther end, towards the park, was closed. Here my wife and daughter sat down on a small brass cannon, seemingly a six-pounder, which stood on a very dilapidated carriage; from the appearance of the gun, which was of an ancient form and very much battered, and that of the carriage, I had little doubt that both had been in the castle at the time of the siege. As my two loved ones sat I walked up and down, recalling to my mind all I had heard and read in connection with this castle. I thought of its gallant defence against the men of Oliver; I thought of its roaring hospitality in the time of the fourth Sir Thomas; and I thought of the many beauties who had been born in its chambers, had danced in its halls, had tripped across its court, and had subsequently given heirs to illustrious families.
At last we were told that the housekeeper was waiting for us. The housekeeper, who was a genteel, good-looking young woman, welcomed us at the door which led into the interior of the house. After we had written our names, she showed us into a large room or hall on the right-hand side on the ground floor, where were some helmets and ancient halberts, and also some pictures of great personages. The floor was of oak, and so polished and slippery that walking upon it was attended with some danger. Wishing that John Jones, our faithful attendant, who remained timidly at the doorway, should participate with us in the wonderful sights we were about to see, I inquired of the housekeeper whether he might come with us. She replied with a smile that it was not the custom to admit guides into the apartments, but that he might come provided he chose to take off his shoes; adding, that the reason she wished him to take off his shoes was, an apprehension that if he kept them on he would injure the floors with their rough nails. She then went to John Jones and told him in English that he might attend us provided he took off his shoes; poor John, however, only smiled, and said, “Dim Saesneg!”
“You must speak to him in your native language,” said I, “provided you wish him to understand you—he has no English.”
“I am speaking to him in my native language,” said the young housekeeper, with another smile; “and if he has no English, I have no Welsh.”
“Then you are English?” said I.
“Yes,” she replied, “a native of London.”
“Dear me,” said I. “Well, it’s no bad thing to be English after all; and as for not speaking Welsh, there are many in Wales who would be glad to have much less Welsh than they have.” I then told John Jones the condition on which he might attend us, whereupon he took off his shoes with great glee and attended us, holding them in his hand.
We presently went upstairs to what the housekeeper told us was the principal drawing-room, and a noble room it was, hung round with the portraits of kings and queens and the mighty of the earth. Here, on canvas, was noble Mary the wife of William of Orange, and her consort by her side, whose part like a true wife she always took. Here was wretched Mary of Scotland, the murderess of her own lord. Here were the two Charleses, and both the Dukes of Ormond—the great Duke who fought stoutly in Ireland against Papist and Roundhead; and the Pretender’s Duke who tried to stab his native land, and died a foreign colonel. And here, amongst other daughters of the house, was the very proud daughter of the house, the Warwick Dowager who married the Spectator, and led him the life of a dog. She looked haughty and cold, and not particularly handsome; but I could not help gazing with a certain degree of interest and respect on the countenance of the vixen, who served out the gentility worshipper in such prime style. Many were the rooms which we entered, of which I shall say nothing, save that they were noble in size, and rich in objects of interest. At last we came to what was called the picture gallery. It was a long panelled room, extending nearly the whole length of the northern side. The first thing which struck us on entering was the huge skin of a lion stretched out upon the floor; the head, however, which was towards the door, was stuffed, and with its monstrous teeth looked so formidable and lifelike that we were almost afraid to touch it. Against every panel was a portrait; amongst others was that of Sir Thomas Middleton, the stout governor of the castle during the time of the siege. Near to it was the portrait of his rib, Dame Middleton. Farther down on the same side were two portraits of Nell Gwynn; the one painted when she was a girl, the other when she had attained a more mature age. They were both by Lely, the Apelles of the Court of wanton Charles. On the other side was one of the Duke of Gloucester, the son of Queen Anne, who, had he lived, would have kept the Georges from the throne. In this gallery, on the southern side, was a cabinet of ebony and silver, presented by Charles the Second to the brave warrior Sir Thomas, and which, according to tradition, cost seven thousand pounds. This room, which was perhaps the most magnificent in the castle, was the last we visited. The candle of God whilst we wandered through these magnificent halls was flaming in the firmament, and its rays penetrating through the long, narrow windows, showed them off, and all the gorgeous things which they contained, to great advantage. When we left the castle we all said, not excepting John Jones, that we had never seen in our lives anything more princely and delightful than the interior.
After a little time my wife and daughter, complaining of being rather faint, I asked John Jones whether there was an inn in the neighbourhood where some refreshment could be procured. He said there was, and that he would conduct us to it. We directed our course towards the east, rousing successively, and setting a-scampering, three large herds of deer—the common ones were yellow and of no particular size—but at the head of each herd we observed a big old black fellow with immense antlers; one of these was particularly large, indeed as huge as a bull. We soon came to the verge of a steep descent, down which we went, not without some risk of falling. At last we came to a gate; it was locked; however, on John Jones shouting, an elderly man, with his right hand bandaged, came and opened it. I asked him what was the matter with his hand, and he told me that he had lately lost three fingers, whilst working at a saw-mill up at the castle. On my inquiring about the inn, he said he was the master of it, and led the way to a long, neat, low house nearly opposite to a little bridge over a brook, which ran down the valley towards the north. I ordered some ale and bread-and-butter, and whilst our repast was being got ready, John Jones and I went to the bridge.
“This bridge, sir,” said John, “is called Pont y Velin Castell, the bridge of the Castle Mill; the inn was formerly the mill of the castle, and is still called Melin y Castell. As soon as you are over the bridge you are in shire Amwythig, which the Saxons call Shropshire. A little way up on yon hill is Clawdd Offa, or Offa’s dyke, built of old by the Brenin Offa in order to keep us poor Welsh within our bounds.”
As we stood on the bridge, I inquired of Jones the name of the brook which was running merrily beneath it.
“The Ceiriog, sir,” said John; “the same river that we saw at Pont y Meibion.”
“The river,” said I, “which Huw Morris loved so well, whose praises he has sung, and which he has introduced along with Cefn Uchaf in a stanza in which he describes the hospitality of Chirk Castle in his day, and which runs thus:
‘Pe byddai ’r Cefn Ucha, Yn gig ac yn fara, A Cheiriog fawr yma’n fir aml bob tro, Rhy ryfedd fae iddyn’ Barhâu hanner blwyddyn, I wyr bob yn gan-nyn ar ginio.’”
“A good penill that, sir,” said John Jones. “Pity that the halls of great people no longer flow with rivers of beer, nor have mountains of bread and beef for all comers.”
“No pity at all,” said I; “things are better as they are. Those mountains of bread and beef, and those rivers of ale merely encouraged vassalage, fawning and idleness; better to pay for one’s dinner proudly and independently at one’s inn, than to go and cringe for it at a great man’s table.”
We crossed the bridge, walked a little way up the hill, which was beautifully wooded, and then retraced our steps to the little inn, where I found my wife and daughter waiting for us, and very hungry. We sat down, John Jones with us, and proceeded to despatch our bread-and-butter and ale. The bread-and-butter were good enough, but the ale poorish. O, for an Act of Parliament to force people to brew good ale! After finishing our humble meal we got up, and having paid our reckoning, went back into the park, the gate of which the landlord again unlocked for us.
We strolled towards the north along the base of the hill. The imagination of man can scarcely conceive a scene more beautiful than the one which we were now enjoying. Huge oaks studded the lower side of the hill, towards the top was a belt of forest, above which rose the eastern walls of the castle; the whole forest, castle, and the green bosom of the hill glorified by the lustre of the sun. As we proceeded we again roused the deer, and again saw the three old black fellows, evidently the patriarchs of the herds, with their white, enormous horns; with these ancient gentlefolks I very much wished to make acquaintance, and tried to get near them, but no! they would suffer no such thing; off they glided, their white antlers, like the barked top boughs of old pollards, glancing in the sunshine, the smaller dappled creatures following them bounding and frisking. We had again got very near the castle, when John Jones told me that if we would follow him, he would show us something very remarkable: I asked him what it was.
“Llun Cawr,” he replied. “The figure of a giant.”
“What giant?” said I.
But on this point he could give me no information. I told my wife and daughter what he had said, and finding that they wished to see the figure, I bade John Jones lead us to it. He led us down an avenue just below the eastern side of the castle; noble oaks and other trees composed it, some of them probably near a hundred feet high; John Jones observing me looking at them with admiration, said:
“They would make fine chests for the dead, sir.”
What an observation! how calculated, amidst the most bounding joy and bliss, to remind man of his doom! A moment before I had felt quite happy, but now I felt sad and mournful. I looked at my wife and daughter, who were gazing admiringly on the beauteous scenes around them, and remembered that, in a few short years at most, we should all three be laid in the cold, narrow house formed of four elm or oaken boards, our only garment the flannel shroud, the cold, damp earth above us instead of the bright, glorious sky. O, how sad and mournful I became! I soon comforted myself, however, by reflecting that such is the will of Heaven, and that Heaven is good.
After we had descended the avenue some way, John Jones began to look about him, and getting on the bank on the left side, disappeared. We went on, and in a little time saw him again beckoning to us some way farther down, but still on the bank. When we drew nigh to him, he bade us get on the bank; we did so, and followed him some way amidst furze and lyng. All of a sudden he exclaimed, “There it is!” We looked, and saw a large figure standing on a pedestal. On going up to it we found it to be a Hercules leaning on his club,—indeed a copy of the Farnese Hercules, as we gathered from an inscription in Latin partly defaced. We felt rather disappointed, as we expected that it would have turned out to be the figure of some huge Welsh champion of old. We, however, said nothing to our guide. John Jones, in order that we might properly appreciate the size of the statue by contrasting it with his own body, got upon the pedestal and stood up beside the figure, to the elbow of which his head little more than reached.
I told him that in my country, the eastern part of Lloegr, I had seen a man quite as tall as the statue.
“Indeed, sir,” said he; “who is it?”
“Hales, the Norfolk giant,” I replied, “who has a sister seven inches shorter than himself, who is yet seven inches taller than any man in the county when her brother is out of it.”
When John Jones got down he asked me who the man was whom the statue was intended to represent.
“Erchwl,” I replied, “a mighty man of old, who with his club cleared the country of thieves, serpents, and monsters.”
I now proposed that we should return to Llangollen, whereupon we retraced our steps, and had nearly reached the farm-house of the castle, when John Jones said that we had better return by the low road, by doing which we should see the castle-lodge, and also its gate, which was considered one of the wonders of Wales. We followed his advice, and passing by the front of the castle northwards, soon came to the lodge. The lodge had nothing remarkable in its appearance, but the gate, which was of iron, was truly magnificent.
On the top were two figures of wolves, which John Jones supposed to be those of foxes. The wolf of Chirk is not intended to be expressive of the northern name of its proprietor, but is the armorial bearing of his family by the maternal side, and originated in one Ryred, surnamed Blaidd, or Wolf, from his ferocity in war; from whom the family, which only assumed the name of Middleton in the beginning of the thirteenth century, on the occasion of its representative marrying a rich Shropshire heiress of that name, traces descent.
The wolf of Chirk is a Cambrian, not a Gothic wolf, and though “a wolf of battle,” is the wolf not of Biddulph, but of Ryred.
Chapter LV
A Visitor—Apprenticeship to the Law—Croch Daranau Lope de Vega—No life like the Traveller’s.
One morning as I sat alone a gentleman was announced. On his entrance I recognised in him the magistrate’s clerk, owing to whose good word, as it appeared to me, I had been permitted to remain during the examination into the affair of the wounded butcher. He was a stout, strong-made man, somewhat under the middle height, with a ruddy face, and very clear, grey eyes. I handed him a chair, which he took, and said that his name was R—, and that he had taken the liberty of calling, as he had a great desire to be acquainted with me. On my asking him his reason for that desire, he told me that it proceeded from his having read a book of mine about Spain, which had much interested him.
“Good,” said I, “you can’t give an author a better reason for coming to see him than being pleased with his book. I assure you that you are most welcome.”
After a little general discourse, I said that I presumed he was in the law.
“Yes,” said he, “I am a member of that much-abused profession.”
“And unjustly abused,” said I; “it is a profession which abounds with honourable men, and in which I believe there are fewer scamps than in any other. The most honourable men I have ever known have been lawyers; they were men whose word was their bond, and who would have preferred ruin to breaking it. There was my old master, in particular, who would have died sooner than broken his word. God bless him! I think I see him now, with his bald, shining pate, and his finger on an open page of Preston’s Conveyancing.”
“Sure you are not a limb of the law?” said Mr. R—.
“No,” said I, “but I might be, for I served an apprenticeship to it.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. R—, shaking me by the hand. “Take my advice, come and settle at Llangollen, and be my partner.”
“If I did,” said I, “I am afraid that our partnership would be of short duration; you would find me too eccentric and flighty for the law. Have you a good practice?” I demanded after a pause.
“I have no reason to complain of it,” said he, with a contented air.
“I suppose you are married?” said I.
“O yes,” said he, “I have both a wife and family.”
“A native of Llangollen?” said I.
“No,” said he; “I was born at Llan Silin, a place some way off across the Berwyn.”
“Llan Silin?” said I; “I have a great desire to visit it some day or other.”
“Why so?” said he; “it offers nothing interesting.”
“I beg your pardon,” said I; “unless I am much mistaken, the tomb of the great poet Huw Morris is in Llan Silin churchyard.”
“Is it possible that you have ever heard of Huw Morris?”
“O yes,” said I; “and I have not only heard of him, but am acquainted with his writings; I read them when a boy.”
“How very extraordinary,” said he; “well, you are quite right about his tomb; when a boy I have played dozens of times on the flat stone with my school-fellows.”
We talked of Welsh poetry; he said he had not dipped much into it, owing to its difficulty; that he was master of the colloquial language of Wales, but understood very little of the language of Welsh poetry, which was a widely different thing. I asked him whether he had seen Owen Pugh’s translation of Paradise Lost. He said he had, but could only partially understand it, adding, however, that those parts which he could make out appeared to him to be admirably executed, that amongst these there was one which had particularly struck him, namely:
“Ar eu col o rygnu croch Daranau.”
The rendering of Milton’s
“And on their hinges grate Harsh thunder,”
which, grand as it was, was certainly equalled by the Welsh version, and perhaps surpassed, for that he was disposed to think that there was something more terrible in “croch daranau” than in “harsh thunder.”
“I am disposed to think so too,” said I. “Now can you tell me where Owen Pugh is buried?”
“I cannot,” said he; “but I suppose you can tell me; you, who know the burying-place of Huw Morris, are probably acquainted with the burying-place of Owen Pugh.”
“No,” said I, “I am not. Unlike Huw Morris, Owen Pugh has never had his history written, though perhaps quite as interesting a history might be made out of the life of the quiet student as out of that of the popular poet. As soon as ever I learn where his grave is, I shall assuredly make a pilgrimage to it.” Mr. R— then asked me a good many questions about Spain, and a certain singular race of people about whom I have written a good deal. Before going away he told me that a friend of his, of the name of J—, would call upon me, provided he thought I should not consider his doing so an intrusion. “Let him come by all means,” said I; “I shall never look upon a visit from a friend of yours in the light of an intrusion.”
In a few days came his friend, a fine, tall, athletic man of about forty. “You are no Welshman,” said I, as I looked at him.
“No,” said he, “I am a native of Lincolnshire, but I have resided in Llangollen for thirteen years.”
“In what capacity?” said I.
“In the wine-trade,” said he.
“Instead of coming to Llangollen,” said I, “and entering into the wine-trade, you should have gone to London, and enlisted into the life-guards.”
“Well,” said he, with a smile, “I had once or twice thought of doing so. However, fate brought me to Llangollen, and I am not sorry that she did, for I have done very well here.”
I soon found out that he was a well-read and indeed highly accomplished man. Like his friend R—, Mr. J— asked me a great many questions about Spain. By degrees we got on the subject of Spanish literature. I said that the literature of Spain was a first-rate literature, but that it was not very extensive. He asked me whether I did not think that Lope de Vega was much overrated.
“Not a bit,” said I; “Lope de Vega was one of the greatest geniuses that ever lived. He was not only a great dramatist and lyric poet, but a prose writer of marvellous ability, as he proved by several admirable tales, amongst which is the best ghost story in the world.”
Another remarkable person whom I got acquainted with about this time, was A—, the innkeeper, who lived a little way down the road, of whom John Jones had spoken. So highly, saying, amongst other things, that he was the clebberest man in Llangollen. One day as I was looking in at his gate, he came forth, took off his hat, and asked me to do him the honour to come in and look at his grounds. I complied, and as he showed me about he told me his history, in nearly the following words:—
“I am a Devonian by birth. For many years I served a travelling gentleman, whom I accompanied in all his wanderings. I have been five times across the Alps, and in every capital of Europe. My master at length dying, left me in his will something handsome, whereupon I determined to be a servant no longer, but married, and came to Llangollen, which I had visited long before with my master, and had been much pleased with. After a little time, these premises becoming vacant, I took them, and set up in the public line, more to have something to do, than for the sake of gain, about which, indeed, I need not trouble myself much; my poor dear master, as I said before, having done very handsomely by me at his death. Here I have lived for several years, receiving strangers, and improving my houses and grounds. I am tolerably comfortable, but confess I sometimes look back to my former roving life rather wistfully, for there is no life so merry as the traveller’s.”
He was about the middle age, and somewhat under the middle size. I had a good deal of conversation with him, and was much struck with his frank, straightforward manner. He enjoyed a high character at Llangollen for probity, and likewise for cleverness, being reckoned an excellent gardener, and an almost unequalled cook. His master, the travelling gentleman, might well leave him a handsome remembrance in his will, for he had not only been an excellent and trusty servant to him, but had once saved his life at the hazard of his own, amongst the frightful precipices of the Alps. Such retired gentlemen’s servants, or such publicans either, as honest A—, are not every day to be found. His grounds, principally laid out by his own hands, exhibited an infinity of taste, and his house, into which I looked, was a perfect picture of neatness. Any tourist visiting Llangollen for a short period could do no better than take up his abode at the hostelry of honest A—.
Chapter LVI
Ringing of Bells—Battle of Alma—The Brown Jug—Ale of Llangollen—Reverses.
On the third of October—I think that was the date—as my family and myself, attended by trusty John Jones, were returning on foot from visiting a park not far from Rhiwabon, we heard, when about a mile from Llangollen, a sudden ringing of the bells of the place, and a loud shouting. Presently we observed a postman hurrying in a cart from the direction of the town. “Peth yw y matter?” said John Jones. “Y matter, y matter!” said the postman, in a tone of exultation. “Sebastopol wedi cymmeryd Hurrah!”
“What does he say?” said my wife anxiously to me.
“Why, that Sebastopol is taken,” said I.
“Then you have been mistaken,” said my wife, smiling, “for you always said that the place would either not be taken at all, or would cost the allies to take it a deal of time, and an immense quantity of blood and treasure, and here it is taken at once, for the allies only landed the other day. Well, thank God, you have been mistaken!”
“Thank God, indeed,” said I, “always supposing that I have been mistaken—but I hardly think, from what I have known of the Russians, that they would let their town—however, let us hope that they have let it be taken, Hurrah!”
We reached our dwelling. My wife and daughter went in. John Jones betook himself to his cottage, and I went into the town, in which there was a great excitement; a wild running troop of boys was shouting “Sebastopol wedi cymmeryd Hurrah! Hurrah!” Old Mr. Jones was standing bareheaded at his door. “Ah,” said the old gentleman, “I am glad to see you. Let us congratulate each other,” he added, shaking me by the hand. “Sebastopol taken, and in so short a time. How fortunate!”
“Fortunate indeed,” said I, returning his hearty shake; “I only hope it may be true.”
“O, there can be no doubt of its being true,” said the old gentleman. “The accounts are most positive. Come in, and I will tell you all the circumstances.” I followed him into his little back parlour, where we both sat down.
“Now,” said the old church-clerk, “I will tell you all about it. The allies landed about twenty miles from Sebastopol, and proceeded to march against it. When nearly half way, they found the Russians posted on a hill. Their position was naturally very strong, and they had made it more so by means of redoubts and trenches. However, the allies, undismayed, attacked the enemy, and after a desperate resistance, drove them over the hill, and following fast at their heels, entered the town pell-mell with them, taking it and all that remained alive of the Russian army. And what do you think? The Welsh highly distinguished themselves. The Welsh fusileers were the first to mount the hill. They suffered horribly—indeed, almost the whole regiment was cut to pieces; but what of that? they showed that the courage of the Ancient Britons still survives in their descendants. And now I intend to stand beverage. I assure you I do. No words! I insist upon it. I have heard you say you are fond of good ale, and I intend to fetch you a pint of such ale as I am sure you never drank in your life.” Thereupon he hurried out of the room, and through the shop into the street.
“Well,” said I, when I was by myself, “if this news does not regularly surprise me! I can easily conceive that the Russians would be beaten in a pitched battle by the English and French—but that they should have been so quickly followed up by the allies as not to be able to shut their gates and man their walls is to me inconceivable. Why, the Russians retreat like the wind, and have a thousand ruses at command, in order to retard an enemy. So at least I thought, but it is plain that I know nothing about them, nor indeed much of my own countrymen; I should never have thought that English soldiers could have marched fast enough to overtake Russians, more especially with such a being to command them, as —, whom I, and indeed almost every one else, have always considered a dead weight on the English service. I suppose, however, that both they and their commander were spurred on by the active French.”
Presently the old church clerk made his appearance, with a glass in one hand, and a brown jug of ale in the other.
“Here,” said he, filling the glass, “is some of the real Llangollen ale; I got it from the little inn, the Eagle, over the way, which was always celebrated for its ale. They stared at me when I went in and asked for a pint of ale, as they knew that for twenty years I have drunk no liquor whatever, owing to the state of my stomach, which will not allow me to drink anything stronger than water and tea. I told them, however, it was for a gentleman, a friend of mine, whom I wished to treat in honour of the fall of Sebastopol.”
I would fain have excused myself, but the old gentleman insisted on my drinking.
“Well,” said I, taking the glass, “thank God that our gloomy forebodings are not likely to be realised. Oes y byd i’r glôd Frythoneg! May Britain’s glory last as long as the world!”
Then, looking for a moment at the ale, which was of a dark-brown colour, I put the glass to my lips, and drank.
“Ah,” said the old church clerk, “I see you like it, for you have emptied the glass at a draught.”
“It is good ale,” said I.
“Good,” said the old gentleman rather hastily, “good; did you ever taste any so good in your life?”
“Why, as to that,” said I, “I hardly know what to say; I have drunk some very good ale in my day. However, I’ll trouble you for another glass.”
“O ho, you will,” said the old gentleman; “that’s enough; if you did not think it first-rate you would not ask for more. This,” said he, as he filled the glass again, “is genuine malt and hop liquor, brewed in a way only known, they say, to some few people in this place. You must, however, take care how much you take of it. Only a few glasses will make you dispute with your friends, and a few more quarrel with them. Strange things are said of what Llangollen ale made people do of yore; and I remember that when I was young and could drink ale, two or three glasses of the Llangollen juice of the barleycorn would make me—however, those times are gone by.”
“Has Llangollen ale,” said I, after tasting the second glass, “ever been sung in Welsh? is there no englyn upon it?”
“No,” said the old church clerk, “at any rate, that I am aware.”
“Well,” said I, “I can’t sing its praises in a Welsh englyn, but I think I can contrive to do so in an English quatrain, with the help of what you have told me. What do you think of this?—
“‘Llangollen’s brown ale is with malt and hop rife; ’Tis good; but don’t quaff it from evening till dawn; For too much of that ale will incline you to strife; Too much of that ale has caused knives to be drawn.’”
“That’s not so bad,” said the old church clerk, “but I think some of our bards could have produced something better—that is, in Welsh; for example, old—. What’s the name of the old bard who wrote so many englynion on ale?”
“Sion Tudor,” said I; “O yes; but he was a great poet. Ah, he has written some wonderful englynion on ale; but you will please to bear in mind that all his englynion are upon bad ale, and it is easier to turn to ridicule what is bad than to do anything like justice to what is good.”
O, great was the rejoicing for a few days at Llangollen for the reported triumph; and the share of the Welsh in that triumph reconciled for a time the descendants of the Ancient Britons to the seed of the coiling serpent. “Welsh and Saxons together will conquer the world!” shouted brats as they stood barefooted in the kennel. In a little time, however, news not quite so cheering arrived. There had been a battle fought, it is true, in which the Russians had been beaten, and the little Welsh had very much distinguished themselves, but no Sebastopol had been taken. The Russians had retreated to their town, which, till then almost defenceless on the land side, they had, following their old maxim of “never despair,” rendered almost impregnable in a few days, whilst the allies, chiefly owing to the supineness of the British commander, were loitering on the field of battle. In a word, all had happened which the writer, from his knowledge of the Russians and his own countrymen, had conceived likely to happen from the beginning. Then came the news of the commencement of a seemingly interminable siege, and of disasters and disgraces on the part of the British; there was no more shouting at Llangollen in connection with the Crimean expedition. But the subject is a disagreeable one, and the writer will dismiss it after a few brief words.
It was quite right and consistent with the justice of God that the British arms should be subjected to disaster and ignominy about that period. A deed of infamous injustice and cruelty had been perpetrated, and the perpetrators, instead of being punished, had received applause and promotion; so if the British expedition to Sebastopol was a disastrous and ignominious one, who can wonder? Was it likely that the groans of poor Parry would be unheard from the corner to which he had retired to hide his head by “the Ancient of days,” who sits above the cloud, and from thence sends judgments?
Chapter LVII
The Newspaper—A New Walk—Pentré y Dwr—Oatmeal and Barley-meal—The Man on Horseback—Heavy News.
“Dear me,” said I to my wife, as I sat by the fire one Saturday morning, looking at a newspaper which had been sent to us from our own district, “what is this? Why, the death of our old friend Dr. —. He died last Tuesday week, after a short illness, for he preached in his church at the previous Sunday.”
“Poor man!” said my wife. “How sorry I am to hear of his death! However, he died in the fulness of years, after a long and exemplary life. He was an excellent man and good Christian shepherd. I knew him well; you, I think, only saw him once.”
“But I shall never forget him,” said I, “nor how animated his features became when I talked to him about Wales, for he, you know, was a Welshman. I forgot, to ask what part of Wales he came from. I suppose I shall never know now.”
Feeling indisposed either for writing or reading, I determined to take a walk to Pentré y Dwr, a village in the north-west part of the valley, which I had not yet visited. I purposed going by a path under the Eglwysig crags, which I had heard led thither, and to return by the monastery. I set out. The day was dull and gloomy. Crossing the canal, I pursued my course by romantic lanes, till I found myself under the crags. The rocky ridge here turns away to the north, having previously run from the east to the west.
After proceeding nearly a mile amidst very beautiful scenery, I came to a farm-yard, where I saw several men engaged in repairing a building. This farm-yard was in a very sequestered situation; a hill overhung it on the west, half-way up whose side stood a farmhouse, to which it probably pertained. On the northwest was a most romantic hill covered with wood to the very top. A wild valley led, I knew not whither, to the north between crags and the wood-covered hill. Going up to a man of respectable appearance, who seemed to be superintending the others, I asked him in English the way to Pentré y Dwr. He replied that I must follow the path up the hill towards the house, behind which I should find a road which would lead me through the wood to Pentré Dwr. As he spoke very good English, I asked where he had learnt it.
“Chiefly in South Wales,” said he, “where they speak less Welsh than here.”
I gathered from him that he lived in the house on the hill, and was a farmer. I asked him to what place the road up the valley to the north led.
“We generally go by that road to Wrexham,” he replied; “it is a short but a wild road through the hills.”
After a little discourse on the times, which he told me were not quite so bad for farmers as they had been, I bade, him farewell.
Mounting the hill, I passed round the house, as the farmer had directed me, and turned to the west along a path on the side of the mountain. A deep valley was on my left, and on my right above me a thick wood, principally of oak. About a mile farther on the path winded down a descent, at the bottom of which I saw a brook and a number of cottages beyond it.
I passed over the brook by means of a long slab laid across, and reached the cottages. I was now, as I supposed, in Pentré y Dwr, and a pentré y dwr most truly it looked, for those Welsh words signify in English the village of the water, and the brook here ran through the village, in every room of which its pretty murmuring sound must have been audible. I looked about me in the hope of seeing somebody of whom I could ask a question or two, but seeing no one, I turned to the south, intending to regain Llangollen by the way of the monastery. Coming to a cottage, I saw a woman, to all appearance very old, standing by the door, and asked her in Welsh where I was.
“In Pentré Dwr,” said she. “This house and those yonder,” pointing to the cottages past which I had come, “are Pentré y Dwr. There is, however, another Pentré Dwr up the glen yonder,” said she, pointing towards the north—“which is called Pentré Dwr uchaf (the upper)—this is called Pentré Dwr isaf (the lower).”
“Is it called Pentré Dwr,” said I, “because of the water of the brook?”
“Likely enough,” said she, “but I never thought of the matter before.”
She was blear-eyed, and her skin, which seemed drawn tight over her forehead and cheek-bones, was of the colour of parchment. I asked her how old she was.
“Fifteen after three twenties,” she replied; meaning that she was seventy-five.
From her appearance, I should almost have guessed that she had been fifteen after four twenties. I, however, did not tell her so, for I am always cautious not to hurt the feelings of anybody, especially of the aged.
Continuing my way, I soon overtook a man driving five or six very large hogs. One of these, which was muzzled, was of a truly immense size, and walked with considerable difficulty, on account of its fatness. I walked for some time by the side of the noble porker, admiring it. At length a man rode up on horseback from the way we had come; he said something to the driver of the hogs, who instantly unmuzzled the immense creature, who gave a loud grunt on finding his snout and mouth free. From the conversation which ensued between the two men, I found that the driver was the servant, and the other the master.
“Those hogs are too fat to drive along the road,” said I at last to the latter.
“We brought them in a cart as far as the Pentré Dwr,” said the man on horseback, “but as they did not like the jolting we took them out.”
“And where are you taking them to?” said I.
“To Llangollen,” said the man, “for the fair on Monday.”
“What does that big fellow weigh?” said I, pointing to the largest hog.
“He’ll weigh about eighteen score,” said the man.
“What do you mean by eighteen score?” said I.
“Eighteen score of pounds,” said the man.
“And how much do you expect to get for him?”
“Eight pounds; I shan’t take less.”
“And who will buy him?” said I.
“Some gent from Wolverhampton or about there,” said the man; “there will be plenty of gents from Wolverhampton at the fair.”
“And what do you fatten your hogs upon?” said I.
“Oatmeal,” said the man.
“And why not on barley-meal?”
“Oatmeal is the best,” said the man; “the gents from Wolverhampton prefer them fattened on oatmeal.”
“Do the gents of Wolverhampton,” said I, “eat the hogs?”
“They do not,” said the man; “they buy them to sell again; and they like hogs fed on oatmeal best, because they are the fattest.”
“But the pork is not the best,” said I; “all hog-flesh raised on oatmeal is bitter and wiry; because, do you see—”
“I see you are in the trade,” said the man, “and understand a thing or two.”
“I understand a thing or two,” said I, “but I am not in the trade. Do you come from far?”
“From Llandeglo,” said the man.
“Are you a hog-merchant?” said I.
“Yes,” said he, “and a horse-dealer, and a farmer, though rather a small one.”
“I suppose, as you are a horse-dealer,” said I, “you travel much about?”
“Yes,” said the man, “I have travelled a good deal about Wales and England.”
“Have you been in Ynys Fon?” said I.
“I see you are a Welshman,” said the man.
“No,” said I, “but I know a little Welsh.”
“Ynys Fon,” said the man. “Yes, I have been in Anglesey more times than I can tell.”
“Do you know Hugh Pritchard,” said I, “who lives at Pentraeth Coch?”
“I know him well,” said the man, “and an honest fellow he is.”
“And Mr. Bos?” said I.
“What Bos?” said he. “Do you mean a lusty, red-faced man in top-boots and grey coat?”
“That’s he,” said I.
“He’s a clever one,” said the man. “I suppose by your knowing these people you are a drover or a horse-dealer. Yes,” said he, turning half-round in his saddle and looking at me, “you are a horse-dealer. I remember you well now, and once sold a horse to you at Chelmsford.”
“I am no horse-dealer,” said I, “nor did I ever buy a horse at Chelmsford. I see you have been about England. Have you ever been in Norfolk or Suffolk?”
“No,” said the man, “but I know something of Suffolk. I have an uncle there.”
“Whereabouts in Suffolk?” said I.
“At a place called —,” said the man.
“In what line of business?” said I.
“In none at all; he is a clergyman.”
“Shall I tell you his name?” said I.
“It is not likely you should know his name,” said the man.
“Nevertheless,” said I, “I will tell it you—his name was —.”
“Well,” said the man, “sure enough that is his name.”
“It was his name,” said I, “but I am sorry to tell you he is no more. To-day is Saturday. He died last Tuesday week, and was probably buried last Monday. An excellent man was Dr. H. O. A credit to his country and to his order.”
The man was silent for some time, and then said with a softer voice, and a very different manner from that he had used before, “I never saw him but once, and that was more than twenty years ago—but I have heard say that he was an excellent man—I see, sir, that you are a clergyman.”
“I am no clergyman,” said I, “but I knew your uncle and prized him. What was his native place?”
“Corwen,” said the man; then taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his eyes, and said with a faltering voice, “This will be heavy news there.”
We were now past the monastery, and bidding farewell, I descended to the canal, and returned home by its bank, whilst the Welsh drover, the nephew of the learned, eloquent and exemplary Welsh doctor, pursued with his servant and animals his way by the high road to Llangollen.
Many sons of Welsh yeomen brought up to the Church have become ornaments of it in distant Saxon land, but few—very few—have by learning, eloquence and Christian virtues, reflected so much lustre upon it as Hugh O— of Corwen.
Chapter LVIII
Sunday Night—Sleep, Sin, and Old Age—The Dream—Lanikin Figure—A Literary Purchase.
The Sunday morning was a gloomy one. I attended service at church with my family. The service was in English, and the younger Mr. E— preached. The text I have forgotten, but I remember perfectly well that the sermon was scriptural and elegant. When we came out the rain was falling in torrents. Neither I nor my family went to church in the afternoon. I, however, attended the evening service, which is always in Welsh. The elder Mr. E— preached. Text, 2 Cor. x. 5. The sermon was an admirable one, admonitory, pathetic and highly eloquent; I went home very much edified, and edified my wife and Henrietta, by repeating to them in English the greater part of the discourse which I had been listening to in Welsh. After supper, in which I did not join, for I never take supper, provided I have taken dinner, they went to bed, whilst I remained seated before the fire, with my back near the table, and my eyes fixed upon the embers, which were rapidly expiring, and in this posture sleep surprised me. Amongst the proverbial sayings of the Welsh, which are chiefly preserved in the shape of triads, is the following one: “Three things come unawares upon a man—sleep, sin, and old age.” This saying holds sometimes good with respect to sleep and old age, but never with respect to sin. Sin does not come unawares upon a man; God is just, and would never punish a man as He always does for being overcome by sin, if sin were able to take him unawares; and neither sleep nor old age always come unawares upon a man. People frequently feel themselves going to sleep, and feel old age stealing upon them; though there can be no doubt that sleep and old age sometimes come unawares—old age came unawares upon me; it was only the other day that I was aware that I was old, though I had long been old, and sleep came unawares upon me in that chair in which I had sat down without the slightest thought of sleeping. And there as I sat I had a dream—what did I dream about? the sermon, musing upon which I had been overcome by sleep? not a bit! I dreamt about a widely different matter. Methought I was in Llangollen fair, in the place where the pigs were sold, in the midst of Welsh drovers, immense hogs and immense men, whom I took to be the gents of Wolverhampton. What huge fellows they were! almost as huge as the hogs for which they higgled; the generality of them dressed in brown sporting coats, drab breeches, yellow-topped boots, splashed all over with mud, and with low-crowned, broad-brimmed hats. One enormous fellow particularly caught my notice. I guessed he must have weighed at least eleven score, he had a half-ruddy, half-tallowy face, brown hair, and rather thin whiskers. He was higgling with the proprietor of an immense hog, and as he higgled he wheezed as if he had a difficulty of respiration, and frequently wiped off, with a dirty-white pocket-handkerchief, drops of perspiration which stood upon his face. At last methought he bought the hog for nine pounds, and had no sooner concluded his bargain than, turning round to me, who was standing close by staring at him, he slapped me on the shoulder with a hand of immense weight, crying with a half-piping, half-wheezing voice, “Coom, neighbour, coom, I and thou have often dealt; gi’ me noo a poond for my bargain, and it shall be all thy own.” I felt in a great rage at his unceremonious behaviour, and owing to the flutter of my spirits whilst I was thinking whether or not I should try and knock him down, I awoke, and found the fire nearly out, and the ecclesiastical cat seated on my shoulders. The creature had not been turned out, as ought to have been, before my wife and daughter retired, and feeling cold, had got upon the table, and thence had sprung upon my back for the sake of the warmth which it knew was to be found there; and no doubt the springing on my shoulders by the ecclesiastical cat was what I took in my dream to be the slap on my shoulders by the Wolverhampton gent.
The day of the fair was dull and gloomy, an exact counterpart of the previous Saturday. Owing to some cause, I did not go into the fair till past one o’clock, and then, seeing neither immense hogs nor immense men, I concluded that the gents of Wolverhampton had been there, and after purchasing the larger porkers, had departed with their bargains to their native district. After sauntering about a little time, I returned home. After dinner I went again into the fair along with my wife; the stock business had long been over, but I observed more stalls than in the morning, and a far greater throng, for the country people for miles round had poured into the little town. By a stall, on which were some poor legs and shoulders of mutton, I perceived the English butcher, whom the Welsh one had attempted to slaughter. I recognised him by a patch which he wore on his cheek. My wife and I went up and inquired how he was. He said that he still felt poorly, but that he hoped he should get round. I asked him if he remembered me; and received for answer that he remembered having seen me when the examination took place into “his matter.” I then inquired what had become of his antagonist, and was told that he was in prison awaiting his trial. I gathered from him that he was a native of the Southdown country, and a shepherd by profession; that he had been engaged by the squire of Porkington in Shropshire to look after his sheep, and that he had lived there a year or two, but becoming tired of his situation, he had come to Llangollen, where he had married a Welshwoman, and set up as a butcher. We told him that, as he was our countryman, we should be happy to deal with him sometimes; he, however, received the information with perfect apathy, never so much as saying, “Thank you.” He was a tall, lanikin figure, with a pair of large, lack-lustre staring eyes, and upon the whole appeared to be good for very little. Leaving him, we went some way up the principal street; presently my wife turned into a shop, and I, observing a little bookstall, went up to it, and began to inspect the books. They were chiefly in Welsh. Seeing a kind of chap book, which bore on its title-page the name of Twm O’r Nant, I took it up. It was called Y Llwyn Celyn, or the Holly Grove, and contained the life and one of the interludes of Tom O’ the Dingle, or Thomas Edwards. It purported to be the first of four numbers, each of which, amongst other things, was to contain one of his interludes. The price of the number was one shilling. I questioned the man of the stall about the other numbers, but found that this was the only one which he possessed. Eager, however, to read an interlude of the celebrated Tom, I purchased it, and turned away from the stall. Scarcely had I done so, when I saw a wild-looking woman, with two wild children, looking at me. The woman curtseyed to me, and I thought I recognised the elder of the two Irish females whom I had seen in the tent on the green meadow near Chester. I was going to address her, but just then my wife called to me from the shop, and I went to her, and when I returned to look for the woman she and her children had disappeared, and though I searched about for her, I could not see her, for which I was sorry, as I wished very much to have some conversation with her about the ways of the Irish wanderers. I was thinking of going to look for her up “Paddy’s dingle,” but my wife, meeting me, begged me to go home with her, as it was getting late. So I went home with my better half, bearing my late literary acquisition in my hand.
That night I sat up very late reading the life of Twm O’r Nant, written by himself in choice Welsh, and his interlude, which was styled “Cyfoeth a Thylody; or, Riches and Poverty.” The life I had read in my boyhood in an old Welsh magazine, and I now read it again with great zest, and no wonder, as it is probably the most remarkable autobiography ever penned. The interlude I had never seen before, nor indeed any of the dramatic pieces of Twm O’r Nant, though I had frequently wished to procure some of them—so I read the present one with great eagerness. Of the life I shall give some account, and also some extracts from it, which will enable the reader to judge of Tom’s personal character, and also an abstract of the interlude, from which the reader may form a tolerably correct idea of the poetical powers of him whom his countrymen delight to call “the Welsh Shakespear.”
Chapter LIX
History of Twm O’r Nant—Eagerness for Learning—The First Interlude—The Cruel Fighter—Raising Wood—The Luckless Hour—Turnpike-Keeping—Death in the Snow—Tom’s Great Feat—The Muse a Friend—Strength in Old Age—Resurrection of the Dead.
“I am the first-born of my parents,”—says Thomas Edwards. “They were poor people, and very ignorant. I was brought into the world in a place called Lower Pen Parchell, on land which once belonged to the celebrated Iolo Goch. My parents afterwards removed to the Nant (or dingle) near Nantglyn, situated in a place called Coom Pernant. The Nant was the middlemost of three homesteads, which are in the Coom, and are called the Upper, Middle, and Lower Nant; and it so happened that in the Upper Nant there were people who had a boy of about the same age as myself, and forasmuch as they were better to do in the world than my parents, they having only two children, whilst mine had ten, I was called Tom of the Dingle, whilst he was denominated Thomas Williams.”
After giving some anecdotes of his childhood, he goes on thus:—“Time passed on till I was about eight years old, and then in the summer I was lucky enough to be sent to school for three weeks; and as soon as I had learnt to spell and read a few words, I conceived a mighty desire to learn to write; so I went in quest of elderberries to make me ink, and my first essay in writing was trying to copy on the sides of the leaves of books the letters of the words I read. It happened, however, that a shop in the village caught fire, and the greater part of it was burnt, only a few trifles being saved, and amongst the scorched articles my mother got for a penny a number of sheets of paper burnt at the edges, and sewed them together to serve as copybooks for me. Without loss of time I went to the smith of Waendwysog, who wrote for me the letters on the upper part of the leaves; and careful enough was I to fill the whole paper with scrawlings, which looked for all the world like crows’ feet. I went on getting paper and ink, and something to copy, now from this person, and now from that, until I learned to read Welsh and to write it at the same time.”
He copied out a great many carols and songs, and the neighbours, observing his fondness for learning, persuaded his father to allow him to go to the village school to learn English. At the end of three weeks, however, his father, considering that he was losing his time, would allow him to go no longer, but took him into the fields, in order that the boy might assist him in his labour. Nevertheless, Tom would not give up his literary pursuits, but continued scribbling, and copying out songs and carols. When he was about ten he formed an acquaintance with an old man, chapel-reader in Pentré y Foelas, who had a great many old books in his possession, which he allowed Tom to read; he then had the honour of becoming amanuensis to a poet.
“I became very intimate,” says he, “with a man who was a poet; he could neither read nor write, but he was a poet by nature, having a muse wonderfully glib at making triplets and quartets. He was nicknamed Tum Tai of the Moor. He made an englyn for me to put in a book, in which I was inserting all the verses I could collect:
“‘Tom Evan’s the lad for hunting up songs, Tom Evan to whom the best learning belongs; Betwixt his two pasteboards he verses has got, Sufficient to fill the whole country, I wot.’
“I was in the habit of writing my name Tom, or Thomas Evans, before I went to school for a fortnight in order to learn English; but then I altered it into Thomas Edwards, for Evan Edwards was the name of my father, and I should have been making myself a bastard had I continued calling myself by my first name. However, I had the honour of being secretary to the old poet. When he had made a song, he would keep it in his memory till I came to him. Sometimes after the old man had repeated his composition to me, I would begin to dispute with him, asking whether the thing would not be better another way, and he could hardly keep from flying into a passion with me for putting his work to the torture.”
It was then the custom for young lads to go about playing what were called interludes, namely, dramatic pieces on religious or moral subjects, written by rustic poets. Shortly after Tom had attained the age of twelve he went about with certain lads of Nantglyn playing these pieces, generally acting the part of a girl, because, as he says, he had the best voice. About this time he wrote an interlude himself, founded on “John Bunyan’s Spiritual Courtship,” which was, however, stolen from him by a young fellow from Anglesey, along with the greater part of the poems and pieces which he had copied. This affair at first very much disheartened Tom; plucking up his spirits, however, he went on composing, and soon acquired amongst his neighbours the title of “the poet,” to the great mortification of his parents, who were anxious to see him become an industrious husbandman.
“Before I was quite fourteen,” says he, “I had made another interlude; but when my father and mother heard about it, they did all they could to induce me to destroy it. However, I would not burn it, but gave it to Hugh of Llangwin, a celebrated poet of the time, who took it to Llandyrnog, where he sold it for ten shillings to the lads of the place, who performed it the following summer; but I never got anything for my labour, save a sup of ale from the players when I met them. This at the heel of other things would have induced me to give up poetry, had it been in the power of anything to do so. I made two interludes,” he continues, “one for the people of Llanbedr, in the Vale of Clwyd, and the other for the lads of Llanarmon in Yale, one on the subject of Naaman’s leprosy, and the other about hypocrisy, which was a refashionment of the work of Richard Parry of Ddiserth. When I was young I had such a rage, or madness, for poetising, that I would make a song on almost anything I saw—and it was a mercy that many did not kill me, or break my bones, on account of my evil tongue. My parents often told me I should have some mischief done me if I went on in the way in which I was going. Once on a time, being with some companions as bad as myself, I happened to use some very free language in a place where three lovers were with a young lass of my neighbourhood, who lived at a place called Ty Celyn, with whom they kept company. I said in discourse that they were the cocks of Ty Celyn. The girl heard me, and conceived a spite against me on account of my scurrilous language. She had a brother, who was a cruel fighter; he took the part of his sister, and determined to chastise me. One Sunday evening he shouted to me as I was coming from Nantgyln—our ways were the same till we got nearly home—he had determined to give me a thrashing, and he had with him a piece of oak stick just suited for the purpose. After we had taunted each other for some time, as we went along, he flung his stick on the ground, and stripped himself stark naked. I took off my hat and my neckcloth, and took his stick in my hand; whereupon, running to the hedge, he took a stake, and straight we set to like two furies. After fighting for some time, our sticks were shivered to pieces and quite short; sometimes we were upon the ground, but did not give up fighting on that account. Many people came up and would fain have parted us, but we would by no means let them. At last we agreed to go and pull fresh stakes, and then we went at it again, until he could no longer stand. The marks of this battle are upon him and me to this day. At last, covered with a gore of blood, he was dragged home by his neighbours. He was in a dreadful condition, and many thought he would die. On the morrow there came an alarm that he was dead, whereupon I escaped across the mountain to Pentré y Foelas, to the old man Sion Dafydd, to read his old books.”
After staying there a little time, and getting his wounds tended by an old woman, he departed, and skulked about in various places, doing now and then a little work, until, hearing his adversary was recovering, he returned to his home. He went on writing and performing interludes till he fell in love with a young woman rather religiously inclined, whom he married in the year 1763, when he was in his twenty-fourth year. The young couple settled down on a little place near the town of Denbigh, called Ale Fowlio. They kept three cows and four horses. The wife superintended the cows, and Tom with his horses carried wood from Gwenynos to Ruddlan, and soon excelled all other carters “in loading, and in everything connected with the management of wood.” Tom, in the pride of his heart, must needs be helping his fellow-carriers, whilst labouring with them in the forests, till his wife told him he was a fool for his pains, and advised him to go and load in the afternoon, when nobody would be about, offering to go and help him. He listened to her advice, and took her with him.
“The dear creature,” says he, “assisted me for some time, but as she was with child, and on that account not exactly fit to turn the roll of the crane with levers of iron, I formed the plan of hooking the horses to the rope, in order to raise up the wood which was to be loaded, and by long teaching the horses to pull and to stop, I contrived to make loading a much easier task, both to my wife and myself. Now this was the first hooking of horses to the rope of the crane which was ever done either in Wales or England. Subsequently I had plenty of leisure and rest, instead of toiling amidst other carriers.”
Leaving Ale Fowlio, he took up his abode nearer to Denbigh, and continued carrying wood. Several of his horses died, and he was soon in difficulties, and was glad to accept an invitation from certain miners of the county of Flint to go and play them an interlude. As he was playing them one called “A Vision of the Course of the World,” which he had written for the occasion, and which was founded on, and named after, the first part of the work of Master Ellis Wyn, he was arrested at the suit of one Mostyn of Calcoed. He, however, got bail, and partly by carrying, and partly by playing interludes, soon raised enough money to pay his debt. He then made another interlude, called “Riches and Poverty,” by which he gained a great deal of money. He then wrote two others, one called “The Three Associates of Man, namely the World, Nature, and Conscience;” the other entitled “The King, the Justice, the Bishop and the Husbandman,” both of which he and certain of his companions acted with great success. After he had made all that he could by acting these pieces, he printed them. When printed, they had a considerable sale, and Tom was soon able to set up again as a carter. He went on carting and carrying for upwards of twelve years, at the end of which time he was worth, with one thing and the other, upwards of three hundred pounds, which was considered a very considerable property about ninety years ago in Wales. He then, in a luckless hour, “when,” to use his own words, “he was at leisure at home, like King David on the top of his house,” mixed himself up with the concerns of an uncle of his, a brother of his father. He first became bail for him, and subsequently made himself answerable for the amount of a bill, due by his uncle to a lawyer. His becoming answerable for the bill nearly proved the utter ruin of our hero. His uncle failed, and left him to pay it. The lawyer took out a writ against him. It would have been well for Tom if he had paid the money at once, but he went on dallying and compromising with the lawyer, till he became terribly involved in his web. To increase his difficulties, work became slack; so at last he packed his things upon his carts, and with his family, consisting of his wife and three daughters, fled into Montgomeryshire. The lawyer, however, soon got information of his whereabout, and threatened to arrest him. Tom, after trying in vain to arrange matters with him, fled into South Wales, to Carmarthenshire, where he carried wood for a timber-merchant, and kept a turnpike gate, which belonged to the same individual. But the “old cancer” still followed him, and his horses were seized for the debt. His neighbours, however, assisted him, and bought the horses in at a low price when they were put up for sale, and restored them to him, for what they had given. Even then the matter was not satisfactorily settled, for, years afterwards, on the decease of Tom’s father, the lawyer seized upon the property, which by law descended to Tom O’r Nant, and turned his poor old mother out upon the cold mountain side.
Many strange adventures occurred to Tom in South Wales, but those which befell him whilst officiating as a turnpike-keeper were certainly the most extraordinary. If what he says be true, as of course it is—for who shall presume to doubt Tom O’ the Dingle’s veracity?—whosoever fills the office of turnpike-keeper in Wild Wales should be a person of very considerable nerve.
“We were in the habit of seeing,” says Tom, “plenty of passengers going through the gate without paying toll; I mean such things as are called phantoms, or illusions—sometimes there were hearses and mourning coaches, sometimes funeral processions on foot, the whole to be seen as distinctly as anything could be seen, especially at night-time. I saw myself on a certain night a hearse go through the gate whilst it was shut; I saw the horses and the harness, the postilion, and the coachman, and the tufts of hair such as are seen on the tops of hearses, and I saw the wheels scattering the stones in the road, just as other wheels would have done. Then I saw a funeral of the same character, for all the world like a real funeral; there was the bier and the black drapery. I have seen more than one. If a young man was to be buried there would be a white sheet, or something that looked like one—and sometimes I have seen a flaring candle going past.
“Once a traveller passing through the gate called out to me: ‘Look! yonder is a corpse candle coming through the fields beside the highway.’ So we paid attention to it as it moved, making apparently towards the church from the other side. Sometimes it would be quite near the road, another time some way into the fields. And sure enough after the lapse of a little time a body was brought by exactly the same route by which the candle had come, owing to the proper road being blocked up with snow.
“Another time there happened a great wonder connected with an old man of Carmarthen, who was in the habit of carrying fish to Brecon, Menny, and Monmouth, and returning with the poorer kind of Gloucester cheese: my people knew he was on the road, and had made ready for him, the weather being dreadful, wind blowing and snow drifting. Well! in the middle of the night my daughters heard the voice of the old man at the gate, and their mother called to them to open it quick, and invite the old man to come in to the fire! One of the girls got up forthwith, but when she went out there was nobody to be seen. On the morrow, lo, and behold! the body of the old man was brought past on a couch, he having perished in the snow on the mountain of Tre’r Castell. Now this is the truth of the matter.”
Many wonderful feats did Tom perform connected with loading and carrying, which acquired for him the reputation of being the best wood carter of the south. His dexterity at moving huge bodies was probably never equalled. Robinson Crusoe was not half so handy. Only see how he moved a ship into the water, which a multitude of people were unable to do.
“After keeping the gate for two or three years,” says he, “I took the lease of a piece of ground in Llandeilo Fawr, and built a house upon it, which I got licensed as a tavern for my daughters to keep. I myself went on carrying wood as usual. Now it happened that my employer, the merchant at Abermarlais, had built a small ship, of about thirty or forty tons, in the wood, about a mile and a quarter from the river Towy, which is capable of floating small vessels as far as Carmarthen. He had resolved that the people should draw it to the river by way of sport, and had caused proclamation to be made in four parish churches, that on such a day a ship would be launched at Abermarlais, and that food and drink would be given to any one who would come and lend a hand at the work. Four hogsheads of ale were broached, a great oven full of bread was baked, plenty of cheese and butter bought, and meat cooked for the more respectable people. The ship was provided with four wheels, or rather four great rolling stocks, fenced about with iron, with great big axle-trees in them, well greased against the appointed day. I had been loading in the wood that day, and sending the team forward, I went to see the business—and a pretty piece of business it turned out. All the food was eaten, the drink swallowed to the last drop, the ship drawn about three roods, and then left in a deep ditch. By this time night was coming on, and the multitude went away, some drunk, some hungry for want of food, but the greater part laughing as if they would split their sides. The merchant cried like a child, bitterly lamenting his folly, and told me that he should have to take the ship to pieces before he could ever get it out of the ditch.
“I told him that I could take it to the river, provided I could but get three or four men to help me; whereupon he said that if I could but get the vessel to the water, he would give me anything I asked, and earnestly begged me to come the next morning, if possible. I did come, with the lad and four horses. I went before the team, and set the men to work to break a hole through a great old wall, which stood as it were before the ship. We then laid a piece of timber across the hole from which was a chain, to which the tackle—that is, the rope and pulleys—was hooked. We then hooked one end of the rope to the ship, and set the horses to pull at the other. The ship came out of the hole prosperously enough, and then we had to hook the tackle to a tree, which was growing near, and by this means we got the ship forward; but when we came to soft ground we were obliged to put planks under the wheels to prevent their sinking under the immense weight; when we came to the end of the foremost planks, we put the hinder ones before, and so on; when there was no tree at hand to which we could hook the tackle, we were obliged to drive a post down to hook it to. So from tree to post it got down to the river in a few days. I was promised noble wages by the merchant, but I never got anything from him but promises and praises. Some people came to look at us, and gave us money to get ale, and that was all.”
The merchant subsequently turned out a very great knave, cheating Tom on various occasions, and finally broke, very much in his debt. Tom was obliged to sell off everything, and left South Wales without horses or waggon; his old friend the Muse, however, stood him in good stead.
“Before I left,” says he, “I went to Brecon, and printed the ‘Interlude of the King, the Justice, the Bishop, and the Husbandman,’ and got an old acquaintance of mine to play it with me, and help me to sell the books. I likewise busied myself in getting subscribers to a book of songs called the ‘Garden of Minstrelsy.’ It was printed at Trefecca. The expense attending the printing amounted to fifty-two pounds, but I was fortunate enough to dispose of two thousand copies. I subsequently composed an interlude called ‘Pleasure and Care,’ and printed it; and after that I made an interlude called the ‘Three Powerful Ones of the World: Poverty, Love, and Death.’”
The poet’s daughters were not successful in the tavern speculation at Llandeilo, and followed their father into North Wales. The second he apprenticed to a milliner, the other two lived with him till the day of his death. He settled at Denbigh in a small house, which he was enabled to furnish by means of two or three small sums which he recovered for work done a long time before. Shortly after his return, his father died, and the lawyer seized the little property “for the old curse,” and turned Tom’s mother out.
After his return from the South, Tom went about for some time playing interludes, and then turned his hand to many things. He learnt the trade of stonemason, took jobs, and kept workmen. He then went amongst certain bricklayers, and induced them to teach him their craft; “and shortly,” as he says, “became a very lion at bricklaying. For the last four or five years,” says he, towards the conclusion of his history, “my work has been to put up iron ovens, and likewise furnaces of all kinds, also grates, stoves and boilers, and not unfrequently I have practised as a smoke doctor.”
The following feats of strength he performed after his return from South Wales, when he was probably about sixty years of age:—
“About a year after my return from the South,” says he, “I met with an old carrier of wood, who had many a time worked along with me. He and I were at the Hand at Ruthyn, along with various others, and in the course of discourse my friend said to me: ‘Tom, thou art much weaker than thou wast when we carted wood together.’ I answered that in my opinion I was not a bit weaker than I was then. Now it happened that at the moment we were talking there were some sacks of wheat in the hall, which were going to Chester by the carrier’s waggon. They might hold about three bushels each, and I said that if I could get three of the sacks upon the table, and had them tied together, I would carry them into the street and back again; and so I did; many who were present tried to do the same thing, but all failed.
“Another time when I was at Chester I lifted a barrel of porter from the street to the hinder part of the waggon, solely by strength of back and arms.”
He was once run over by a loaded waggon, but, strange to say, escaped without the slightest injury.
Towards the close of his life he had strong religious convictions, and felt a loathing for the sins which he had committed. “On their account,” says he, in the concluding page of his biography, “there is a strong necessity for me to consider my ways, and to inquire about a Saviour, since it is utterly impossible for me to save myself without obtaining knowledge of the merits of the Mediator, in which I hope I shall terminate my short time on earth in the peace of God enduring unto all eternity.”
He died in the year 1810, at the age of 71, shortly after the death of his wife, who seems to have been a faithful, loving partner. By her side he was buried in the earth of the graveyard of the White Church, near Denbigh. There can be little doubt that the souls of both will be accepted on the great day when, as Gronwy Owen says:—
“Like corn from the belly of the ploughed field, in a thick crop, those buried in the earth shall arise, and the sea shall cast forth a thousand myriads of dead above the deep billowy way.”
Chapter LX
Mystery Plays—The Two Prime Opponents—Analysis of Interlude—“Riches and Poverty”—Tom’s Grand Qualities.
In the preceding chapter I have given an abstract of the life of Tom O’ the Dingle; I will now give an analysis of his interlude; first, however, a few words on interludes in general. It is difficult to say, with anything like certainty, what is the meaning of the word interlude. It may mean, as Warton supposes in his history of English Poetry, a short play performed between the courses of a banquet, or festival; or it may mean the playing of something by two or more parties, the interchange of playing or acting which occurs when two or more people act. It was about the middle of the fifteenth century that dramatic pieces began in England to be called Interludes; for some time previous they had been styled Moralities; but the earliest name by which they were known was Mysteries. The first Mysteries composed in England were by one Ranald, or Ranulf, a monk of Chester, who flourished about 1322, whose verses are mentioned rather irreverently in one of the visions of Piers Plowman, who puts them in the same rank as the ballads about Robin Hood and Maid Marion, making Sloth say:
“I cannot perfitly my Paternoster as the priest it singeth, But I can rhymes of Robin Hood and Ranald of Chester.”
Long, however, before the time of this Ranald, Mysteries had been composed and represented both in Italy and France. The Mysteries were very rude compositions; little more, as Warton says, than literal representations of portions of Scripture. They derived their name of Mysteries from being generally founded on the more mysterious parts of Holy Writ—for example, the Incarnation, the Atonement and the Resurrection. The Moralities displayed something more of art and invention than the Mysteries; in them virtues, vices and qualities were personified, and something like a plot was frequently to be discovered. They were termed Moralities because each had its moral, which was spoken at the end of the piece by a person called the Doctor. {349} Much that has been said about the moralities holds good with respect to the interludes. Indeed, for some time dramatic pieces were called moralities and interludes indifferently. In both there is a mixture of allegory and reality. The latter interludes, however, display more of everyday life than was ever observable in the moralities, and more closely approximate to modern plays. Several writers of genius have written interludes, amongst whom are the English Skelton and the Scottish Lindsay, the latter of whom wrote eight pieces of that kind, the most celebrated of which is called “The Puir Man and the Pardonar.” Both of these writers flourished about the same period, and made use of the interlude as a means of satirising the vices of the popish clergy. In the time of Charles the First the interlude went much out of fashion in England; in fact, the play, or regular drama, had superseded it. In Wales, however, it continued to the beginning of the present century, when it yielded to the influence of Methodism. Of all Welsh interlude composers, Twm O’r Nant, or Tom of the Dingle, was the most famous. Here follows the promised analysis of his “Riches and Poverty.”
The entire title of the interlude is to this effect. The two prime opponents Riches and Poverty. A brief exposition of their contrary effects on the world; with short and appropriate explanations of their quality and substance, according to the rule of the four elements, Water, Fire, Earth, and Air.
First of all enter Fool, Sir Jemant Wamal, who in rather a foolish speech tells the audience that they are about to hear a piece composed by Tom the poet. Then appears Captain Riches, who makes a long speech about his influence in the world, and the general contempt in which Poverty is held; he is, however, presently checked by the Fool, who tells him some home truths, and asks him, among other questions, whether Solomon did not say that it is not meet to despise a poor man, who conducts himself rationally. Then appears Howel Tightbelly, the miser, who in capital verse, with very considerable glee and exultation, gives an account of his manifold rascalities. Then comes his wife, Esther Steady, home from the market, between whom and her husband there is a pithy dialogue. Captain Riches and Captain Poverty then meet, without rancour, however, and have a long discourse about the providence of God, whose agents they own themselves to be. Enter then an old worthless scoundrel called Diogyn Trwstan, or Luckless Lazybones, who is upon the parish, and who, in a very entertaining account of his life, confesses that he was never good for anything, but was a liar and an idler from his infancy. Enter again the Miser along with poor Lowry, who asks the Miser for meal, and other articles, but gets nothing but threatening language. There is then a very edifying dialogue between Mr. Contemplation and Mr. Truth, who, when they retire, are succeeded on the stage by the Miser and John the Tavern-keeper. The publican owes the Miser money, and begs that he will be merciful to him. The Miser, however, swears that he will be satisfied with nothing but bond and judgment on his effects. The publican very humbly says that he will go to a friend of his, in order to get the bond made out; almost instantly comes the Fool, who reads an inventory of the publican’s effects. The Miser then sings for very gladness, because everything in the world has hitherto gone well with him; turning round, however, what is his horror and astonishment to behold Mr. Death, close by him. Death hauls the Miser away, and then appears the Fool to moralise and dismiss the audience.
The appropriate explanations mentioned in the title are given in various songs which the various characters sing after describing themselves, or after dialogues with each other. The announcement that the whole exposition, etc., will be after the rule of the four elements, is rather startling; the dialogue, however, between Captain Riches and Captain Poverty shows that Tom was equal to his subject, and promised nothing that he could not perform.
Enter CAPTAIN POVERTY.
O Riches, thy figure is charming and bright, And to speak in thy praise all the world doth delight, But I’m a poor fellow all tatter’d and torn, Whom all the world treateth with insult and scorn.
RICHES.
However mistaken the judgment may be Of the world which is never from ignorance free, The parts we must play, which to us are assign’d, According as God has enlighten’d our mind.
Of elements four did our Master create, The earth and all in it with skill the most great; Need I the world’s four materials declare— Are they not water, fire, earth, and air?
Too wise was the mighty Creator to frame A world from one element, water or flame; The one is full moist and the other full hot, And a world made of either were useless, I wot.
And if it had all of mere earth been compos’d, And no water nor fire been within it enclos’d, It could ne’er have produc’d for a huge multitude Of all kinds of living things suitable food.
And if God what was wanted had not fully known, But created the world of these three things alone, How would any creature the heaven beneath, Without the blest air have been able to breathe?
Thus all things created, the God of all grace, Of four prime materials, each good in its place. The work of His hands, when completed, He view’d, And saw and pronounc’d that ’twas seemly and good.
POVERTY.
In the marvellous things, which to me thou hast told The wisdom of God I most clearly behold, And did He not also make man of the same Materials He us’d when the world He did frame?
RICHES.
Creation is all, as the sages agree, Of the elements four in man’s body that be; Water’s the blood, and fire is the nature Which prompts generation in every creature.
The earth is the flesh which with beauty is rife, The air is the breath, without which is no life; So man must be always accounted the same As the substances four which exist in his frame.
And as in their creation distinction there’s none ’Twixt man and the world, so the Infinite One Unto man a clear wisdom did bounteously give The nature of everything to perceive.
POVERTY.
But one thing to me passing strange doth appear: Since the wisdom of man is so bright and so clear, How comes there such jarring and warring to be In the world betwixt Riches and Poverty?
RICHES.
That point we’ll discuss without passion or fear With the aim of instructing the listeners here; And haply some few who instruction require May profit derive like the bee from the briar.
Man as thou knowest, in his generation Is a type of the world and of all the creation; Difference there’s none in the manner of birth ’Twixt the lowliest hinds and the lords of the earth.
The world which the same thing as man we account In one place is sea, in another is mount; A part of it rock, and a part of it dale— God’s wisdom has made every place to avail.
There exist precious treasures of every kind Profoundly in earth’s quiet bosom enshrin’d; There’s searching about them, and ever has been, And by some they are found, and by some never seen.
With wonderful wisdom the Lord God on high Has contriv’d the two lights which exist in the sky; The sun’s hot as fire, and its ray bright as gold, But the moon’s ever pale, and by nature is cold.
The sun, which resembles a huge world of fire, Would burn up full quickly creation entire Save the moon with its temp’rament cool did assuage Of its brighter companion the fury and rage.
Now I beg you the sun and the moon to behold, The one that’s so bright, and the other so cold, And say if two things in creation there be Better emblems of Riches and Poverty.
POVERTY.
In manner most brief, yet convincing and clear, You have told the whole truth to my wond’ring ear, And I see that ’twas God, who in all things is fair, Has assign’d us the forms, in this world which we bear.
In the sight of the world doth the wealthy man seem Like the sun which doth warm everything with its beam; Whilst the poor needy wight with his pitiable case Resembles the moon which doth chill with its face.
RICHES.
You know that full oft, in their course as they run, An eclipse cometh over the moon or the sun; Certain hills of the earth with their summits of pride The face of the one from the other do hide.
The sun doth uplift his magnificent head, And illumines the moon, which were otherwise dead, Even as Wealth from its station on high, Giveth work and provision to Poverty.
POVERTY.
I know, and the thought mighty sorrow instils, The sins of the world are the terrible hills An eclipse which do cause, or a dread obscuration, To one or another in every vocation.
RICHES.
It is true that God gives unto each from his birth Some task to perform whilst he wends upon earth, But He gives correspondent wisdom and force To the weight of the task, and the length of the course.
[Exit.
POVERTY.
I hope there are some, who ’twixt me and the youth Have heard this discourse, whose sole aim is the truth, Will see and acknowledge, as homeward they plod, Each thing is arrang’d by the wisdom of God.
There can be no doubt that Tom was a poet, or he could never have treated the hackneyed subjects of Riches and Poverty in a manner so original, and at the same time so masterly, as he has done in the interlude above analysed; I cannot, however, help thinking that he was greater as a man than a poet, and that his fame depends more on the cleverness, courage and energy, which it is evident by his biography that he possessed, than on his interludes. A time will come when his interludes will cease to be read, but his making ink out of elderberries, his battle with the “cruel fighter,” his teaching his horses to turn the crane, and his getting the ship to the water, will be talked of in Wales till the peak of Snowdon shall fall down.
Chapter LXI
Set out for Wrexham—Craig y Forwyn—Uncertainty—The Collier—Cadogan Hall—Methodistical Volume.
Having learnt from a newspaper that a Welsh book on Welsh Methodism had been just published at Wrexham, I determined to walk to that place and purchase it. I could easily have procured the work through a bookseller at Llangollen, but I wished to explore the hill-road which led to Wrexham, what the farmer under the Eglwysig rocks had said of its wildness having excited my curiosity, which the procuring of the book afforded me a plausible excuse for gratifying. If one wants to take any particular walk, it is always well to have some business, however trifling, to transact at the end of it; so having determined to go to Wrexham by the mountain road, I set out on the Saturday next after the one on which I had met the farmer who had told me of it.
The day was gloomy, with some tendency to rain. I passed under the hill of Dinas Bran. About a furlong from its western base I turned round and surveyed it—and perhaps the best view of the noble mountain is to be obtained from the place where I turned round. How grand, though sad, from there it looked, that grey morning, with its fine ruin on its brow, above which a little cloud hovered! It put me in mind of some old king, unfortunate and melancholy, but a king still, with the look of a king, and the ancestral crown still on his furrowed forehead. I proceeded on my way, all was wild and solitary, and the yellow leaves were falling from the trees of the groves. I passed by the farmyard, where I had held discourse with the farmer on the preceding Saturday, and soon entered the glen, the appearance of which had so much attracted my curiosity. A torrent, rushing down from the north, was on my right. It soon began to drizzle, and mist so filled the glen that I could only distinguish objects a short way before me, and on either side. I wandered on a considerable way, crossing the torrent several times by rustic bridges. I passed two lone farm-houses, and at last saw another on my left hand—the mist had now cleared up, but it still slightly rained—the scenery was wild to a degree—a little way before me was a tremendous pass, near it an enormous crag, of a strange form, rising to the very heavens, the upper part of it of a dull white colour. Seeing a respectable-looking man near the house, I went up to him. “Am I in the right way to Wrexham?” said I, addressing him in English.
“You can get to Wrexham this way, sir,” he replied.
“Can you tell me the name of that crag?” said I, pointing to the large one.
“That crag, sir, is called Craig y Forwyn.”
“The maiden’s crag,” said I; “why is it called so?”
“I do not know, sir; some people say that it is called so because its head is like that of a woman, others because a young girl in love leaped from the top of it and was killed.”
“And what is the name of this house?” said I.
“This house, sir, is called Plas Uchaf.”
“Is it called Plas Uchaf,” said I, “because it is the highest house in the valley?”
“It is, sir; it is the highest of three homesteads; the next below it is Plas Canol—and the one below that Plas Isaf.”
“Middle place and lower place,” said I. “It is very odd that I know in England three people who derive their names from places so situated. One is Houghton, another Middleton, and the third Lowdon; in modern English, Hightown, Middletown, and Lowtown.”
“You appear to be a person of great intelligence, sir.”
“No, I am not—but I am rather fond of analysing words, particularly the names of persons and places. Is the road to Wrexham hard to find?”
“Not very, sir; that is, in the day-time. Do you live at Wrexham?”
“No,” I replied, “I am stopping at Llangollen.”
“But you won’t return there to-night?”
“O yes, I shall!”
“By this road?”
“No, by the common road. This is not a road to travel by night.”
“Nor is the common road, sir, for a respectable person on foot; that is, on a Saturday night. You will perhaps meet drunken colliers, who may knock you down.”
“I will take my chance for that,” said I, and bade him farewell. I entered the pass, passing under the strange-looking crag. After I had walked about half-a-mile the pass widened considerably, and a little way farther on debouched on some wild, moory ground. Here the road became very indistinct. At length I stopped in a state of uncertainty. A well-defined path presented itself, leading to the east, whilst northward before me there seemed scarcely any path at all. After some hesitation I turned to the east by the well-defined path, and by so doing went wrong, as I soon found.
I mounted the side of a brown hill covered with moss-like grass, and here and there heather. By the time I arrived at the top of the hill the sun shone out, and I saw Rhiwabon and Cefn Mawr before me in the distance. “I am going wrong,” said I; “I should have kept on due north. However, I will not go back, but will steeplechase it across the country to Wrexham, which must be towards the north-east.” So turning aside from the path, I dashed across the hills in that direction; sometimes the heather was up to my knees, and sometimes I was up to the knees in quags. At length I came to a deep ravine, which I descended; at the bottom was a quagmire, which, however, I contrived to cross by means of certain stepping-stones, and came to a cart-path up a heathery hill, which I followed. I soon reached the top of the hill, and the path still continuing, I followed it till I saw some small grimy-looking huts, which I supposed were those of colliers. At the door of the first I saw a girl. I spoke to her in Welsh, and found she had little or none. I passed on, and seeing the door of a cabin open, I looked in—and saw no adult person, but several grimy but chubby children. I spoke to them in English, and found they could only speak Welsh. Presently I observed a robust woman advancing towards me; she was barefooted, and bore on her head an immense lump of coal. I spoke to her in Welsh, and found she could only speak English. “Truly,” said I to myself, “I am on the borders. What a mixture of races and languages!” The next person I met was a man in a collier’s dress; he was a stout-built fellow of the middle age, with a coal-dusty, surly countenance. I asked him in Welsh if I was in the right direction for Wrexham, he answered in a surly manner in English that I was. I again spoke to him in Welsh, making some indifferent observation on the weather, and he answered in English yet more gruffly than before. For the third time I spoke to him in Welsh, whereupon, looking at me with a grin of savage contempt, and showing a set of teeth like those of a mastiff, he said, “How’s this? why, you haven’t a word of English! A pretty fellow, you, with a long coat on your back, and no English on your tongue; an’t you ashamed of yourself? Why, here am I in a short coat, yet I’d have you to know that I can speak English as well as Welsh, aye, and a good deal better.” “All people are not equally clebber,” said I, still speaking Welsh. “Clebber,” said he, “clebber! what is clebber? why can’t you say clever? Why, I never saw such a low, illiterate fellow in my life;” and with these words he turned away, with every mark of disdain, and entered a cottage near at hand.
“Here I have had,” said I to myself, as I proceeded on my way, “to pay for the over-praise which I lately received. The farmer on the other side of the mountain called me a person of great intelligence, which I never pretended to be, and now this collier calls me a low, illiterate fellow, which I really don’t think I am. There is certainly a Nemesis mixed up with the affairs of this world; every good thing which you get, beyond what is strictly your due, is sure to be required from you with a vengeance. A little over-praise by a great deal of under-rating—a gleam of good fortune by a night of misery.”
I now saw Wrexham Church at about the distance of three miles, and presently entered a lane which led gently down from the hills, which were the same heights I had seen on my right hand, some months previously, on my way from Wrexham to Rhiwabon. The scenery now became very pretty—hedge-rows were on either side, a luxuriance of trees, and plenty of green fields. I reached the bottom of the lane, beyond which I saw a strange-looking house upon a slope on the right hand. It was very large, ruinous, and seemingly deserted. A little beyond it was a farm-house, connected with which was a long row of farming buildings along the roadside. Seeing a woman seated knitting at the door of a little cottage, I asked her in English the name of the old ruinous house.
“Cadogan Hall, sir,” she replied.
“And whom does it belong to?” said I.
“I don’t know exactly,” replied the woman, “but Mr. Morris at the farm holds it, and stows his things in it.”
“Can you tell me anything about it?” said I.
“Nothing farther,” said the woman, “than that it is said to be haunted, and to have been a barrack many years ago.”
“Can you speak Welsh?” said I.
“No,” said the woman; “I are Welsh, but have no Welsh language.”
Leaving the woman, I put on my best speed, and in about half-an-hour reached Wrexham.
The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to the bookshop and purchase the Welsh methodistic book. It cost me seven shillings, and was a thick, bulky octavo, with a cut-and-come-again expression about it, which was anything but disagreeable to me, for I hate your flimsy publications. The evening was now beginning to set in, and feeling somewhat hungry, I hurried off to the Wynstay Arms, through streets crowded with market people. On arriving at the inn, I entered the grand room and ordered dinner. The waiters, observing me splashed with mud from head to foot, looked at me dubiously; seeing, however, the respectable-looking volume which I bore in my hand—none of your railroad stuff—they became more assured, and I presently heard one say to the other, “It’s all right—that’s Mr. So-and-so, the great Baptist preacher. He has been preaching amongst the hills—don’t you see his Bible?”
Seating myself at a table, I inspected the volume. And here, perhaps, the reader expects that I shall regale him with an analysis of the methodistical volume at least as long as that of the life of Tom O’ the Dingle. In that case, however, he will be disappointed; all that I shall at present say of it is, that it contained a history of Methodism in Wales, with the lives of the principal Welsh Methodists. That it was fraught with curious and original matter, was written in a straightforward, methodical style, and that I have no doubt it will some day or other be extensively known and highly prized.
After dinner I called for half a pint of wine. Whilst I was trifling over it, a commercial traveller entered into conversation with me. After some time he asked me if I was going further that night.
“To Llangollen,” said I.
“By the ten o’clock train?” said he.
“No,” I replied, “I am going on foot.”
“On foot!” said he; “I would not go on foot there this night for fifty pounds.”
“Why not?” said I.
“For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all out and drunk.”
“If not more than two attack me,” said I, “I shan’t much mind. With this book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can find play for the other with my fists.”
The commercial traveller looked at me. “A strange kind of Baptist minister,” I thought I heard him say.
Chapter LXII
Rhiwabon Road—The Public-house Keeper—No Welsh—The Wrong Road—The Good Wife.
I paid my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing in. I passed the toll-gate, and hurried along the Rhiwabon road, overtaking companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many individuals, whom, from their thick and confused speech, as well as from their staggering gait, I judged to be intoxicated. As I passed a red public-house on my right hand, at the door of which stood several carts, a scream of Welsh issued from it.
“Let any Saxon,” said I, “who is fond of fighting, and wishes for a bloody nose, go in there.”
Coming to the small village about a mile from Rhiwabon, I felt thirsty, and seeing a public-house, in which all seemed to be quiet, I went in. A thick-set man, with a pipe in his mouth, sat in the tap-room, and also a woman.
“Where is the landlord?” said I.
“I am the landlord,” said the man huskily. “What do you want?”
“A pint of ale,” said I.
The man got up, and, with his pipe in his mouth, went staggering out of the room. In about a minute he returned, holding a mug in his hand, which he put down on a table before me, spilling no slight quantity of the liquor as he did so. I put down three-pence on the table. He took the money up slowly, piece by piece, looked at it, and appeared to consider; then taking the pipe out of his mouth, he dashed it to seven pieces against the table, then staggered out of the room into the passage, and from thence apparently out of the house. I tasted the ale, which was very good; then turning to the woman, who seemed about three-and-twenty, and was rather good-looking, I spoke to her in Welsh.
“I have no Welsh, sir,” said she.
“How is that?” said I; “this village is, I think, in the Welshery.”
“It is,” said she; “but I am from Shropshire.”
“Are you the mistress of the house?” said I.
“No,” said she, “I am married to a collier;” then getting up, she said, “I must go and see after my husband.”
“Won’t you take a glass of ale first?” said I, offering to fill a glass which stood on the table.
“No,” said she; “I am the worst in the world for a glass of ale;” and without saying anything more she departed.
“I wonder whether your husband is anything like you with respect to a glass of ale?” said I to myself; then finishing my ale, I got up and left the house, which, when I departed, appeared to be entirely deserted.
It was now quite night, and it would have been pitchy-dark but for the glare of the forges. There was an immense glare to the south-west, which I conceived proceeded from those of Cefn Mawr. It lighted up the south-western sky; then there were two other glares nearer to me, seemingly divided by a lump of something, perhaps a grove of trees.
Walking very fast, I soon overtook a man. I knew him at once by his staggering gait.
“Ah, landlord!” said I; “whither bound?”
“To Rhiwabon,” said he, huskily, “for a pint.”
“Is the ale so good at Rhiwabon,” said I, “that you leave home for it?”
“No,” said he, rather shortly, “there’s not a glass of good ale in Rhiwabon.”
“Then why do you go thither?” said I.
“Because a pint of bad liquor abroad is better than a quart of good at home,” said the landlord, reeling against the hedge.
“There are many in a higher station than you who act upon that principle,” thought I to myself as I passed on.
I soon reached Rhiwabon. There was a prodigious noise in the public-houses as I passed through it. “Colliers carousing,” said I. “Well, I shall not go amongst them to preach temperance, though perhaps in strict duty I ought.” At the end of the town, instead of taking the road on the left side of the church, I took that on the right. It was not till I had proceeded nearly a mile that I began to be apprehensive that I had mistaken the way. Hearing some people coming towards me on the road, I waited till they came up; they proved to be a man and a woman. On my inquiring whether I was right for Llangollen, the former told me that I was not, and in order to get there it was necessary that I should return to Rhiwabon. I instantly turned round. About half-way back I met a man who asked me in English where I was hurrying to. I said to Rhiwabon, in order to get to Llangollen. “Well, then,” said he, “you need not return to Rhiwabon—yonder is a short cut across the fields,” and he pointed to a gate. I thanked him, and said I would go by it; before leaving him, I asked to what place the road led which I had been following.
“To Pentre Castren,” he replied. I struck across the fields, and should probably have tumbled half-a-dozen times over pales and the like, but for the light of the Cefn furnaces before me, which cast their red glow upon my path. I debouched upon the Llangollen road near to the tramway leading to the collieries. Two enormous sheets of flame shot up high into the air from ovens, illumining two spectral chimneys as high as steeples, also smoky buildings, and grimy figures moving about. There was a clanging of engines, a noise of shovels and a falling of coals truly horrible. The glare was so great that I could distinctly see the minutest lines upon my hand. Advancing along the tramway, I obtained a nearer view of the hellish buildings, the chimneys and the demoniac figures. It was just such a scene as one of those described by Ellis Wynn in his Vision of Hell. Feeling my eyes scorching, I turned away, and proceeded towards Llangollen, sometimes on the muddy road, sometimes on the dangerous causeway. For three miles at least I met nobody. Near Llangollen, as I was walking on the causeway, three men came swiftly towards me. I kept the hedge, which was my right; the two first brushed roughly past me, the third came full upon me, and was tumbled into the road. There was a laugh from the two first, and a loud curse from the last as he sprawled in the mire. I merely said “Nos Da’ki,” and passed on, and in about a quarter of an hour reached home, where I found my wife awaiting me alone, Henrietta having gone to bed, being slightly indisposed. My wife received me with a cheerful smile. I looked at her, and the good wife of the Triad came to my mind.
“She is modest, void of deceit, and obedient.
“Pure of conscience, gracious of tongue, and true to her husband.
“Her heart not proud, her manners affable, and her bosom full of compassion for the poor.
“Labouring to be tidy, skilful of hand, and fond of praying to God.
“Her conversation amiable, her dress decent, and her house orderly.
“Quick of hand, quick of eye, and quick of understanding.
“Her person shapely, her manners agreeable, and her heart innocent.
“Her face benignant, her head intelligent, and provident.
“Neighbourly, gentle, and of a liberal way of thinking.
“Able in directing, providing what is wanting, and a good mother to her children.
“Loving her husband, loving peace, and loving God.
“Happy the man,” adds the Triad, “who possesses such a wife.” Very true, O Triad, always provided he is in some degree worthy of her; but many a man leaves an innocent wife at home for an impure Jezebel abroad, even as many a one prefers a pint of hog’s wash abroad to a tankard of generous liquor at home.
Chapter LXIII
Preparations for Departure—Cat provided for—A Pleasant Party—Last Night at Llangollen.
I was awakened early on the Sunday morning by the howling of wind. There was a considerable storm throughout the day, but unaccompanied by rain. I went to church both in the morning and the evening. The next day there was a great deal of rain. It was now the latter end of October; winter was coming on, and my wife and daughter were anxious to return home. After some consultation, it was agreed that they should depart for London, and that I should join them there after making a pedestrian tour in South Wales.
I should have been loth to quit Wales without visiting the Deheubarth, or Southern Region, a land differing widely, as I had heard, both in language and customs from Gwynedd, or the Northern—a land which had given birth to the illustrious Ab Gwilym, and where the great Ryce family had flourished, which very much distinguished itself in the Wars of the Roses—a member of which, Ryce ap Thomas, placed Henry the Seventh on the throne of Britain—a family of royal extraction, and which, after the death of Roderic the Great, for a long time enjoyed the sovereignty of the south.
We set about making the necessary preparations for our respective journeys. Those for mine were soon made. I bought a small leather satchel with a lock and key, in which I placed a white linen shirt, a pair of worsted stockings, a razor and a prayer-book. Along with it I bought a leather strap with which to sling it over my shoulder; I got my boots new soled, my umbrella, which was rather dilapidated, mended; put twenty sovereigns into my purse, and then said I am all right for the Deheubarth.
As my wife and daughter required much more time in making preparations for their journey than I for mine, and as I should only be in their way whilst they were employed, it was determined that I should depart on my expedition on Thursday, and that they should remain at Llangollen till the Saturday.
We were at first in some perplexity with respect to the disposal of the ecclesiastical cat; it would, of course, not do to leave it in the garden, to the tender mercies of the Calvinistic Methodists of the neighbourhood, more especially those of the flannel manufactory, and my wife and daughter could hardly carry it with them. At length we thought of applying to a young woman of sound Church principles, who was lately married, and lived over the water on the way to the railroad station, with whom we were slightly acquainted, to take charge of the animal; and she, on the first intimation of our wish, willingly acceded to it. So with her poor puss was left, along with a trifle for its milk-money, and with her, as we subsequently learned, it continued in peace and comfort, till one morning it sprang suddenly from the hearth into the air, gave a mew and died. So much for the ecclesiastical cat!
The morning of Tuesday was rather fine, and Mr. Ebenezer E—, who had heard of our intended departure, came to invite us to spend the evening at the vicarage. His father had left Llangollen the day before for Chester, where he expected to be detained some days. I told him we should be most happy to come. He then asked me to take a walk. I agreed with pleasure, and we set out, intending to go to Llansilio, at the western end of the valley, and look at the church. The church was an ancient building. It had no spire, but had the little erection on its roof, so usual to Welsh churches, for holding a bell.
In the churchyard is a tomb, in which an old squire of the name of Jones was buried about the middle of the last century. There is a tradition about this squire and tomb, to the following effect. After the squire’s death there was a lawsuit about his property, in consequence of no will having been found. It was said that his will had been buried with him in the tomb, which after some time was opened, but with what success the tradition sayeth not.
In the evening we went to the vicarage. Besides the family and ourselves, there was Mr. R—, and one or two more. We had a very pleasant party; and as most of those present wished to hear something connected with Spain, I talked much about that country, sang songs of Germania, and related in an abridged form Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is decidedly the best ghost story in the world.
In the afternoon of Wednesday I went and took leave of certain friends in the town; amongst others of old Mr. Jones. On my telling him that I was about to leave Llangollen, he expressed considerable regret, but said that it was natural for me to wish to return to my native country. I told him that before returning to England I intended to make a pedestrian tour in South Wales. He said that he should die without seeing the south; that he had had several opportunities of visiting it when he was young, which he had neglected, and that he was now too old to wander far from home. He then asked me which road I intended to take. I told him that I intended to strike across the Berwyn to Llan Rhyadr, then visit Sycharth, once the seat of Owen Glendower, lying to the east of Llan Rhyadr, then return to that place, and after seeing the celebrated cataract, cross the mountains to Bala—whence I should proceed due south. I then asked him whether he had ever seen Sycharth and the Rhyadr; he told me that he had never visited Sycharth, but had seen the Rhyadr more than once. He then smiled, and said that there was a ludicrous anecdote connected with the Rhyadr, which he would relate to me. “A traveller once went to see the Rhyadr, and whilst gazing at it a calf, which had fallen into the stream above whilst grazing upon the rocks, came tumbling down the cataract. ‘Wonderful!’ said the traveller, and going away, reported that it was not only a fall of water, but of calves, and was very much disappointed, on visiting the waterfall on another occasion, to see no calf come tumbling down.” I took leave of the kind old gentleman with regret, never expecting to see him again, as he was in his eighty-fourth year—he was a truly excellent character, and might be ranked amongst the venerable ornaments of his native place.
About half-past eight o’clock at night John Jones came to bid me farewell. I bade him sit down, and sent for a pint of ale to regale him with. Notwithstanding the ale, he was very melancholy at the thought that I was about to leave Llangollen, probably never to return. To enliven him I gave him an account of my late expedition to Wrexham, which made him smile more than once. When I had concluded, he asked me whether I knew the meaning of the word Wrexham; I told him I believed I did, and gave him the derivation which the reader will find in an early chapter of this work. He told me that with all due submission he thought he could give me a better, which he had heard from a very clever man, gwr deallus iawn, who lived about two miles from Llangollen, on the Corwen road. In the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at the place where Wrexham now stands; when he died he left it to his wife, who kept it after him, on which account the house was first called Tŷ wraig Sam, the house of Sam’s wife, and then for shortness Wraig Sam, and a town arising about it by degrees, the town, too, was called Wraig Sam, which the Saxons corrupted into Wrexham.
I was much diverted with this Welsh derivation of Wrexham, which I did not attempt to controvert. After we had had some further discourse, John Jones got up, shook me by the hand, gave a sigh, wished me a “taith hyfryd,” and departed. Thus terminated my last day at Llangollen.
Chapter LXIV
Departure for South Wales—Tregeiriog—Pleasing Scene—Trying to Read—Garmon and Lupus—The Cracked Voice—Effect of a Compliment—Llan Rhyadr.
The morning of the 21st of October was fine and cold; there was a rime frost on the ground. At about eleven o’clock I started on my journey for South Wales, intending that my first stage should be Llan Rhyadr. My wife and daughter accompanied me as far as Plas Newydd. As we passed through the town I shook hands with honest A—, whom I saw standing at the door of a shop, with a kind of Spanish hat on his head, and also with my venerable friend old Mr. Jones, whom I encountered close beside his own domicile. At the Plas Newydd I took an affectionate farewell of my two loved ones, and proceeded to ascend the Berwyn. Near the top I turned round to take a final look at the spot where I had lately passed many a happy hour. There lay Llangollen far below me, with its chimneys placidly smoking, its pretty church rising in its centre, its blue river dividing it into two nearly equal parts, and the mighty hill of Brennus, overhanging it from the north. I sighed, and repeating Einion Du’s verse
“Tangnefedd i Llangollen!”
turned away.
I went over the top of the hill, and then began to descend its southern side, obtaining a distant view of the plains of Shropshire on the east. I soon reached the bottom of the hill, passed through Llansanfraid, and threading the vale of the Ceiriog, at length found myself at Pont y Meibion, in front of the house of Huw Morris, or rather of that which is built on the site of the dwelling of the poet. I stopped, and remained before the house, thinking of the mighty Huw, till the door opened, and out came the dark-featured man, the poet’s descendant, whom I saw when visiting the place in company with honest John Jones—he had now a spade in his hand, and was doubtless going to his labour. As I knew him to be of a rather sullen, unsocial disposition, I said nothing to him, but proceeded on my way. As I advanced the valley widened, the hills on the west receding to some distance from the river. Came to Tregeiriog, a small village, which takes its name from the brook; Tregeiriog signifying the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog. Seeing a bridge which crossed the rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a little beyond the village, I turned aside to look at it. The proper course of the Ceiriog is from south to north; where it is crossed by the bridge, however, it runs from west to east, returning to its usual course, a little way below the bridge. The bridge was small, and presented nothing remarkable in itself: I obtained, however, as I looked over its parapet towards the west, a view of a scene, not of wild grandeur, but of something which I like better, which richly compensated me for the slight trouble I had taken in stepping aside to visit the little bridge. About a hundred yards distant was a small watermill, built over the rivulet, the wheel going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of pigs, the generality of them brindled, were either browsing on the banks, or lying close to the sides, half immersed in the water; one immense white hog, the monarch seemingly of the herd, was standing in the middle of the current. Such was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life well suited to the brushes of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or to those of men scarcely inferior to them in their own style—Gainsborough, Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour had been in a highly-excited state; I had been repeating verses of old Huw Morris, brought to my recollection by the sight of his dwelling-place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads. I admired the vigour, but disliked the principles which they displayed; and admiration on the one hand, and disapproval on the other, bred a commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when tide runs one way and wind blows another. The quiet scene from the bridge, however, produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when I resumed my journey I had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers.
I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley, through which the Ceiriog, or a river very similar to it, flows. It is half-way between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles from each. I went to a small inn, or public-house, sat down, and called for ale. A waggoner was seated at a large table with a newspaper before him on which he was intently staring.
“What news?” said I in English.
“I wish I could tell you,” said he in very broken English; “but I cannot read.”
“Then why are you looking at the paper?” said I.
“Because,” said he, “by looking at the letters I hope in time to make them out.”
“You may look at them,” said I, “for fifty years without being able to make out one. You should go to an evening school.”
“I am too old,” said he, “to do so now; if I did the children would laugh at me.”
“Never mind their laughing at you,” said I, “provided you learn to read; let them laugh who win!”
“You give good advice, mester,” said he; “I think I shall follow it.”
“Let me look at the paper,” said I.
He handed it to me. It was a Welsh paper, and full of dismal accounts from the seat of war.
“What news, mester?” said the waggoner.
“Nothing but bad,” said I; “the Russians are beating us and the French too.”
“If the Rusiaid beat us,” said the waggoner, “it is because the Francod are with us. We should have gone alone.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said I; “at any rate, we could not have fared worse than we are faring now.”
I presently paid for what I had had, inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr, and departed. The village of Llanarmon takes its name from its church, which is dedicated to Garmon, an Armorican bishop, who, with another called Lupus, came over into Britain in order to preach against the heresy of Pelagius. He and his colleague resided for some time in Flintshire, and whilst there enabled, in a remarkable manner, the Britons to achieve a victory over those mysterious people the Picts, who were ravaging the country far and wide. Hearing that the enemy were advancing towards Mold, the two bishops gathered together a number of the Britons, and placed them in ambush in a dark valley, through which it was necessary for the Picts to pass in order to reach Mold, strictly enjoining them to remain quiet till all their enemies should have entered the valley, and then do whatever they should see them, the two bishops, do. The Picts arrived, and when they were about half-way through the valley, the two bishops stepped forward from a thicket, and began crying aloud, “Alleluia!” The Britons followed their example, and the wooded valley resounded with cries of “Alleluia! alleluia!” The shouts and the unexpected appearance of thousands of men caused such terror to the Picts, that they took to flight in the greatest confusion, hundreds were trampled to death by their companions, and not a few were drowned in the river Alan {371} which runs through the valley.
There are several churches dedicated to Garmon in Wales, but whether there are any dedicated to Lupus I am unable to say.
After leaving Llanarmon I found myself amongst lumpy hills, through which the road led in the direction of the south. Arriving where several roads met, I followed one, and became bewildered amidst hills and ravines. At last I saw a small house close by a nant, or dingle, and turned towards it for the purpose of inquiring my way. On my knocking at the door, a woman made her appearance, of whom I asked in Welsh whether I was in the road to Llan Rhyadr. She said that I was out of it, but that if I went towards the south I should see a path on my left which would bring me to it. I asked her how far it was to Llan Rhyadr.
“Four long miles,” she replied.
“And what is the name of the place where we are now?” said I.
“Cae Hir” (the long inclosure), said she.
“Are you alone in the house?” said I.
“Quite alone,” said she; “but my husband and people will soon be home from the field, for it is getting dusk.”
“Have you any Saxon?” said I.
“Not a word,” said she, “have I of the iaith dieithr, nor has my husband, nor any one of my people.”
I bade her farewell, and soon reached the road, which led south and north. As I was bound for the south, I strode forward briskly in that direction. The road was between romantic hills; heard Welsh songs proceeding from the hill fields on my right, and the murmur of a brook rushing down a deep nant on my left. I went on till I came to a collection of houses which an old woman, with a cracked voice and a small tin milk-pail, whom I assisted in getting over a stile into the road, told me was called Pen Strit—probably the head of the street. She spoke English, and on my asking her how she had learnt the English tongue, she told me that she had learnt it of her mother, who was an English woman. She said that I was two miles from Llan Rhyadr, and that I must go straight forward. I did so, till I reached a place where the road branched into two, one bearing somewhat to the left, and the other to the right. After standing a minute in perplexity I took the right-hand road, but soon guessed that I had taken the wrong one, as the road dwindled into a mere footpath. Hearing some one walking on the other side of the hedge, I inquired in Welsh whether I was going right for Llan Rhyadr, and was answered by a voice in English, apparently that of a woman, that I was not, and that I must go back. I did so, and presently a woman came through a gate to me.
“Are you the person,” said I, “who just now answered me in English after I had spoken in Welsh?”
“In truth I am,” said she, with a half laugh.
“And how came you to answer me in English, after I had spoken to you in Welsh?”
“Because,” said she, “it was easy enough to know by your voice that you were an Englishman.”
“You speak English remarkably well,” said I.
“And so do you Welsh,” said the woman; “I had no idea that it was possible for any Englishman to speak Welsh half so well.”
“I wonder,” thought I to myself, “what you would have answered if I had said that you speak English execrably.” By her own account, she could read both Welsh and English. She walked by my side to the turn, and then up the left-hand road, which she said was the way to Llan Rhyadr. Coming to a cottage, she bade me good-night, and went in. The road was horribly miry; presently, as I was staggering through a slough, just after I had passed a little cottage, I heard a cracked voice crying, “I suppose you lost your way?” I recognised it as that of the old woman whom I had helped over the stile. She was now standing behind a little gate, which opened into a garden before the cottage. The figure of a man was standing near her. I told her that she was quite right in her supposition.
“Ah,” said she, “you should have gone straight forward.”
“If I had gone straight forward,” said I, “I must have gone over a hedge, at the corner of a field which separated two roads; instead of bidding me go straight forward, you should have told me to follow the left-hand road.”
“Well,” said she, “be sure you keep straight forward now.”
I asked her who the man was standing near her.
“It is my husband,” said she.
“Has he much English?” said I.
“None at all,” said she, “for his mother was not English, like mine.” I bade her good-night, and went forward. Presently I came to a meeting of roads, and to go straight forward it was necessary to pass through a quagmire; remembering, however, the words of my friend the beldame, I went straight forward, though in so doing I was sloughed up to the knees. In a little time I came to a rapid descent, and at the bottom of it to a bridge. It was now very dark; only the corner of the moon was casting a faint light. After crossing the bridge I had one or two ascents and descents. At last I saw lights before me, which proved to be those of Llan Rhyadr. I soon found myself in a dirty little street, and, inquiring for the inn, was kindly shown by a man to one which he said was the best, and which was called the Wynstay Arms.
Chapter LXV
Inn at Llan Rhyadr—A Low Englishman—Enquiries—The Cook—A Precious Couple.
The inn seemed very large, but did not look very cheerful. No other guest than myself seemed to be in it, except in the kitchen, where I heard a fellow talking English, and occasionally yelling an English song; the master and mistress of the house were civil, and lighted me a fire in what was called the Commercial Room, and putting plenty of coals in the grate, soon made the apartment warm and comfortable. I ordered dinner, or rather supper, which in about half-an-hour was brought in by the woman. The supper, whether good or bad, I despatched with the appetite of one who had walked twenty miles over hill and dale.
Occasionally I heard a dreadful noise in the kitchen, and the woman told me that the fellow there was making himself exceedingly disagreeable, chiefly, she believed, because she had refused to let him sleep in the house—she said that he was a low fellow, that went about the country with fish, and that he was the more ready to insult her as the master of the house was now gone out. I asked if he was an Englishman. “Yes,” said she, “a low Englishman.”
“Then he must be low indeed,” said I. “A low Englishman is the lowest of the low.” After a little time I heard no more noise, and was told that the fellow was gone away. I had a little whisky and water, and then went to bed, sleeping in a tolerable chamber, but rather cold. There was much rain during the night, and also wind; windows rattled, and I occasionally heard the noise of falling tiles.
I arose about eight. Notwithstanding the night had been so tempestuous, the morning was sunshiny and beautiful. Having ordered breakfast, I walked out in order to have a look at the town. Llan Rhyadr is a small place, having nothing remarkable in it save an ancient church, and a strange little antique market-house, standing on pillars. It is situated at the western end of an extensive valley, and at the entrance of a glen. A brook, or rivulet, runs through it, which comes down the glen from the celebrated cataract, which is about four miles distant to the west. Two lofty mountains form the entrance of the glen, and tower above the town, one on the south and the other on the north. Their names, if they have any, I did not learn.
After strolling about the little place for about a quarter of an hour, staring at the things and the people, and being stared at by the latter, I returned to my inn, a structure built in the modern Gothic style, and which stands nearly opposite to the churchyard. Whilst breakfasting, I asked the landlady, who was bustling about the room, whether she had ever heard of Owen Glendower.
“In truth, sir, I have. He was a great gentleman who lived a long time ago, and, and—”
“Gave the English a great deal of trouble,” said I.
“Just so, sir; at least, I dare say it is so, as you say it.”
“And do you know where he lived?”
“I do not, sir; I suppose a great way off, somewhere in the south.”
“Do you mean South Wales?”
“In truth, sir, I do.”
“There you are mistaken,” said I; “and also in supposing he lived a great way off. He lived in North Wales, and not far from this place.”
“In truth, sir, you know more about him than I.”
“Did you ever hear of a place called Sycharth?”
“Sycharth! Sycharth! I never did, sir.”
“It is the place where Glendower lived, and it is not far off. I want to go there, but do not know the way.”
“Sycharth! Sycharth!” said the landlady musingly; “I wonder if it is the place we call Sychnant.”
“Is there such a place?”
“Yes, sure; about six miles from here, near Llangedwin.”
“What kind of place is it?”
“In truth, sir, I do not know, for I was never there. My cook, however, in the kitchen, knows all about it, for she comes from there.”
“Can I see her?”
“Yes, sure; I will go at once and fetch her.”
She then left the room, and presently returned with the cook, a short, thick girl, with blue, staring eyes.
“Here she is, sir,” said the landlady, “but she has no English.”
“All the better,” said I. “So you come from a place called Sychnant?” said I to the cook in Welsh.
“In truth, sir, I do,” said the cook.
“Did you ever hear of a gwr boneddig called Owen Glendower?”
“Often, sir, often; he lived in our place.”
“He lived in a place called Sycharth?” said I.
“Well, sir, and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as Sychnant; nay, oftener.”
“Is his house standing?”
“It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing.”
“Is it a high hill?”
“It is not; it is a small, light hill.”
“A light hill!” said I to myself. “Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower’s bard, said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.”
“There dwells the chief we all extol In timber house on lightsome knoll.”
“Is there a little river near it,” said I to the cook—“a ffrwd?”
“There is; it runs just under the hill.”
“Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?”
“There is not; that is, now,—but there was in the old time; a factory of woollen stands now where the mill once stood.”
“A mill, a rushing brook upon, And pigeon tower fram’d of stone.”
“So says Iolo Goch,” said I to myself, “in his description of Sycharth; I am on the right road.”
I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged, and was told of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of Carabas of Denbighshire. After a few more questions I thanked her and told her she might go. I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and, after telling the landlady that I should return at night, started for Llangedwin and Sycharth.
A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in which I was proceeding.
The valley was beautiful, and dotted with various farm-houses, and the land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the soil of my own Norfolk—that county so deservedly celebrated for its agriculture. The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and towards the north the vale is crossed by three rugged elevations, the middlemost of which, called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas, terminates to the west in an exceedingly high and picturesque crag.
After an hour’s walking I overtook two people, a man and a woman laden with baskets, which hung around them on every side. The man was a young fellow of about eight-and-twenty, with a round face, fair flaxen hair, and rings in his ears; the female was a blooming buxom lass of about eighteen. After giving them the sele of the day, I asked them if they were English.
“Aye, aye, master,” said the man; “we are English.”
“Where do you come from?” said I.
“From Wrexham,” said the man.
“I thought Wrexham was in Wales,” said I.
“If it be,” said the man, “the people are not Welsh; a man is not a horse because he happens to be born in a stable.”
“Is that young woman your wife?” said I.
“Yes,” said he, “after a fashion”—and then he leered at the lass, and she leered at him.
“Do you attend any place of worship?” said I.
“A great many, master!”
“What place do you chiefly attend?” said I.
“The Chequers, master!”
“Do they preach the best sermons there?” said I.
“No, master! but they sells the best ale there.”
“Do you worship ale?” said I.
“Yes, master; I worships ale.”
“Anything else?” said I.
“Yes, master! I and my mort worships something besides good ale; don’t we, Sue?” and then he leered at the mort, who leered at him, and both made odd motions backwards and forwards, causing the baskets which hung around them to creak and rustle, and uttering loud shouts of laughter, which roused the echoes of the neighbouring hills.
“Genuine descendants, no doubt,” said I to myself as I walked briskly on, “of certain of the old heathen Saxons who followed Rag into Wales, and settled down about the house which he built. Really, if these two are a fair specimen of the Wrexham population, my friend the Scotch policeman was not much out when he said that the people of Wrexham were the worst people in Wales.”
Chapter LXVI
Sycharth—The kindly Welcome—Happy Couple—Sycharth—Recalling the Dead—Ode to Sycharth.
I was now at the northern extremity of the valley near a great house, past which the road led in the direction of the north-east. Seeing a man employed in breaking stones, I inquired the way to Sychnant.
“You must turn to the left,” said he, “before you come to yon great house, follow the path which you will find behind it, and you will soon be in Sychnant.”
“And to whom does the great house belong?”
“To whom? why, to Sir Watkin.”
“Does he reside there?”
“Not often. He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes there to hunt.”
“What is the place’s name?”
“Llan Gedwin.”
I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me. The path led upward behind the great house, round a hill thickly planted with trees. Following it, I at length found myself on a broad road on the top extending east and west, and having on the north and south beautiful wooded hills. I followed the road, which presently began to descend. On reaching level ground I overtook a man in a waggoner’s frock, of whom I inquired the way to Sycharth. He pointed westward down the vale to what appeared to be a collection of houses, near a singular-looking monticle, and said, “That is Sycharth.”
We walked together till we came to a road which branched off on the right to a little bridge.
“That is your way,” said he, and pointing to a large building beyond the bridge, towering up above a number of cottages, he said, “that is the factory of Sycharth;” he then left me, following the high road, whilst I proceeded towards the bridge, which I crossed, and coming to the cottages, entered one on the right-hand, of a remarkably neat appearance.
In a comfortable kitchen, by a hearth on which blazed a cheerful billet, sat a man and woman. Both arose when I entered; the man was tall, about fifty years of age, and athletically built; he was dressed in a white coat, corduroy breeches, shoes, and grey worsted stockings. The woman seemed many years older than the man; she was tall also, and strongly built, and dressed in the ancient Welsh female costume, namely, a kind of round half-Spanish hat, long blue woollen kirtle, or gown, a crimson petticoat, and white apron, and broad, stout shoes with buckles.
“Welcome, stranger,” said the man, after looking me a moment or two full in the face.
“Croesaw, dyn dieithr—welcome, foreign man,” said the woman, surveying me with a look of great curiosity.
“Won’t you sit down?” said the man, handing me a chair.
I sat down, and the man and woman resumed their seats.
“I suppose you come on business connected with the factory?” said the man.
“No,” said I, “my business is connected with Owen Glendower.”
“With Owen Glendower?” said the man, staring.
“Yes,” said I; “I came to see his place.”
“You will not see much of his house now,” said the man—“it is down; only a few bricks remain.”
“But I shall see the place where his house stood,” said I; “which is all I expected to see.”
“Yes; you can see that.”
“What does the dyn dieithr say?” said the woman in Welsh, with an inquiring look.
“That he is come to see the place of Owen Glendower.”
“Ah!” said the woman with a smile.
“Is that good lady your wife?” said I.
“She is.”
“She looks much older than yourself.”
“And no wonder. She is twenty-one years older.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-three.”
“Dear me,” said I, “what a difference in your ages! how came you to marry?”
“She was a widow, and I had lost my wife. We were lone in the world, so we thought we would marry.”
“Do you live happily together?”
“Very.”
“Then you did quite right to marry. What is your name?”
“David Robert.”
“And that of your wife?”
“Gwen Robert.”
“Does she speak English?”
“She speaks some, but not much.”
“Is the place where Owen lived far from here?”
“It is not. It is the round hill a little way above the factory.”
“Is the path to it easy to find?”
“I will go with you,” said the man. “I work at the factory, but I need not go there for an hour at least.”
He put on his hat, and bidding me follow him, went out. He led me over a gush of water which, passing under the factory, turns the wheel; thence over a field or two towards a house at the foot of the mountain, where he said the steward of Sir Watkin lived, of whom it would be as well to apply for permission to ascend the hill, as it was Sir Watkin’s ground. The steward was not at home; his wife was, however, and she, when we told her we wished to go to the top of Owain Glendower’s Hill, gave us permission with a smile. We thanked her, and proceeded to mount the hill, or monticle, once the residence of the great Welsh chieftain, whom his own deeds and the pen of Shakespear have rendered immortal.
Owen Glendower’s hill, or mount, at Sycharth, unlike the one bearing his name on the banks of the Dee, is not an artificial hill, but the work of nature, save and except that to a certain extent it has been modified by the hand of man. It is somewhat conical, and consists of two steps, or gradations, where two fosses scooped out of the hill go round it, one above the other, the lower one embracing considerably the most space. Both these fosses are about six feet deep, and at one time doubtless were bricked, as stout, large, red bricks are yet to be seen, here and there, in their sides. The top of the mount is just twenty-five feet across. When I visited it, it was covered with grass, but had once been subjected to the plough, as various furrows indicated. The monticle stands not far from the western extremity of the valley, nearly midway between two hills which confront each other north and south, the one to the south being the hill which I had descended, and the other a beautiful wooded height which is called in the parlance of the country Llwyn Sycharth, or the grove of Sycharth, from which comes the little gush of water which I had crossed, and which now turns the wheel of the factory, and once turned that of Owen Glendower’s mill, and filled his two moats; part of the water, by some mechanical means, having been forced up the eminence. On the top of this hill, or monticle, in a timber house, dwelt the great Welshman, Owen Glendower, with his wife, a comely, kindly woman, and his progeny, consisting of stout boys and blooming girls, and there, though wonderfully cramped for want of room, he feasted bards, who requited his hospitality with alliterative odes very difficult to compose, and which at the present day only a few bookworms understand. There he dwelt for many years, the virtual, if not the nominal, king of North Wales; occasionally, no doubt, looking down with self-complaisance from the top of his fastness on the parks and fish-ponds, of which he had several; his mill, his pigeon tower, his ploughed lands, and the cottages of a thousand retainers, huddled round the lower part of the hill, or strewn about the valley; and there he might have lived and died, had not events caused him to draw the sword and engage in a war, at the termination of which Sycharth was a fire-scathed ruin, and himself a broken-hearted old man in anchorite’s weeds, living in a cave on the estate of Sir John Scudamore, the great Herefordshire proprietor, who married his daughter Elen, his only surviving child.
After I had been a considerable time on the hill, looking about me and asking questions of my guide, I took out a piece of silver and offered it to him, thanking him at the same time for the trouble he had taken in showing me the place. He refused it, saying that I was quite welcome.
I tried to force it upon him.
“I will not take it,” said he; “but if you come to my house and have a cup of coffee, you may give sixpence to my old woman.”
“I will come,” said I, “in a short time. In the meanwhile, do you go; I wish to be alone.”
“What do you want to do?”
“To sit down and endeavour to recall Glendower, and the times that are past.”
The fine fellow looked puzzled; at last he said, “Very well,” shrugged his shoulders, and descended the hill.
When he was gone I sat down on the brow of the hill, and with my face turned to the east, began slowly to chant a translation made by myself in the days of my boyhood of an ode to Sycharth, composed by Iolo Goch when upwards of a hundred years old, shortly after his arrival at that place, to which he had been invited by Owen Glendower:—
Twice have I pledg’d my word to thee To come thy noble face to see; His promises let every man Perform as far as e’er he can! Full easy is the thing that’s sweet, And sweet this journey is and meet; I’ve vowed to Owain’s court to go, And I’m resolv’d to keep my vow; So thither straight I’ll take my way With blithesome heart, and there I’ll stay, Respect and honour, whilst I breathe, To find his honour’d roof beneath. My chief of long lin’d ancestry Can harbour sons of poesy; I’ve heard, for so the muse has told, He’s kind and gentle to the old; Yes, to his castle I will hie; There’s none to match it ’neath the sky: It is a baron’s stately court, Where bards for sumptuous fare resort; There dwells the lord of Powis land, Who granteth every just demand. Its likeness now I’ll limn you out: ’Tis water girdled wide about; It shows a wide and stately door Reached by a bridge the water o’er; ’Tis form’d of buildings coupled fair, Coupled is every couple there; Within a quadrate structure tall Muster the merry pleasures all. Conjointly are the angles bound— No flaw in all the place is found. Structures in contact meet the eye Upon the hillock’s top on high; Into each other fastened they The form of a hard knot display. There dwells the chief we all extol In timber house on lightsome knoll; Upon four wooden columns proud Mounteth his mansion to the cloud; Each column’s thick and firmly bas’d, And upon each a loft is plac’d; In these four lofts, which coupled stand, Repose at night the minstrel band; Four lofts they were in pristine state, But now partitioned form they eight. Tiled is the roof, on each house-top Rise smoke-ejecting chimneys up. All of one form there are nine halls Each with nine wardrobes in its walls With linen white as well supplied As fairest shops of fam’d Cheapside. Behold that church with cross uprais’d And with its windows neatly glaz’d; All houses are in this comprest— An orchard’s near it of the best, Also a park where void of fear Feed antler’d herds of fallow deer. A warren wide my chief can boast, Of goodly steeds a countless host. Meads where for hay the clover grows, Corn-fields which hedges trim inclose, A mill a rushing brook upon, And pigeon tower fram’d of stone; A fish-pond deep and dark to see To cast nets in when need there be, Which never yet was known to lack A plenteous store of perch and jack. Of various plumage birds abound; Herons and peacocks haunt around. What luxury doth his hall adorn, Showing of cost a sovereign scorn; His ale from Shrewsbury town he brings; His usquebaugh is drink for kings; Bragget he keeps, bread white of look, And, bless the mark! a bustling cook. His mansion is the minstrels’ home, You’ll find them there whene’er you come Of all her sex his wife’s the best; The household through her care is blest. She’s scion of a knightly tree, She’s dignified, she’s kind and free. His bairns approach me, pair by pair, O what a nest of chieftains fair! Here difficult it is to catch A sight of either bolt or latch; The porter’s place here none will fill; Here largess shall be lavish’d still, And ne’er shall thirst or hunger rude In Sycharth venture to intrude. A noble leader, Cambria’s knight, The lake possesses, his by right, And midst that azure water plac’d, The castle, by each pleasure grac’d.
And when I had finished repeating these lines I said, “How much more happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood, when I translated Iolo’s ode, than I am at the present time!” Then covering my face with my hands, I wept like a child.
Chapter LXVII
Cup of Coffee—Gwen—Bluff old Fellow—A Rabble Rout—All from Wrexham.
After a while I arose from my seat, and descending the hill, returned to the house of my honest friends, whom I found sitting by their fire, as I had first seen them.
“Well,” said the man, “did you bring back Owen Glendower?”
“Not only him,” said I, “but his house, family, and all relating to him.”
“By what means?” said the man.
“By means of a song made a long time ago, which describes Sycharth as it was in his time, and his manner of living there.”
Presently Gwen, who had been preparing coffee in expectation of my return, poured out a cupful, which she presented to me, at the same time handing me some white sugar in a basin.
I took the coffee, helped myself to some sugar, and returned her thanks in her own language.
“Ah,” said the man, in Welsh, “I see you are a Cumro. Gwen and I have been wondering whether you were Welsh or English; but I see you are one of ourselves.”
“No,” said I in the same language, “I am an Englishman, born in a part of England the farthest of any from Wales. In fact, I am a Carn Sais.”
“And how came you to speak Welsh?” said the man.
“I took it into my head to learn it when I was a boy,” said I. “Englishmen sometimes do strange things.”
“So I have heard,” said the man, “but I never heard before of an Englishman learning Welsh.”
I proceeded to drink my coffee, and having finished it, and had a little more discourse, I got up, and having given Gwen a piece of silver, which she received with a smile and a curtsey, I said I must now be going.
“Won’t you take another cup?” said Gwen, “you are welcome.”
“No, thank you,” said I; “I have had enough.”
“Where are you going?” said the man in English.
“To Llan Rhyadr,” said I, “from which I came this morning.”
“Which way did you come?” said the man.
“By Llan Gedwin,” I replied, “and over the hill. Is there another way?”
“There is,” said the man; “by Llan Silin.”
“Llan Silin!” said I; “is not that the place where Huw Morris is buried?”
“It is,” said the man.
“I will return by Llan Silin,” said I, “and in passing through pay a visit to the tomb of the great poet. Is Llan Silin far off?”
“About half-a-mile,” said the man. “Go over the bridge, turn to the right, and you will be there presently.”
I shook the honest couple by the hand, and bade them farewell. The man put on his hat, and went with me a few yards from the door, and then proceeded towards the factory. I passed over the bridge, under which was a streamlet, which a little below the bridge received the brook which once turned Owen Glendower’s corn-mill. I soon reached Llan Silin, a village or townlet, having some high hills at a short distance to the westward, which form part of the Berwyn.
I entered the kitchen of an old-fashioned public-house, and sitting down by a table, told the landlord, a red-nosed, elderly man, who came bowing up to me, to bring me a pint of ale. The landlord bowed and departed. A bluff-looking old fellow, somewhat under the middle size, sat just opposite to me at the table. He was dressed in a white frieze coat, and had a small hat on his head, set rather consequentially on one side. Before him on the table stood a jug of ale, between which and him lay a large crabstick. Three or four other people stood or sat in different parts of the room. Presently the landlord returned with the ale.
“I suppose you come on sessions business, sir?” said he, as he placed it down before me.
“Are the sessions being held here to-day?” said I.
“They are,” said the landlord, “and there is plenty of business; two bad cases of poaching. Sir Watkin’s keepers are up at court, and hope to convict.”
“I am not come on sessions business,” said I; “I am merely strolling a little about to see the country.”
“He is come from South Wales,” said the old fellow in the frieze coat to the landlord, “in order to see what kind of country the north is. Well, at any rate, he has seen a better country than his own.”
“How do you know that I come from South Wales?” said I.
“By your English,” said the old fellow; “anybody may know you are South Welsh by your English; it is so cursedly bad! But let’s hear you speak a little Welsh; then I shall be certain as to who you are.”
I did as he bade me, saying a few words in Welsh.
“There’s Welsh,” said the old fellow, “who but a South Welshman would talk Welsh in that manner? It’s nearly as bad as your English.”
I asked him if he had ever been in South Wales.
“Yes,” said he; “and a bad country I found it; just like the people.”
“If you take me for a South Welshman,” said I, “you ought to speak civilly both of the South Welsh and their country.”
“I am merely paying tit for tat,” said the old fellow. “When I was in South Wales your people laughed at my folks and country, so when I meet one of them here I serve him out as I was served out there.”
I made no reply to him, but addressing myself to the landlord, inquired whether Huw Morris was not buried in Llan Silin churchyard. He replied in the affirmative.
“I should like to see his tomb,” said I.
“Well, sir,” said the landlord, “I shall be happy to show it to you whenever you please.”
Here again the old fellow put in his word.
“You never had a prydydd like Huw Morris in South Wales,” said he; “nor Twm o’r Nant either.”
“South Wales has produced good poets,” said I.
“No, it hasn’t,” said the old fellow; “it never produced one. If it had you wouldn’t have needed to come here to see the grave of a poet; you would have found one at home.”
As he said these words he got up, took his stick, and seemed about to depart. Just then in burst a rabble rout of gamekeepers and river-watchers, who had come from the petty sessions, and were in high glee, the two poachers whom the landlord had mentioned having been convicted and heavily fined. Two or three of them were particularly boisterous, running against some of the guests who were sitting or standing in the kitchen, and pushing the landlord about, crying at the same time that they would stand by Sir Watkin to the last, and would never see him plundered. One of them, a fellow of about thirty, in a hairy cap, black coat, dirty yellow breeches, and dirty-white top-boots, who was the most obstreperous of them all, at last came up to the old chap who disliked South Welshmen and tried to knock off his hat, swearing that he would stand by Sir Watkin; he, however, met a Tartar. The enemy of the South Welsh, like all crusty people, had lots of mettle, and with the stick which he held in his hand forthwith aimed a blow at the fellow’s poll, which, had he not jumped back, would probably have broken it.
“I will not be insulted by you, you vagabond,” said the old chap, “nor by Sir Watkin either; go and tell him so.”
The fellow looked sheepish, and turning away, proceeded to take liberties with other people less dangerous to meddle with than old crabstick. He, however, soon desisted, and sat down, evidently disconcerted.
“Were you ever worse treated in South Wales by the people there than you have been here by your own countrymen?” said I to the old fellow.
“My countrymen?” said he; “this scamp is no countryman of mine; nor is one of the whole kit. They are all from Wrexham, a mixture of broken housekeepers, and fellows too stupid to learn a trade; a set of scamps fit for nothing in the world but to swear bodily against honest men. They say they will stand up for Sir Watkin, and so they will, but only in a box in the Court to give false evidence. They won’t fight for him on the banks of the river. Countrymen of mine, indeed! they are no countrymen of mine; they are from Wrexham, where the people speak neither English nor Welsh, not even South Welsh as you do.”
Then giving a kind of flourish with his stick, he departed.
Chapter LXVIII
Llan Silin Church—Tomb of Huw Morris—Barbara and Richard—Welsh Country Clergyman—The Swearing Lad—Anglo-Saxon Devils.
Having discussed my ale, I asked the landlord if he would show me the grave of Huw Morris. “With pleasure, sir,” said he; “pray follow me.” He led me to the churchyard, in which several enormous yew trees were standing, probably of an antiquity which reached as far back as the days of Henry the Eighth, when the yew bow was still the favourite weapon of the men of Britain. The church fronts the south, the portico being in that direction. The body of the sacred edifice is ancient, but the steeple, which bears a gilded cock on its top, is modern. The innkeeper led me directly up to the southern wall, then pointing to a broad discoloured slab, which lay on the ground just outside the wall, about midway between the portico and the oriel end, he said:
“Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir.” Forthwith taking off my hat, I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering the cold remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees, proceeded to examine it attentively. It is covered over with letters three parts defaced. All I could make out of the inscription was the date of the poet’s death, 1709. “A great genius, a very great genius, sir,” said the innkeeper, after I had got on my feet and put on my hat.
“He was indeed,” said I; “are you acquainted with his poetry?”
“O yes,” said the innkeeper, and then repeated the four lines composed by the poet shortly before his death, which I had heard the intoxicated stonemason repeat in the public-house of the Pandy, the day I went to visit the poet’s residence with John Jones.
“Do you know any more of Huw’s poetry?” said I.
“No,” said the innkeeper. “Those lines, however, I have known ever since I was a child, and repeated them, more particularly of late, since age has come upon me, and I have felt that I cannot last long.”
It was very odd how few of the verses of great poets are in people’s mouths. Not more than a dozen of Shakespear’s lines are in people’s mouths; of those of Pope not more than half that number. Of Addison’s poetry, two or three lines may be in people’s mouths, though I have never heard one quoted, the only line which I ever heard quoted as Addison’s not being his, but Garth’s:
“’Tis best repenting in a coach and six.”
Whilst of the verses of Huw Morris I never knew any one but myself, who am not a Welshman, who could repeat a line beyond the four which I have twice had occasion to mention, and which seem to be generally known in North, if not in South Wales.
From the flagstone I proceeded to the portico, and gazed upon it intensely. It presented nothing very remarkable, but it had the greatest interest for me, for I remembered how many times Huw Morris had walked out of that porch at the head of the congregation, the clergyman yielding his own place to the inspired bard. I would fain have entered the church, but the landlord had not the key, and told me that he imagined there would be some difficulty in procuring it. I was therefore obliged to content myself with peeping through a window into the interior, which had a solemn and venerable aspect.
“Within there,” said I to myself, “Huw Morris, the greatest songster of the seventeenth century, knelt every Sunday during the latter thirty years of his life, after walking from Pont y Meibion across the bleak and savage Berwyn. Within there was married Barbara Wynn, the Rose of Maelai, to Richard Middleton, the handsome cavalier of Maelor, and within there she lies buried, even as the songster who lamented her untimely death in immortal verse lies buried out here in the graveyard. What interesting associations has this church for me, both outside and in; but all connected with Huw; for what should I have known of Barbara the Rose and gallant Richard but for the poem on their affectionate union and untimely separation, the dialogue between the living and the dead, composed by humble Huw, the farmer’s son of Pont y Meibion?”
After gazing through the window till my eyes watered, I turned to the innkeeper, and inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr. Having received from him the desired information, I thanked him for his civility, and set out on my return.
Before I could get clear of the town, I suddenly encountered my friend R—, the clever lawyer and magistrate’s clerk of Llangollen.
“I little expected to see you here,” said he.
“Nor I you,” I replied.
“I came in my official capacity,” said he; “the petty sessions have been held here to-day.”
“I know they have,” I replied; “and that two poachers have been convicted. I came here in my way to South Wales to see the grave of Huw Morris, who, as you know, is buried in the churchyard.”
“Have you seen the clergyman?” said R—.
“No,” I replied.
“Then come with me,” said he; “I am now going to call upon him. I know he will be rejoiced to make your acquaintance.”
He led me to the clergyman’s house, which stood at the south-west end of the village within a garden fenced with iron paling. We found the clergyman in a nice comfortable parlour, or study, the sides of which were decorated with books. He was a sharp, clever-looking man, of about the middle age. On my being introduced to him, he was very glad to see me, as my friend R— told me he would be. He seemed to know all about me, even that I understood Welsh. We conversed on various subjects: on the power of the Welsh language; its mutable letters; on Huw Morris, and likewise on ale, with an excellent glass of which he regaled me. I was much pleased with him, and thought him a capital specimen of the Welsh country clergyman. His name was Walter Jones.
After staying about half-an-hour I took leave of the good kind man, who wished me all kind of happiness, spiritual and temporal, and said that he should always be happy to see me at Llan Silin. My friend R— walked with me a little way and then bade me farewell. It was now late in the afternoon, the sky was grey and gloomy, and a kind of half wintry wind was blowing. In the forenoon I had travelled along the eastern side of the valley, which I will call that of Llan Rhyadr, directing my course to the north, but I was now on the western side of the valley journeying towards the south. In about half-an-hour I found myself nearly parallel with the high crag which I had seen from a distance in the morning. It was now to the east of me. Its western front was very precipitous, but on its northern side it was cultivated nearly to the summit. As I stood looking at it from near the top of a gentle acclivity a boy with a team, whom I had passed a little time before, came up. He was whipping his horses, who were straining up the ascent, and was swearing at them most frightfully in English. I addressed him in that language, inquiring the name of the crag, but he answered Dim Saesneg, and then again fell to cursing his horses in English. I allowed him and his team to get to the top of the ascent, and then overtaking him I said in Welsh: “What do you mean by saying you have no English? you were talking English just now to your horses.”
“Yes,” said the lad, “I have English enough for my horses, and that is all.”
“You seem to have plenty of Welsh,” said I; “why don’t you speak Welsh to your horses?”
“It’s of no use speaking Welsh to them,” said the boy; “Welsh isn’t strong enough.”
“Isn’t Myn Diawl tolerably strong?” said I.
“Not strong enough for horses,” said the boy; “if I were to say Myn Diawl to my horses, or even Cas András they would laugh at me.”
“Do the other carters,” said I, “use the same English to their horses which you do to yours?”
“Yes,” said the boy, “they all use the same English words; if they didn’t the horses wouldn’t mind them.”
“What a triumph,” thought I, “for the English language that the Welsh carters are obliged to have recourse to its oaths and execrations to make their horses get on!”
I said nothing more to the boy on the subject of language, but again asked him the name of the crag. “It is called Craig y Gorllewin,” said he. I thanked him, and soon left him and his team far behind.
Notwithstanding what the boy said about the milk-and-water character of native Welsh oaths, the Welsh have some very pungent execrations, quite as efficacious, I should say, to make a horse get on as any in the English swearing vocabulary. Some of their oaths are curious, being connected with heathen times and Druidical mythology; for example that Cas András mentioned by the boy, which means hateful enemy or horrible András. András or Andraste was the fury or Demigorgon of the Ancient Cumry, to whom they built temples and offered sacrifices out of fear. Curious that the same oath should be used by the Christian Cumry of the present day, which was in vogue amongst their pagan ancestors some three thousand years ago. However, the same thing is observable amongst us Christian English: we say the Duse take you! even as our heathen Saxon forefathers did, who worshipped a kind of Devil so called and named a day of the week after him, which name we still retain in our hebdomadal calendar like those of several other Anglo-Saxon devils. We also say: Go to old Nick! and Nick or Nikkur was a surname of Woden, and also the name of a spirit which haunted fords and was in the habit of drowning passengers.
Night came quickly upon me after I had passed the swearing lad. However, I was fortunate enough to reach Llan Rhyadr, without having experienced any damage or impediment from Diawl, András, Duse or Nick.
Chapter LXIX
Church of Llan Rhyadr—The Clerk—The Tablet-Stone—First View of the Cataract.
The night was both windy and rainy like the preceding one, but the morning which followed, unlike that of the day before, was dull and gloomy. After breakfast I walked out to take another view of the little town. As I stood looking at the church a middle-aged man of a remarkably intelligent countenance came up and asked me if I should like to see the inside. I told him I should, whereupon he said that he was the clerk and would admit me with pleasure. Taking a key out of his pocket he unlocked the door of the church and we went in. The inside was sombre, not so much owing to the gloominess of the day as the heaviness of the architecture. It presented something in the form of a cross. I soon found the clerk, what his countenance represented him to be, a highly intelligent person. His answers to my questions were in general ready and satisfactory.
“This seems rather an ancient edifice,” said I; “when was it built?”
“In the sixteenth century,” said the clerk; “in the days of Harry Tudor.”
“Have any remarkable men been clergymen of this church?”
“Several, sir; amongst its vicars was Doctor William Morgan the great South Welshman, the author of the old Welsh version of the Bible, who flourished in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Then there was Doctor Robert South, an eminent divine, who though not a Welshman spoke and preached Welsh better than many of the native clergy. Then there was the last vicar, Walter D—, a great preacher and writer, who styled himself in print Gwalter Mechain.”
“Are Morgan and South buried here?” said I.
“They are not, sir,” said the clerk; “they had been transferred to other benefices before they died.”
I did not inquire whether Walter D— was buried there, for of him I had never heard before, but demanded whether the church possessed any ancient monuments.
“This is the oldest which remains, sir,” said the clerk, and he pointed with his finger to a tablet-stone over a little dark pew on the right side of the oriel window. There was an inscription upon it, but owing to the darkness I could not make out a letter. The clerk however read as follows.
1694. 21 Octr. Hic Sepultus Est. Sidneus Bynner.
“Do you understand Latin?” said I to the clerk.
“I do not, sir; I believe, however, that the stone is to the memory of one Bynner.”
“That is not a Welsh name,” said I.
“It is not, sir,” said the clerk.
“It seems to be radically the same as Bonner,” said I, “the name of the horrible Popish Bishop of London in Mary’s time. Do any people of the name of Bynner reside in the neighbourhood at present?”
“None, sir,” said the clerk; “and if the Bynners are the descendants of Bonner, it is, perhaps, well that there are none.”
I made the clerk, who appeared almost fit to be a clergyman, a small present, and returned to the inn. After paying my bill I flung my satchel over my shoulder, took my umbrella by the middle in my right hand, and set off for the Rhyadr.
I entered the narrow glen at the western extremity of the town and proceeded briskly along. The scenery was romantically beautiful: on my left was the little brook, the waters of which run through the town; beyond it a lofty hill; on my right was a hill covered with wood from the top to the bottom. I enjoyed the scene, and should have enjoyed it more had there been a little sunshine to gild it.
I passed through a small village, the name of which I think was Cynmen, and presently overtook a man and boy. The man saluted me in English and I entered into conversation with him in that language. He told me that he came from Llan Gedwin, and was going to a place called Gwern something in order to fetch home some sheep. After a time he asked me where I was going.
“I am going to see the Pistyll Rhyadr,” said I.
We had then just come to the top of a rising ground.
“Yonder’s the Pistyll!” said he, pointing to the west.
I looked in the direction of his finger, and saw something at a great distance, which looked like a strip of grey linen, hanging over a crag.
“That is the waterfall,” he continued, “which so many of the Saxons come to see. And now I must bid you good-bye, master; for my way to the Gwern is on the right.”
Then followed by the boy he turned aside into a wild road at the corner of a savage, precipitous rock.
LXX. Mountain Scenery—The Rhyadr—Wonderful Feat
After walking about a mile with the cataract always in sight, I emerged from the glen into an oblong valley extending from south to north, having lofty hills on all sides, especially on the west, from which direction the cataract comes. I advanced across the vale till within a furlong of this object, when I was stopped by a deep hollow or nether vale into which the waters of the cataract tumble. On the side of this hollow I sat down, and gazed before me and on either side. The water comes spouting over a crag of perhaps two hundred feet in altitude between two hills, one south-east and the other nearly north. The southern hill is wooded from the top, nearly down to where the cataract burst forth; and so, but not so thickly, is the northern hill, which bears a singular resemblance to a hog’s back. Groves of pine are on the lower parts of both; in front of a grove low down on the northern hill is a small white house of a picturesque appearance. The water of the cataract, after reaching the bottom of the precipice, rushes in a narrow brook down the vale in the direction of Llan Rhyadr. To the north-east, between the hog-backed hill and another strange-looking mountain, is a wild glen, from which comes a brook to swell the waters discharged by the Rhyadr. The south-west side of the vale is steep, and from a cleft of a hill in that quarter a slender stream rushing impetuously joins the brook of the Rhyadr, like the rill of the northern glen. The principal object of the whole is of course the Rhyadr. What shall I liken it to? I scarcely know, unless to an immense skein of silk agitated and disturbed by tempestuous blasts, or to the long tail of a grey courser at furious speed. Through the profusion of long silvery threads or hairs, or what looked such, I could here and there see the black sides of the crag down which the Rhyadr precipitated itself with something between a boom and a roar.
After sitting on the verge of the hollow for a considerable time I got up, and directed my course towards the house in front of the grove. I turned down the path which brought me to the brook which runs from the northern glen into the waters discharged by the Rhyadr, and crossing it by stepping-stones found myself on the lowest spur of the hog-backed hill. A steep path led towards the house. As I drew near, two handsome dogs came rushing to welcome the stranger. Coming to a door on the northern side of the house I tapped and a handsome girl of about thirteen making her appearance I enquired in English the nearest way to the waterfall; she smiled, and in her native language said that she had no Saxon. On my telling her in Welsh that I was come to see the Pistyll she smiled again, and said that I was welcome, then taking me round the house she pointed to a path and bade me follow it. I followed the path which led downwards to a tiny bridge of planks, a little way below the fall. I advanced to the middle of the bridge, then turning to the west looked at the wonderful object before me.
There are many remarkable cataracts in Britain and the neighbouring isles, even the little Celtic Isle of Man has its remarkable waterfall; but this Rhyadr, the grand cataract of North Wales, far exceeds them all in altitude and beauty, though it is inferior to several of them in the volume of its flood. I never saw water falling so gracefully, so much like thin beautiful threads as here. Yet even this cataract has its blemish. What beautiful object has not something which more or less mars its loveliness? There is an ugly black bridge or semicircle of rock, about two feet in diameter and about twenty feet high, which rises some little way below it, and under which the water, after reaching the bottom, passes, which intercepts the sight, and prevents it from taking in the whole fall at once. This unsightly object has stood where it now stands since the day of creation, and will probably remain there to the day of judgment. It would be a desecration of nature to remove it by art, but no one could regret if nature in one of her floods were to sweep it away.
As I was standing on the planks a woman plainly but neatly dressed came from the house. She addressed me in very imperfect English, saying that she was the mistress of the house and should be happy to show me about. I thanked her for her offer and told her that she might speak Welsh, whereupon she looked glad and said in that tongue that she could speak Welsh much better than Saesneg. She took me by a winding path up a steep bank on the southern side of the fall to a small plateau, and told me that was the best place to see the Pistyll from. I did not think so, for we were now so near that we were almost blinded by the spray, though, it is true, the semicircle of rock no longer impeded the sight; this object we now saw nearly laterally rising up like a spectral arch, spray and foam above it, and water rushing below. “That is a bridge rather for ysprydoedd {397} to pass over than men,” said I.
“It is,” said the woman; “but I once saw a man pass over it.”
“How did he get up?” said I. “The sides are quite steep and slippery.”
“He wriggled up the side like a llysowen, {398} till he got to the top, when he stood upright for a minute, and then slid down on the other side.”
“Was he any one from these parts?” said I.
“He was not. He was a dyn dieithr, a Russian; one of those with whom we are now at war.”
“Was there as much water tumbling then as now?”
“More, for there had fallen more rain.”
“I suppose the torrent is sometimes very dreadful?” said I.
“It is indeed, especially in winter; for it is then like a sea, and roars like thunder or a mad bull.”
After I had seen all I wished of the cataract, the woman asked me to come to the house and take some refreshment. I followed her to a neat little room where she made me sit down and handed me a bowl of buttermilk. On the table was a book in which she told me it was customary for individuals who visited the cataract to insert their names. I took up the book which contained a number of names mingled here and there with pieces of poetry. Amongst these compositions was a Welsh englyn on the Rhyadr, which though incorrect in its prosody I thought stirring and grand. I copied it, and subjoin it with a translation which I made on the spot.
“Crychiawg, ewynawg anian—yw y Rhyadr Yn rhuo mal taran; Colofn o dwr, gloyw-dwr glan, Gorwyllt, un lliw ag arian.”
“Foaming and frothing from mountainous height, Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls; Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight, Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.”
Chapter LXXI
Wild Moors—The Guide—Scientific Discourse—The Land of Arthur—The Umbrella—Arrival at Bala.
When I had rested myself and finished the buttermilk I got up, and, making the good woman a small compensation for her civility, inquired if I could get to Bala without returning to Llan Rhyadr.
“O yes,” said she, “if you cross the hills for about five miles you will find yourself upon a road which will take you straight to Bala.”
“Is there any one here,” said I, “who will guide me over the hills provided I pay him for his trouble?”
“O yes,” said she; “I know one who will be happy to guide you whether you pay him or not.”
She went out and presently returned with a man about thirty-five, stout and well-looking, and dressed in a waggoner’s frock.
“There,” said she, “this is the man to show you over the hills; few know the paths better.”
I thanked her, and telling the man I was ready, bade him lead the way. We set out, the two dogs of which I have spoken attending us and seemingly very glad to go. We ascended the side of the hog-backed hill to the north of the Rhyadr. We were about twenty minutes in getting to the top, close to which stood a stone or piece of rock, very much resembling a church altar, and about the size of one. We were now on an extensive moory elevation, having the brook which forms the Rhyadr a little way on our left. We went nearly due west, following no path, for path there was none, but keeping near the brook. Sometimes we crossed watercourses which emptied their tribute into the brook, and every now and then ascended and descended hillocks covered with gorse and whin. After a little time I entered into conversation with my guide. He had not a word of English. “Are you married?” said I.
“In truth I am, sir.”
“What family have you?”
“I have a daughter.”
“Where do you live?”
“At the house of the Rhyadr.”
“I suppose you live there as servant?”
“No, sir, I live there as master.”
“Is the good woman I saw there your wife?”
“In truth, sir, she is.”
“And the young girl I saw your daughter?”
“Yes, sir, she is my daughter.”
“And how came the good woman not to tell me you were her husband?”
“I suppose, sir, you did not ask who I was, and she thought you did not care to know.”
“But can you be spared from home?”
“O yes, sir, I was not wanted at home.”
“What business are you?”
“I am a farmer, sir.”
“A sheep farmer?”
“Yes sir.”
“Who is your landlord?”
“Sir Watkin.”
“Well, it was very kind of you to come with me.”
“Not at all, sir; I was glad to come with you, for we are very lonesome at Rhyadr, except during a few weeks in the summer, when the gentry come to see the Pistyll. Moreover, I have sheep lying about here which need to be looked at now and then, and by coming hither with you I shall have an opportunity of seeing them.”
We frequently passed sheep feeding together in small numbers. In two or three instances my guide singled out individuals, caught them, and placing their heads between his knees examined the inside of their eyelids, in order to learn by their colour whether or not they were infected with the pwd or moor disorder. We had some discourse about that malady. At last he asked me if there was a remedy for it.
“O yes,” said I; “a decoction of hoarhound.”
“What is hoarhound?” said he.
“Llwyd y Cwn,” said I. “Pour some of that down the sheep’s throat twice a day, by means of a horn, and the sheep will recover, for the bitterness, do you see, will destroy the worm {400} in the liver, which learned men say is the cause of the disorder.”
We left the brook on our left hand and passed by some ruined walls which my guide informed me had once belonged to houses but were now used as sheep-folds. After walking several miles, according to my computation, we began to ascend a considerable elevation covered with brown heath and ling. As we went on the dogs frequently put up a bird of a black colour, which flew away with a sharp whirr.
“What bird is that?” said I.
“Ceiliog y grug, the cock of the heath,” replied my guide. “It is said to be very good eating, but I have never tasted it. The ceiliog y grug is not food for the like of me. It goes to feed the rich Saxons in Caer Ludd.”
We reached the top of the elevation.
“Yonder,” said my guide, pointing to a white bare place a great way off to the west, “is Bala road.”
“Then I will not trouble you to go any further,” said I; “I can find my way thither.”
“No, you could not,” said my guide; “if you were to make straight for that place you would perhaps fall down a steep, or sink into a peat hole up to your middle, or lose your way and never find the road, for you would soon lose sight of that place. Follow me, and I will lead you into a part of the road more to the left, and then you can find your way easily enough to that bare place, and from thence to Bala.” Thereupon he moved in a southerly direction down the steep and I followed him. In about twenty minutes we came to the road.
“Now,” said my guide, “you are on the road; bear to the right and you cannot miss the way to Bala.”
“How far is it to Bala?” said I.
“About twelve miles,” he replied.
I gave him a trifle, asking at the same time if it was sufficient. “Too much by one half,” he replied; “many, many thanks.” He then shook me by the hand, and accompanied by his dogs departed, not back over the moor, but in a southerly direction down the road.
Wending my course to the north, I came to the white bare spot which I had seen from the moor, and which was in fact the top of a considerable elevation over which the road passed. Here I turned and looked at the hills I had come across. There they stood, darkly blue, a rain cloud, like ink, hanging over their summits. O, the wild hills of Wales, the land of old renown and of wonder, the land of Arthur and Merlin.
The road now lay nearly due west. Rain came on, but it was at my back, so I expanded my umbrella, flung it over my shoulder and laughed. O, how a man laughs who has a good umbrella when he has the rain at his back, aye and over his head too, and at all times when it rains except when the rain is in his face, when the umbrella is not of much service. O, what a good friend to a man is an umbrella in rain time, and likewise at many other times. What need he fear if a wild bull or a ferocious dog attacks him, provided he has a good umbrella? he unfurls the umbrella in the face of the bull or dog, and the brute turns round quite scared, and runs away. Or if a footpad asks him for his money, what need he care provided he has an umbrella? he threatens to dodge the ferrule into the ruffian’s eye, and the fellow starts back and says, “Lord, sir! I meant no harm. I never saw you before in all my life. I merely meant a little fun.” Moreover, who doubts that you are a respectable character provided you have an umbrella? you go into a public-house and call for a pot of beer, and the publican puts it down before you with one hand without holding out the other for the money, for he sees that you have an umbrella and consequently property. And what respectable man, when you overtake him on the way and speak to him, will refuse to hold conversation with you, provided you have an umbrella? No one. The respectable man sees you have an umbrella and concludes that you do not intend to rob him, and with justice, for robbers never carry umbrellas. O, a tent, a shield, a lance and a voucher for character is an umbrella. Amongst the very best friends of man must be reckoned an umbrella. {402}
The way lay over dreary, moory hills: at last it began to descend and I saw a valley below me with a narrow river running through it to which wooded hills sloped down; far to the west were blue mountains. The scene was beautiful but melancholy; the rain had passed away, but a gloomy almost November sky was above, and the mists of night were coming down apace.
I crossed a bridge at the bottom of the valley and presently saw a road branching to the right. I paused, but after a little time went straight forward. Gloomy woods were on each side of me and night had come down. Fear came upon me that I was not in the right road, but I saw no house at which I could inquire, nor did I see a single individual for miles of whom I could ask. At last I heard the sound of hatchets in a dingle on my right, and catching a glimpse of a gate at the head of a path, which led down into it, I got over it. After descending some time I hallooed. The noise of the hatchets ceased. I hallooed again, and a voice cried in Welsh, “What do you want?” “To know the way to Bala,” I replied. There was no answer, but presently I heard steps, and the figure of a man drew nigh half undistinguishable in the darkness and saluted me. I returned his salutation, and told him I wanted to know the way to Bala. He told me, and I found I had been going right. I thanked him and regained the road. I sped onward and in about half an hour saw some houses, then a bridge, then a lake on my left, which I recognised as the lake of Bala. I skirted the end of it, and came to a street cheerfully lighted up, and in a minute more was in the White Lion Inn.
Chapter LXXII
Cheerful Fire—Immense Man—Doctor Jones—Recognition—A Fast Young Man—Excellent Remarks—Disappointment.
I was conducted into the coffee-room of the White Lion by a little freckled maid whom I saw at the bar, and whom I told that I was come to pass the night at the inn. The room presented an agreeable contrast to the gloomy, desolate places through which I had lately come. A good fire blazed in the grate, and there were four lights on the table. Lolling in a chair by one side of the fire was an individual at the sight of whom I almost started. He was an immense man, weighing I should say at least eighteen stone, with brown hair, thinnish whiskers, half-ruddy, half-tallowy complexion, and dressed in a brown sporting coat, drab breeches and yellow-topped boots—in every respect the exact image of the Wolverhampton gent or hog-merchant who had appeared to me in my dream at Llangollen, whilst asleep before the fire. Yes, the very counterpart of the same gent looked this enormous fellow, save and except that he did not appear to be more than seven or eight and twenty, whereas the hog-merchant looked at least fifty. Laying my satchel down I took a seat and ordered the maid to get some dinner for me, and then asked what had become of the waiter Tom Jenkins.
“He is not here at present, sir,” said the freckled maid; “he is at his own house.”
“And why is he not here?” said I.
“Because he is not wanted, sir; he only comes in summer when the house is full of people.”
And having said this the little freckled damsel left the room.
“Reither a cool night, sir!” said the enormous man after we had been alone together a few minutes.
I again almost started, for he spoke with the same kind of half-piping, half-wheezing voice, with which methought the Wolverhampton gent had spoken to me in my dream.
“Yes,” said I; “it is rather cold out abroad, but I don’t care, as I am not going any farther to-night.”
“That’s not my case,” said the stout man, “I have got to go ten miles, as far as Cerrig Drudion, from which place I came this afternoon in a wehicle.”
“Do you reside at Cerrig Drudion?” said I.
“No,” said the stout man, whose dialect I shall not attempt further to imitate, “but I have been staying there some time; for happening to go there a month or two ago I was tempted to take up my quarters at the inn. A very nice inn it is, and the landlady a very agreeable woman, and her daughters very agreeable young ladies.”
“Is this the first time you have been at Bala?”
“Yes, the first time. I had heard a good deal about it, and wished to see it. So to-day, having the offer of a vehicle at a cheap rate I came over with two or three other gents, amongst whom is Doctor Jones.”
“Dear me,” said I; “is Doctor Jones in Bala?”
“Yes,” said the stout man; “do you know him?”
“Oh yes,” said I, “and have a great respect for him; his like for politeness and general learning is scarcely to be found in Britain.”
“Only think,” said the stout man. “Well, I never heard that of him before.”
Wishing to see my sleeping room before I got my dinner, I now rose and was making for the door, when it opened, and in came Doctor Jones. He had a muffler round his neck, and walked rather slowly and disconsolately, leaning upon a cane. He passed without appearing to recognise me, and I, thinking it would be as well to defer claiming acquaintance with him till I had put myself a little to rights, went out without saying anything to him. I was shown by the freckled maid to a nice sleeping apartment, where I stayed some time adjusting myself. On my return to the coffee-room I found the doctor sitting near the fire-place. The stout man had left the room. I had no doubt that he told Doctor Jones that I had claimed acquaintance with him, and that the doctor not having recollected me had denied that he knew anything of me, for I observed that he looked at me very suspiciously.
I took my former seat, and after a minute’s silence said to Doctor Jones, “I think, sir, I had the pleasure of seeing you some time ago at Cerrig Drudion?”
“It’s possible, sir,” said Doctor Jones in a tone of considerable hauteur, and tossing his head so that the end of his chin was above his comforter, “but I have no recollection of it.”
I held my head down for a little time, then raising it and likewise my forefinger I looked Doctor Jones full in the face and said, “Don’t you remember talking to me about Owen Pugh and Coll Gwynfa?”
“Yes, I do,” said Doctor Jones in a very low voice, like that of a person who deliberates; “yes, I do. I remember you perfectly, sir,” he added almost immediately in a tone of some animation; “you are the gentleman with whom I had a very interesting conversation one evening last summer in the bar of the inn at Cerrig Drudion. I regretted very much that our conversation was rather brief, but I was called away to attend to a case, a professional case, sir, of some delicacy, and I have since particularly regretted that I was unable to return that night, as it would have given me much pleasure to have been present at a dialogue which, I have been told by my friend the landlady, you held with a certain Italian who was staying at the house, which was highly agreeable and instructive to herself and her daughter.”
“Well,” said I, “I am rejoiced that fate has brought us together again. How have you been in health since I had the pleasure of seeing you?”
“Rather indifferent, sir, rather indifferent. I have of late been afflicted with several ailments the original cause of which, I believe, was a residence of several years in the Ynysoedd y Gorllewin—the West-India Islands—where I had the honour of serving her present gracious Majesty’s gracious uncle, George the Fourth—in a medical capacity, sir. I have likewise been afflicted with lowness of spirits, sir. It was this same lowness of spirits which induced me to accept an invitation made by the individual lately in the room to accompany him in a vehicle with some other people to Bala. I shall always consider my coming as a fortunate circumstance inasmuch as it has given me an opportunity of renewing my acquaintance with you.”
“Pray,” said I, “may I take the liberty of asking who that individual is?”
“Why,” said Doctor Jones, “he is what they call a Wolverhampton gent.”
“A Wolverhampton gent,” said I to myself; “only think!”
“Were you pleased to make any observation, sir?” said the doctor.
“I was merely saying something to myself,” said I. “And in what line of business may he be? I suppose in the hog line.”
“O no,” said Doctor Jones. “His father it is true is a hog-merchant, but as for himself he follows no business; he is what is called a fast young man, and goes about here and there on the spree, as I think they term it, drawing, whenever he wants money, upon his father, who is in affluent circumstances. Some time ago he came to Cerrig Drudion, and was so much pleased with the place, the landlady and her daughters that he has made it his head-quarters ever since. Being frequently at the house I formed an acquaintance with him, and have occasionally made one in his parties and excursions, though I can’t say I derive much pleasure from his conversation, for he is a person of little or no literature.”
“The son of a hog-merchant,” thought I to myself. “Depend upon it, that immense fellow whom I saw in my dream purchase the big hog at Llangollen fair, and who wanted me to give him a poond for his bargain, was this gent’s father. O there is much more in dreams than is generally dreamt of by philosophy!”
Doctor Jones presently began to talk of Welsh literature, and we were busily engaged in discussing the subject when in walked the fast young man, causing the floor to quake beneath his ponderous tread. He looked rather surprised at seeing the doctor and me conversing, but Doctor Jones turning to him said, “O I remember this gentleman perfectly.”
“Oh!” said the fast young man; “very good!” then flinging himself down in a chair with a force that nearly broke it and fixing his eyes upon me said, “I think I remember the gentleman too. If I am not much mistaken, sir, you are one of our principal engineers at Wolverhampton. O yes! I remember you now perfectly. The last time I saw you was at a public dinner given to you at Wolverhampton, and there you made a speech, and a capital speech it was.”
Just as I was about to reply Doctor Jones commenced speaking Welsh, resuming the discourse on Welsh literature. Before, however, he had uttered a dozen words he was interrupted by the Wolverhampton gent, who exclaimed in a blubbering tone: “O Lord, you are surely not going to speak Welsh. If I had thought I was to be bothered with Welsh I wouldn’t have asked you to come.”
“If I spoke Welsh, sir,” said the Doctor, “it was out of compliment to this gentleman, who is a proficient in the ancient language of my country. As, however, you dislike Welsh, I shall carry on the conversation with him in English, though peradventure you may not be more edified by it in that language than if it were held in Welsh.”
He then proceeded to make some very excellent remarks on the history of the Gwedir family, written by Sir John Wynn; to which the Wolverhampton gent listened with open mouth and staring eyes. My dinner now made its appearance, brought in by the little freckled maid—the cloth had been laid during my absence from the room. I had just begun to handle my knife and fork, Doctor Jones still continuing his observations on the history of the Gwedir family, when I heard a carriage drive up to the inn, and almost immediately after two or three young fellows rollicked into the room. “Come, let’s be off,” said one of them to the Wolverhampton gent; “the carriage is ready.” “I’m glad of it,” said the fast young man, “for it’s rather slow work here. Come, doctor! are you going with us or do you intend to stay here all night?” Thereupon the doctor got up, and coming towards me, leaning on his cane, said: “Sir! it gives me infinite pleasure that I have met a second time a gentleman of so much literature. That we shall ever meet a third time I may wish but can scarcely hope, owing to certain ailments under which I suffer, brought on, sir, by a residence of many years in the Occidental Indies. However, at all events I wish you health and happiness.” He then shook me gently by the hand and departed with the Wolverhampton gent and his companions; the gent as he stumped out of the room saying, “Good night, sir; I hope it will not be long before I see you at another public dinner at Wolverhampton, and hear another speech from you as good as the last.” In a minute or two I heard them drive off.
Left to myself I began to discuss my dinner. Of the dinner I had nothing to complain, but the ale which accompanied it was very bad. This was the more mortifying, for remembering the excellent ale I had drunk at Bala some months previously I had, as I came along the gloomy roads the present evening, been promising myself a delicious treat on my arrival.
“This is very bad ale!” said I to the freckled maid, “very different from what I drank in the summer, when I was waited on by Tom Jenkins.”
“It is the same ale, sir,” said the maid, “but the last in the cask; and we shan’t have any more for six months, when he will come again to brew for the summer; but we have very good porter, sir, and first-rate Allsopp.”
“Allsopp’s ale,” said I, “will do for July and August, but scarcely for the end of October. However, bring me a pint; I prefer it at all times to porter.”
My dinner concluded, I trifled away the time till about ten o’clock, and then went to bed.