Chapter LXXIII
Breakfast—The Freckled Maid—Llan uwch Llyn—The Landlady—Llewarch Hen—Conversions to the Church.
Awaking occasionally in the night I heard much storm and rain. The following morning it was gloomy and lowering. As it was Sunday I determined to pass the day at Bala, and accordingly took my prayer-book out of my satchel, and also my single white shirt, which I put on.
Having dressed myself I went to the coffee-room and sat down to breakfast. What a breakfast! pot of hare; ditto of trout; pot of prepared shrimps; dish of plain shrimps; tin of sardines; beautiful beef-steak; eggs, muffin; large loaf, and butter, not forgetting capital tea. There’s a breakfast for you!
As the little freckled maid was removing the breakfast things I asked her how old she was.
“Eighteen, sir, last Candlemas,” said the freckled maid.
“Are your parents alive?”
“My mother is, sir, but my father is dead.”
“What was your father?”
“He was an Irishman, sir! and boots to this inn.”
“Is your mother Irish?”
“No, sir, she is of this place; my father married her shortly after he came here.”
“Of what religion are you?”
“Church, sir, church.”
“Was your father of the church?”
“Not always, sir; he was once what is called a Cartholic. He turned to the church after he came here.”
“A’n’t there a great many Methodists in Bala?”
“Plenty, sir, plenty.”
“How came your father not to go over to the Methodists instead of the church?”
“’Cause he didn’t like them, sir; he used to say they were a trumpery, cheating set; that they wouldn’t swear, but would lie through a three-inch board.”
“I suppose your mother is a churchwoman?”
“She is now, sir; but before she knew my father she was a Methodist.”
“Of what religion is the master of the house?”
“Church, sir, church; so is all the family.”
“Who is the clergyman of the place?”
“Mr. Pugh, sir!”
“Is he a good preacher?”
“Capital, sir! and so is each of his curates; he and they are convarting the Methodists left and right.”
“I should like to hear him.”
“Well, sir! that you can do. My master, who is going to church presently, will be happy to accommodate you in his pew.”
I went to the church with the landlord, a tall gentlemanly man of the name of Jones—O that eternal name of Jones! Rain was falling fast, and we were glad to hold up our umbrellas. We did not go to the church at Bala, at which there was no service that morning, but to that of a little village close by, on the side of the lake, the living of which is incorporated with that of Bala. The church stands low down by the lake at the bottom of a little nook. Its name, which is Llan uwch Llyn, is descriptive of its position, signifying the Church above the Lake. It is a long, low, ancient edifice, standing north-east by south-west. The village is just above it on a rising ground, behind which are lofty hills pleasantly dotted with groves, trees and houses. The interior of the edifice has a somewhat dilapidated appearance. The service was in Welsh. The clergyman was about forty years of age, and had a highly-intelligent look. His voice was remarkably clear and distinct. He preached an excellent practical sermon, text 14th chapter 22nd verse of Luke, about sending out servants to invite people to the supper. After the sermon there was a gathering for the poor.
As I returned to the inn I had a good deal of conversation with the landlord on religious subjects. He told me that the Church of England, which for a long time had been a down-trodden Church in Wales, had of late begun to raise its head, and chiefly owing to the zeal and activity of its present ministers; that the former ministers of the Church were good men but had not energy enough to suit the times in which they lived; that the present ministers fought the Methodist preachers with their own weapon, namely extemporary preaching, and beat them, winning shoals from their congregations. He seemed to think that the time was not far distant when the Anglican Church would be the popular as well as the established church of Wales.
Finding myself rather dull in the inn I went out again notwithstanding that it rained. I ascended the toman or mound which I had visited on a former occasion. Nothing could be more desolate and dreary than the scene around. The woods were stript of their verdure and the hills were half shrouded in mist. How unlike was this scene to the smiling, glorious prospect which had greeted my eyes a few months before. The rain coming down with redoubled violence I was soon glad to descend and regain the inn.
Shortly before dinner I was visited by the landlady, a fine tall woman of about fifty with considerable remains of beauty in her countenance. She came to ask me if I was comfortable. I told her that it was my own fault if I was not. We were soon in very friendly discourse. I asked her her maiden name.
“Owen,” said she laughing, “which after my present name of Jones is the most common name in Wales.”
“They were both one and the same originally,” said I, “Owen and Jones both mean John.”
She too was a staunch member of the Church of England, which she said was the only true church. She spoke in terms of high respect and admiration of her minister, and said that a new church was being built, the old one not being large enough to accommodate the numbers who thronged to hear him.
I had a noble goose for dinner to which I did ample justice. About four o’clock the weather having cleared up I took a stroll. It was a beautiful evening, though rain clouds still hovered about. I wandered to the northern end of Llyn Tegid which I had passed in the preceding evening. The wind was blowing from the south, and tiny waves were beating against the shore which consisted of small brown pebbles. The lake has certainly not its name, which signifies Lake of Beauty, for nothing. It is a beautiful sheet of water, and beautifully situated. It is oblong and about six miles in length. On all sides, except to the north, it is bounded by hills. Those at the southern end are very lofty; the tallest of which is Arran, which lifts its head to the clouds like a huge loaf. As I wandered on the strand I thought of a certain British prince and poet, who in the very old time sought a refuge in the vicinity of the lake from the rage of the Saxons. His name was Llewarch Hen, of whom I will now say a few words.
Llewarch Hen, or Llewarch the Aged, was born about the commencement of the sixth and died about the middle of the seventh century, having attained to the prodigious age of one hundred and forty or fifty years, which is perhaps the lot of about forty individuals in the course of a millenium. If he was remarkable for the number of his years he was no less so for the number of his misfortunes. He was one of the princes of the Cumbrian Britons; but Cumbria was invaded by the Saxons, and a scene of horrid war ensued. Llewarch and his sons, of whom he had twenty-four, put themselves at the head of their forces, and in conjunction with the other Cumbrian princes made a brave but fruitless opposition to the invaders. Most of his sons were slain, and he himself with the remainder sought shelter in Powys in the hall of Cynddylan its prince. But the Saxon bills and bows found their way to Powys too. Cynddylan was slain, and with him the last of the sons of Llewarch, who, reft of his protector, retired to a hut by the side of the lake of Bala, where he lived the life of a recluse and composed elegies on his sons and slaughtered friends, and on his old age, all of which abound with so much simplicity and pathos that the heart of him must be hard indeed who can read them unmoved. Whilst a prince he was revered for his wisdom and equity, and he is said in one of the historical triads to have been one of the three consulting warriors of Arthur.
In the evening I attended service in the old church at Bala. The interior of the edifice was remarkably plain; no ornament of any kind was distinguishable; the congregation was overflowing, amongst whom I observed the innkeeper and his wife, the little freckled maid and the boots. The entire service was in Welsh. Next to the pew in which I sat was one filled with young singing women, all of whom seemed to have voices of wonderful power. The prayers were read by a strapping young curate at least six feet high. The sermon was preached by the rector, and was a continuation of the one which I had heard him preach in the morning. It was a very comforting discourse, as the preacher clearly proved that every sinner will be pardoned who comes to Jesus. I was particularly struck with one part. The preacher said that Jesus’ arms being stretched out upon the cross was emblematic of his surprising love and his willingness to receive anybody. The service concluded with the noble anthem Teyrnasa Jesu Mawr, “May Mighty Jesus reign!”
The service over I returned to the parlour of the inn. There I sat for a long time lone and solitary, staring at the fire in the grate. I was the only guest in the house; a great silence prevailed both within and without; sometimes five minutes elapsed without my hearing a sound, and then perhaps the silence would be broken by a footstep at a distance in the street—at length finding myself yawning I determined to go to bed. The freckled maid, as she lighted me to my room, inquired how I liked the sermon. “Very much,” said I. “Ah,” said she, “did I not tell you that Mr. Pugh was a capital preacher?” She then asked me how I liked the singing of the gals who sat in the next pew to mine. I told her that I liked it exceedingly. “Ah!” said she, “them gals have the best voices in Bala. They were once Methody gals, and sang in the chapels, but were convarted, and are now as good Church as myself. Them gals have been the cause of a great many convarsions, for all the young fellows of their acquaintance amongst the Methodists—”
“Follow them to church,” said I, “and in time become converted. That’s a thing of course. If the Church gets the girls she is quite sure of the fellows.”
Chapter LXXIV
Proceed on Journey—The Lad and Dog—Old Bala—The Pass—Extensive View—The Two Men—The Tap Nyth—The Meeting of the Waters—The Wild Valley—Dinas Mawddwy.
The Monday morning was gloomy and misty, but it did not rain, a circumstance which gave me no little pleasure, as I intended to continue my journey without delay. After breakfast I bade farewell to my kind hosts and also to the freckled maid, and departed, my sachel o’er my shoulder and my umbrella in my hand.
I had consulted the landlord on the previous day as to where I had best make my next halt, and had been advised by him to stop at Mallwyd. He said that if I felt tired I could put up at Dinas Mawddwy, about two miles on this side of Mallwyd, but that if I were not he would advise me to go on, as I should find very poor accommodation at Dinas. On my inquiring as to the nature of the road he told me that the first part of it was tolerably good, lying along the eastern side of the lake, but that the greater part of it was very rough, over hills and mountains belonging to the great chain of Arran, which constituted upon the whole the wildest part of all Wales.
Passing by the northern end of the lake I turned to the south and proceeded along a road a little way above the side of the lake. The day had now to a certain extent cleared up, and the lake was occasionally gilded by beams of bright sunshine. After walking a little way I overtook a lad dressed in a white great coat and attended by a tolerably large black dog. I addressed him in English, but finding that he did not understand me I began to talk to him in Welsh.
“That’s a fine dog,” said I.
Lad.—Very fine, sir, and a good dog; though young, he has been known to kill rats.
Myself.—What is his name?
Lad.—His name is Toby, sir.
Myself.—And what is your name?
Lad.—John Jones, sir.
Myself.—And what is your father’s?
Lad.—Waladr Jones, sir.
Myself.—Is Waladr the same as Cadwaladr?
Lad.—In truth, sir, it is.
Myself.—That is a fine name.
Lad.—It is, sir; I have heard my father say that it was the name of a king.
Myself.—What is your father?
Lad.—A farmer, sir.
Myself.—Does he farm his own land?
Lad.—He does not, sir; he is tenant to Mr. Price of Hiwlas.
Myself.—Do you live far from Bala?
Lad.—Not very far, sir.
Myself.—Are you going home now?
Lad.—I am not, sir; our home is on the other side of Bala. I am going to see a relation up the road.
Myself.—Bala is a nice place.
Lad.—It is, sir; but not so fine as old Bala.
Myself.—I never heard of such a place. Where is it?
Lad.—Under the lake, sir.
Myself.—What do you mean?
Lad.—It stood in the old time where the lake now is, and a fine city it was, full of fine houses, towers and castles, but with neither church nor chapel, for the people neither knew God nor cared for Him, and thought of nothing but singing and dancing and other wicked things. So God was angry with them, and one night, when they were all busy at singing and dancing and the like, God gave the word and the city sank down into Unknown, and the lake boiled up where it once stood.
Myself.—That was a long time ago.
Lad.—In truth, sir, it was.
Myself.—Before the days of King Cadwaladr.
Lad.—I dare say it was, sir.
I walked fast, but the lad was a shrewd walker, and though encumbered with his great coat contrived to keep tolerably up with me. The road went over hill and dale, but upon the whole more upward than downward. After proceeding about an hour and a half we left the lake, to the southern extremity of which we had nearly come, somewhat behind, and bore away to the south-east, gradually ascending. At length the lad pointing to a small farm-house on the side of a hill told me he was bound thither, and presently bidding me farewell turned aside up a footpath which led towards it.
About a minute afterwards a small delicate furred creature with a white mark round its neck and with a little tail trailing on the ground ran swiftly across the road. It was a weasel or something of that genus; on observing it I was glad that the lad and the dog were gone, as between them they would probably have killed it. I hate to see poor wild animals persecuted and murdered, lose my appetite for dinner at hearing the screams of a hare pursued by greyhounds, and am silly enough to feel disgust and horror at the squeals of a rat in the fangs of a terrier, which one of the sporting tribe once told me were the sweetest sounds in “natur.”
I crossed a bridge over a deep gulley which discharged its waters into a river in a valley on the right. Arran rose in great majesty on the farther side of this vale, its head partly shrouded in mist. The day now became considerably overcast. I wandered on over much rough ground till I came to a collection of houses at the bottom of a pass leading up a steep mountain. Seeing the door of one of the houses open I peeped in, and a woman who was sitting knitting in the interior rose and came out to me. I asked the name of the place. The name which she told me sounded something like Tŷ Capel Saer—the House of the Chapel of the Carpenter. I inquired the name of the river in the valley. Cynllwyd, hoary-headed, she seemed to say; but here as well as with respect to her first answer I speak under correction, for her Welsh was what my old friends the Spaniards would call muy cerrado, that is close or indistinct. She asked me if I was going up the bwlch. I told her I was.
“Rather you than I,” said she, looking up to the heavens which had assumed a very dismal, not to say awful appearance.
Presently I began to ascend the pass or bwlch, a green hill on my right intercepting the view of Arran, another very lofty hill on my left with wood towards the summit. Coming to a little cottage which stood on the left I went to the door and knocked. A smiling young woman opened it, of whom I asked the name of the house.
“Tŷ Nant—the House of the Dingle,” she replied.
“Do you live alone?” said I.
“No; mother lives here.”
“Any Saesneg?”
“No,” said she with a smile, “S’sneg of no use here.”
Her face looked the picture of kindness, I was now indeed in Wales amongst the real Welsh. I went on some way. Suddenly there was a moaning sound, and rain came down in torrents. Seeing a deserted cottage on my left I went in. There was fodder in it, and it appeared to serve partly as a barn, partly as a cowhouse. The rain poured upon the roof and I was glad I had found shelter. Close behind this place a small brook precipitated itself down rocks in four successive falls.
The rain having ceased I proceeded and after a considerable time reached the top of the pass. From thence I had a view of the valley and lake of Bala, the lake looking like an immense sheet of steel. A round hill, however, somewhat intercepted the view of the latter. The scene in my immediate neighbourhood was very desolate; moory hillocks were all about me of a wretched russet colour; on my left, on the very crest of the hill up which I had so long been toiling, stood a black pyramid of turf, a pole on the top of it. The road now wore nearly due west down a steep descent, Arran was slightly to the north of me. I, however, soon lost sight of it, as I went down the farther side of the hill which lies over against it to the south-east. The sun, now descending, began to shine out. The pass down which I was now going was yet wilder than the one up which I had lately come. Close on my right was the steep hill’s side out of which the road or path had been cut, which was here and there overhung by crags of wondrous forms; on my left was a very deep glen, beyond which was a black, precipitous, rocky wall, from a chasm near the top of which tumbled with a rushing sound a slender brook seemingly the commencement of a mountain stream which hurried into a valley far below towards the west. When nearly at the bottom of the descent I stood still to look around me. Grand and wild was the scenery. On my left were noble green hills, the tops of which were beautifully gilded by the rays of the setting sun. On my right a black, gloomy, narrow valley or glen showed itself; two enormous craggy hills of immense altitude, one to the west and the other to the east of the entrance; that to the east terminating in a peak. The background to the north was a wall of rocks forming a semicircle, something like a bent bow with the head downward; behind this bow, just in the middle, rose the black loaf of Arran. A torrent tumbled from the lower part of the semicircle, and after running for some distance to the south turned to the west, the way I was going.
Observing a house a little way within the gloomy vale I went towards it in the hope of finding somebody in it who could give me information respecting this wild locality. As I drew near the door two tall men came forth, one about sixty, and the other about half that age. The elder had a sharp, keen look; the younger a lumpy and a stupid one. They were dressed like farmers. On my saluting them in English the elder returned my salutation in that tongue, but in rather a gruff tone. The younger turned away his head and said nothing.
“What is the name of this house?” said I, pointing to the building.
“The name of it,” said the old man, “is Tŷ Mawr.”
“Do you live in it?” said I.
“Yes, I live in it.”
“What waterfall is that?” said I, pointing to the torrent tumbling down the crag at the farther end of the gloomy vale.
“The fountain of the Royal Dyfi.”
“Why do you call the Dyfy royal?” said I.
“Because it is the king of the rivers in these parts.”
“Does the fountain come out of a rock?”
“It does not; it comes out of a lake, a llyn.”
“Where is the llyn?”
“Over that crag at the foot of Aran Vawr.”
“Is it a large lake?”
“It is not; it is small.”
“Deep?”
“Very.”
“Strange things in it?”
“I believe there are strange things in it.” His English now became broken.
“Crocodiles?”
“I do not know what cracadailes be.”
“Efync?”
“Ah! No I do not tink there be efync dere. Hu Gadarn in de old time kill de efync dere and in all de lakes in Wales. He draw them out of the water with his ychain banog his humpty oxen, and when he get dem out he burn deir bodies on de fire, he good man for dat.”
“What do you call this allt?” said I, looking up to the high pinnacled hill on my right.
“I call that Tap Nyth yr Eryri.”
“Is not that the top nest of the eagles?”
“I believe it is. Ha, I see you understand Welsh.”
“A little,” said I; “are there eagles there now?”
“No, no eagle now.”
“Gone like avanc?”
“Yes, gone like avanc, but not so long. My father see eagle on Tap Nyth, but my father never see avanc in de llyn.”
“How far to Dinas?”
“About three mile.”
“Any thieves about?”
“No, no thieves here, but what come from England,” and he looked at me with a strange, grim smile.
“What is become of the red-haired robbers of Mawddwy?”
“Ah,” said the old man, staring at me, “I see you are a Cumro. The red-haired thieves of Mawddwy! I see you are from these parts.”
“What’s become of them?”
“Oh, dead, hung. Lived long time ago; long before eagle left Tap Nyth.”
He spoke true. The red-haired banditti of Mawddwy were exterminated long before the conclusion of the sixteenth century, after having long been the terror not only of these wild regions but of the greater part of North Wales. They were called the red-haired banditti because certain leading individuals amongst them had red foxy hair.
“Is that young man your son?” said I, after a little pause.
“Yes, he my son.”
“Has he any English?”
“No, he no English, but he plenty of Welsh—that is if he see reason.”
I spoke to the young man in Welsh, asking him if he had ever been up to the Tap Nyth, but he made no answer.
“He no care for your question,” said the old man; “ask him price of pig.” I asked the young fellow the price of hogs, whereupon his face brightened up, and he not only answered my question, but told me that he had a fat hog to sell. “Ha, ha,” said the old man; “he plenty of Welsh now, for he see reason. To other question he no Welsh at all, no more than English, for he see no reason. What business he on Tap Nyth with eagle? His business down below in sty with pig. Ah, he look lump, but he no fool; know more about pig than you or I, or any one ’twixt here and Mahuncleth.”
He now asked me where I came from, and on my telling him from Bala, his heart appeared to warm towards me, and saying that I must be tired, he asked me to step in and drink buttermilk, but I declined his offer with thanks, and bidding the two adieu returned to the road.
I hurried along and soon reached a valley which abounded with trees and grass; I crossed a bridge over a brook, not what the old man had called the Dyfi, but the stream whose source I had seen high up the bwlch, and presently came to a place where the two waters joined. Just below the confluence on a fallen tree was seated a man decently dressed; his eyes were fixed on the rushing stream. I stopped and spoke to him.
He had no English, but I found him a very sensible man. I talked to him about the source of the Dyfi. He said it was a disputed point which was the source. He himself was inclined to believe that it was the Pistyll up the bwlch. I asked him of what religion he was. He said he was of the Church of England, which was the Church of his father and his grandfather, and which he believed to be the only true Church. I inquired if it flourished. He said it did, but that it was dreadfully persecuted by all classes of dissenters, who though they were continually quarrelling with one another agreed in one thing namely to persecute the Church. I asked him if he ever read. He said he read a great deal, especially the works of Huw Morris, and that reading them had given him a love for the sights of nature. He added that his greatest delight was to come to the place where he then was, of an evening, and look at the waters and hills. I asked him what trade he was. “The trade of Joseph,” said he smiling. “Saer. Farewell, brother,” said I; “I am not a carpenter, but like you I read the works of Huw Morris and am of the Church of England.” I then shook him by the hand and departed.
I passed a village with a stupendous mountain just behind it to the north, which I was told was called Moel Vrith or the party-coloured moel. I was now drawing near to the western end of the valley. Scenery of the wildest and most picturesque description was rife and plentiful to a degree: hills were here, hills were there; some tall and sharp, others huge and humpy; hills were on every side; only a slight opening to the west seemed to present itself. “What a valley!” I exclaimed. But on passing through the opening I found myself in another, wilder and stranger, if possible. Full to the west was a long hill rising up like the roof of a barn, a enormous round hill on its north-east side, and on its south-east the tail of the range which I had long had on my left—there were trees and groves and running waters, but all in deep shadow, for night was now close at hand.
“What is the name of this place?” I shouted to a man on horseback, who came dashing through a brook with a woman in a Welsh dress behind him.
“Aber Cowarch, Saxon!” said the man in a deep guttural voice, and lashing his horse disappeared rapidly in the shades of night.
“Aber Cywarch!” I cried, springing half a yard into the air. “Why that’s the place where Ellis Wynn composed his immortal Sleeping Bard, the book which I translated in the blessed days of my youth. O no wonder that the Sleeping Bard is a wild and wondrous work, seeing that it was composed amidst the wild and wonderful scenes which I here behold.”
I proceeded onwards up an ascent; after some time I came to a bridge across a stream which a man told me was called Avon Gerres. It runs into the Dyfi, coming down with a rushing sound from a wild vale to the north-east between the huge barn-like hill and Moel Vrith. The barn-like hill I was informed was called Pen Dyn. I soon reached Dinas Mawddwy which stands on the lower part of a high hill connected with the Pen Dyn. Dinas, though at one time a place of considerable importance, if we may judge from its name which signifies a fortified city, is at present little more than a collection of filthy huts. But though a dirty squalid place, I found it anything but silent and deserted. Fierce-looking red-haired men, who seemed as if they might be descendants of the red-haired banditti of old, were staggering about, and sounds of drunken revelry echoed from the huts. I subsequently learned that Dinas was the head-quarters of miners, the neighbourhood abounding with mines both of lead and stone. I was glad to leave it behind me. Mallwyd is to the south of Dinas—the way to it is by a romantic gorge down which flows the Royal Dyfi. As I proceeded along this gorge the moon rising above Moel Vrith illumined my path. In about half-an-hour I found myself before the inn at Mallwyd.
LXXV. Inn at Mallwyd—A Dialogue—The Cumro
I entered the inn and seeing a comely-looking damsel at the bar I told her that I was in need of supper and a bed. She conducted me into a neat sanded parlour where a good fire was blazing and asked me what I would have for supper. “Whatever you can most readily provide,” said I; “I am not particular.” The maid retired, and taking off my hat, and disencumbering myself of my satchel I sat down before the fire and fell into a doze, in which I dreamed of some of the wild scenes through which I had lately passed.
I dozed and dozed till I was roused by the maid touching me on the shoulder and telling me that supper was ready. I got up and perceived that during my doze she had laid the cloth and put supper upon the table. It consisted of bacon and eggs. During supper I had some conversation with the maid.
Myself.—Are you a native of this place?
Maid.—I am not, sir; I come from Dinas.
Myself.—Are your parents alive?
Maid.—My mother is alive, sir, but my father is dead.
Myself.—Where does your mother live?
Maid.—At Dinas, sir.
Myself.—How does she support herself?
Maid.—By letting lodgings to miners, sir.
Myself.—Are the miners quiet lodgers?
Maid.—Not always, sir; sometimes they get up at night and fight with each other.
Myself.—What does your mother do on those occasions?
Maid.—She draws the quilt over her head, and says her prayers, sir.
Myself.—Why doesn’t she get up and part them?
Maid.—Lest she should get a punch or a thwack for her trouble, sir.
Myself.—Of what religion are the miners?
Maid.—They are Methodists, if they are anything; but they don’t trouble their heads much about religion.
Myself.—Of what religion are you?
Maid.—I am of the Church, sir.
Myself.—Did you always belong to the Church?
Maid.—Not always. When I was at Dinas I used to hear the preacher, but since I have been here I have listened to the clergyman.
Myself.—Is the clergyman here a good man?
Maid.—A very good man indeed, sir. He lives close by. Shall I go and tell him you want to speak to him?
Myself.—O dear me, no! He can employ his time much more usefully than in waiting upon me.
After supper I sat quiet for about an hour. Then ringing the bell I inquired of the maid whether there was a newspaper in the house. She told me there was not, but that she thought she could procure me one. In a little time she brought me a newspaper, which she said she had borrowed at the parsonage. It was the Cumro, an excellent Welsh journal written in the interest of the Church. In perusing its columns I passed a couple of hours very agreeably, and then went to bed.
Chapter LXXVI
Mallwydd and its Church—Sons of Shoemakers—Village Inn—Dottings.
The next day was the thirty-first of October, and was rather fine for the season. As I did not intend to journey farther this day than Machynlleth, a principal town in Montgomeryshire, distant only twelve miles, I did not start from Mallwyd till just before noon.
Mallwyd is a small but pretty village. The church is a long edifice standing on a slight elevation on the left of the road. Its pulpit is illustrious from having for many years been occupied by one of the very celebrated men of Wales, namely Doctor John Davies, author of the great Welsh and Latin dictionary, an imperishable work. An immense yew tree grows in the churchyard, and partly overshadows the road with its branches. The parsonage stands about a hundred yards to the south near a grove of firs. The village is overhung on the north by the mountains of the Arran range, from which it is separated by the murmuring Dyfi. To the south for many miles the country is not mountainous, but presents a pleasant variety of hill and dale.
After leaving the village a little way behind me I turned round to take a last view of the wonderful region from which I had emerged on the previous evening. Forming the two sides of the pass down which comes “the royal river” stood the Dinas mountain and Cefn Coch, the first on the left, and the other on the right. Behind, forming the background of the pass, appearing, though now some miles distant, almost in my close proximity, stood Pen Dyn. This hill has various names, but the one which I have noted here, and which signifies the head of a man, perhaps describes it best. From where I looked at it on that last day of October it was certainly like an enormous head, and put me in mind of the head of Mambrino mentioned in the master work which commemorates the achievements of the Manchegan knight. This mighty mountain is the birth-place of more than one river. If the Gerres issues from its eastern side, from its western springs the Maw that singularly picturesque stream, which enters the ocean at the place which the Saxons corruptly call Barmouth and the Cumry with great propriety Aber Maw or the disemboguement of the Maw.
Just as I was about to pursue my journey, two boys came up, bound in the same direction as myself. One was a large boy, dressed in a waggoner’s frock, the other was a little fellow, in a brown coat and yellowish trowsers. As we walked along together, I entered into conversation with them. They came from Dinas Mawddwy. The large boy told me that he was the son of a man who carted mwyn, or lead ore, and the little fellow that he was the son of a shoemaker. The latter was by far the cleverest, and no wonder, for the sons of shoemakers are always clever, which assertion, should anybody doubt, I beg him to attend the examinations at Cambridge, at which he will find that in three cases out of four the senior wranglers are the sons of shoemakers. From this little chap I got a great deal of information about Pen Dyn, every part of which he appeared to have traversed. He told me, amongst other things, that there was a castle upon it. Like a true son of a shoemaker, however, he was an arch rogue. Coming to a small house, with a garden attached to it, in which there were apple-trees, he stopped, whilst I went on with the other boy, and after a minute or two came running up with a couple of apples in his hand. “Where did you get those apples?” said I; “I hope you did not steal them.”
He made no reply, but bit one, then making a wry face, he flung it away, and so he served the other. Presently afterwards, coming to a side lane, the future senior wrangler—for a senior wrangler he is destined to be, always provided he finds his way to Cambridge—darted down it like an arrow, and disappeared.
I continued my way with the other lad, occasionally asking him questions about the mines of Mawddwy. The information, however, which I obtained from him was next to nothing, for he appeared to be as heavy as the stuff which his father carted. At length we reached a village, forming a kind of semicircle on a green, which looked something like a small English common. To the east were beautiful green hills; to the west the valley, with the river running through it, beyond which rose other green hills, yet more beautiful than the eastern ones. I asked the lad the name of the place, but I could not catch what he said, for his answer was merely an indistinct mumble, and before I could question him again he left me, without a word of salutation, and trudged away across the green.
Descending a hill, I came to a bridge, under which ran a beautiful river, which came foaming down from a gulley between two of the eastern hills. From a man whom I met I learned that the bridge was called Pont Coomb Linau, and that the name of the village I had passed was Linau. The river carries an important tribute to the Dyfi—at least it did when I saw it, though perhaps in summer it is little more than a dry water-course.
Half-an-hour’s walking brought me from this place to a small town, or large village, with a church at the entrance, and the usual yew-tree in the churchyard. Seeing a kind of inn, I entered it, and was shown by a lad-waiter into a large kitchen, in which were several people. I had told him in Welsh that I wanted some ale, and as he opened the door he cried with a loud voice, “Cumro!” as much as to say, Mind what you say before this chap, for he understands Cumraeg—that word was enough. The people, who were talking fast and eagerly as I made my appearance, instantly became silent, and stared at me with most suspicious looks. I sat down, and when my ale was brought I took a hearty draught, and observing that the company were still watching me suspiciously, and maintaining the same suspicious silence, I determined to comport myself in a manner which should, to a certain extent, afford them ground for suspicion. I therefore slowly and deliberately drew my note-book out of my waistcoat pocket, unclasped it, took my pencil from the loops at the side of the book, and forthwith began to dot down observations upon the room and company, now looking to the left, now to the right, now aloft, now alow, now skewing at an object, now leering at an individual, my eyes half closed, and my mouth drawn considerably aside. Here follow some of my dottings:—
“A very comfortable kitchen with a chimney-corner on the south side—immense grate and brilliant fire—large kettle hanging over it by a chain attached to a transverse iron bar—a settle on the left-hand side of the fire—seven fine large men near the fire—two upon the settle, two upon chairs, one in the chimney-corner smoking a pipe, and two standing up—table near the settle with glasses, amongst which is that of myself, who sit nearly in the middle of the room a little way on the right-hand side of the fire.
“The floor is of slate; a fine brindled greyhound lies before it on the hearth, and a shepherd’s dog wanders about, occasionally going to the door and scratching as if anxious to get out. The company are dressed mostly in the same fashion—brown coats, broad-brimmed hats, and yellowish corduroy breeches with gaiters. One who looks like a labouring man has a white smock and a white hat, patched trowsers, and highlows covered with gravel—one has a blue coat.
“There is a clock on the right-hand side of the kitchen; a warming-pan hangs close by it on the projecting side of the chimney-corner. On the same side is a large rack containing many plates and dishes of Staffordshire ware. Let me not forget a pair of fire-irons which hang on the right-hand side of the chimney-corner!”
I made a great many more dottings, which I shall not insert here. During the whole time I was dotting the most marvellous silence prevailed in the room, broken only by the occasional scratching of the dog against the inside of the door, the ticking of the clock, and the ruttling of the smoker’s pipe in the chimney-corner. After I had dotted to my heart’s content I closed my book, put the pencil into the loops, then the book into my pocket, drank what remained of my ale, got up, and, after another look at the apartment and its furniture and a leer at the company, departed from the house without ceremony, having paid for the ale when I received it. After walking some fifty yards down the street I turned half round and beheld, as I knew I should, the whole company! at the door staring after me. I leered sideways at them for about half a minute, but they stood my leer stoutly. Suddenly I was inspired by a thought. Turning round I confronted them, and pulling my note-book out of my pocket, and seizing my pencil, I fell to dotting vigorously. That was too much for them. As if struck by a panic, my quondam friends turned round and bolted into the house; the rustic-looking man with the smock-frock and gravelled highlows nearly falling down in his eagerness to get in.
The name of the place where this adventure occurred was Cemmaes.
Chapter LXXVII
The Deaf Man—Funeral Procession—The Lone Family—The Welsh and their Secrets—The Vale of the Dyfi—The Bright Moon.
A Little way from Cemmaes I saw a respectable-looking old man, like a little farmer, to whom I said:
“How far to Machynlleth?”
Looking at me in a piteous manner in the face, he pointed to the side of his head and said:
“Dim clywed.”
It was no longer no English, but no hearing.
Presently I met one yet more deaf. A large procession of men came along the road. Some distance behind them was a band of women, and between the two bands was a kind of bier, drawn by a horse, with plumes at each of the four corners. I took off my hat, and stood close against the hedge on the right-hand side till the dead had passed me some way to its final home.
Crossed a river, which, like that on the other side of Cemmaes, streamed down from a gully between two hills into the valley of the Dyfi. Beyond the bridge on the right-hand side of the road was a pretty cottage, just as there was in the other locality. A fine, tall woman stood at the door, with a little child beside her. I stopped and inquired in English whose body it was that had just been borne by.
“That of a young man, sir, the son of a farmer, who lives a mile or so up the road.”
Myself.—He seems to have plenty of friends.
Woman.—O yes, sir, the Welsh have plenty of friends both in life and death.
Myself.—An’t you Welsh, then?
Woman.—O no, sir, I am English, like yourself, as I suppose.
Myself.—Yes, I am English. What part of England do you come from?
Woman.—Shropshire, sir.
Myself.—Is that little child yours?
Woman.—Yes, sir, it is my husband’s child and mine.
Myself.—I suppose your husband is Welsh?
Woman.—O no, sir, we are all English.
Myself.—And what is your husband?
Woman.—A little farmer, sir; he farms about forty acres under Mrs. —.
Myself.—Well, are you comfortable here?
Woman.—O dear me, no, sir! we are anything but comfortable. Here we are three poor lone creatures in a strange land, without a soul to speak to but one another. Every day of our lives we wish we had never left Shropshire.
Myself.—Why don’t you make friends amongst your neighbours?
Woman.—O, sir, the English cannot make friends amongst the Welsh. The Welsh won’t neighbour with them, or have anything to do with them, except now and then in the way of business.
Myself.—I have occasionally found the Welsh very civil.
Woman.—O yes, sir, they can be civil enough to passers-by, especially those who they think want nothing from them—but if you came and settled amongst them you would find them, I’m afraid, quite the contrary.
Myself.—Would they be uncivil to me if I could speak Welsh?
Woman.—Most particularly, sir; the Welsh don’t like any strangers, but least of all those who speak their language.
Myself.—Have you picked up anything of their language?
Woman.—Not a word, sir, nor my husband neither. They take good care that we shouldn’t pick up a word of their language. I stood the other day and listened whilst two women were talking just where you stand now, in the hope of catching a word, and as soon as they saw me they passed to the other side of the bridge, and began buzzing there. My poor husband took it into his head that he might possibly learn a word or two at the public-house, so he went there, called for a jug of ale and a pipe, and tried to make himself at home just as he might in England, but it wouldn’t do. The company instantly left off talking to one another, and stared at him, and before he could finish his pot and pipe took themselves off to a man, and then came the landlord, and asked him what he meant by frightening away his customers. So my poor husband came home as pale as a sheet, and sitting down in a chair said, “Lord, have mercy upon me!”
Myself.—Why are the Welsh afraid that strangers should pick up their language?
Woman.—Lest, perhaps, they should learn their secrets, sir!
Myself.—What secrets have they?
Woman.—The Lord above only knows, sir!
Myself.—Do you think they are hatching treason against Queen Victoria?
Woman.—O dear no, sir.
Myself.—Is there much murder going on amongst them?
Woman.—Nothing of the kind, sir.
Myself.—Cattle-stealing?
Woman.—O no, sir!
Myself.—Pig-stealing?
Woman.—No, sir!
Myself.—Duck or hen stealing?
Woman.—Haven’t lost a duck or hen since I have been here, sir.
Myself.—Then what secrets can they possibly have?
Woman.—I don’t know, sir! perhaps none at all, or at most only a pack of small nonsense, that nobody would give three farthings to know. However, it is quite certain they are as jealous of strangers hearing their discourse as if they were plotting gunpowder treason, or something worse.
Myself.—Have you been long here?
Woman.—Only since last May, sir! and we hope to get away by next, and return to our own country, where we shall have some one to speak to.
Myself.—Good bye!
Woman.—Good bye, sir, and thank you for your conversation; I haven’t had such a treat of talk for many a weary day.
The Vale of the Dyfi became wider and more beautiful as I advanced. The river ran at the bottom amidst green and seemingly rich meadows. The hills on the farther side were cultivated a great way up, and various neat farm-houses were scattered here and there on their sides. At the foot of one of the most picturesque of these hills stood a large white village. I wished very much to know its name, but saw no one of whom I could inquire. I proceeded for about a mile, and then perceiving a man wheeling stones in a barrow for the repairing of the road, I thought I would inquire of him. I did so, but the village was then out of sight, and though I pointed in its direction, and described its situation, I could not get its name out of him. At length I said hastily, “Can you tell me your own name?”
“Dafydd Tibbot, sir,” said he.
“Tibbot, Tibbot,” said I; “why, you are a Frenchman.”
“Dearie me, sir,” said the man, looking very pleased, “am I indeed?”
“Yes, you are,” said I, rather repenting of my haste, and giving him sixpence, I left him.
“I’d bet a trifle,” said I to myself, as I walked away, “that this poor creature is the descendant of some desperate Norman Tibault who helped to conquer Powisland under Roger de Montgomery, or Earl Baldwin. How striking that the proud old Norman names are at present only borne by people in the lowest station. Here’s a Tibbot, or Tibault, harrowing stones on a Welsh road, and I have known a Mortimer munching poor cheese and bread under a hedge on an English one. How can we account for this save by the supposition that the descendants of proud, cruel and violent men—and who so proud, cruel and violent as the old Normans—are doomed by God to come to the dogs?”
Came to Pont Velin Cerrig, the bridge of the mill of the Cerrig, a river which comes foaming down from between two rocky hills. This bridge is about a mile from Machynlleth, at which place I arrived at about five o’clock in the evening—a cool, bright moon shining upon me. I put up at the principal inn, which was of course called the Wynstay Arms.
Chapter LXXVIII
Welsh Poems—Sessions Business—The Lawyer and his Client—The Court—The Two Keepers—The Defence.
During supper I was waited upon by a brisk, buxom maid, who told me that her name was Mary Evans. The repast over, I ordered a glass of whiskey-and-water, and when it was brought I asked the maid if she could procure me some book to read. She said she was not aware of any book in the house which she could lay her hand on except one of her own, which if I pleased she would lend me. I begged her to do so. Whereupon she went out, and presently returned with a very small volume, which she laid on the table and then retired. After taking a sip of my whiskey-and-water, I proceeded to examine it. It turned out to be a volume of Welsh poems entitled Blodau Glyn Dyfi, or, Flowers of Glyn Dyfi, by one Lewis Meredith, whose poetical name is Lewis Clyn Dyfi. The author indites his preface from Cemmaes, June, 1852. The best piece is called “Dyffryn Dyfi”; and is descriptive of the scenery of the vale through which the Dyfi runs. It commences thus:
“Heddychol ddyffryn tlws,” Peaceful, pretty vale,
and contains many lines breathing a spirit of genuine poetry.
The next day I did not get up till nine, having no journey before me, as I intended to pass that day at Machynlleth. When I went down to the parlour I found another guest there, breakfasting. He was a tall, burly, and clever-looking man of about thirty-five. As we breakfasted together at the same table, we entered into conversation. I learned from him that he was an attorney from a town at some distance, and was come over to Machynlleth to the petty sessions, to be held that day, in order to defend a person accused of spearing a salmon in the river. I asked him who his client was.
“A farmer,” said he, “a tenant of Lord V—, who will probably preside over the bench which will try the affair.”
“O,” said I, “a tenant spearing his landlord’s fish—that’s bad.”
“No,” said he, “the fish which he speared—that is, which he is accused of spearing—did not belong to his landlord, but to another person; he hires land of Lord V—, but the fishing of the river which runs through that land belongs to Sir Watkin.”
“O, then,” said I, “supposing he did spear the salmon, I shan’t break my heart if you get him off; do you think you shall?”
“I don’t know,” said he. “There’s the evidence of two keepers against him; one of whom I hope, however, to make appear a scoundrel, in whose oath the slightest confidence is not to be placed. I shouldn’t wonder if I make my client appear a persecuted lamb. The worst is, that he has the character of being rather fond of fish—indeed, of having speared more salmon than any other six individuals in the neighbourhood.”
“I really should like to see him,” said I; “what kind of person is he? some fine, desperate-looking fellow, I suppose?”
“You will see him presently,” said the lawyer; “he is in the passage, waiting till I call him in to take some instructions from him; and I think I had better do so now, for I have breakfasted, and time is wearing away.”
He then got up, took some papers out of a carpet bag, sat down, and after glancing at them for a minute or two, went to the door and called to somebody in Welsh to come in. Forthwith in came a small, mean, wizened-faced man of about sixty, dressed in a black coat and hat, drab breeches and gaiters, and looking more like a decayed Methodist preacher than a spearer of imperial salmon.
“Well,” said the attorney, “this is my client; what do you think of him?”
“He is rather a different person from what I had expected to see,” said I; “but let us mind what we say, or we shall offend him.”
“Not we,” said the attorney; “that is, unless we speak Welsh, for he understands not a word of any other language.”
Then sitting down at the farther table, he said to his client in Welsh: “Now, Mr. So-and-so, have you learnt anything more about that first keeper?”
The client bent down, and placing both his hands upon the table, began to whisper in Welsh to his professional adviser. Not wishing to hear any of their conversation, I finished my breakfast as soon as possible, and left the room. Going into the inn-yard, I had a great deal of learned discourse with an old ostler about the glanders in horses. From the inn-yard I went to my own private room, and made some dottings in my notebook, and then went down again to the parlour, which I found unoccupied. After sitting some time before the fire, I got up, and strolling out, presently came to a kind of market-place, in the middle of which stood an old-fashioned-looking edifice supported on pillars. Seeing a crowd standing round it, I asked what was the matter, and was told that the magistrates were sitting in the town-hall above, and that a grand poaching-case was about to be tried. “I may as well go and hear it,” said I.
Ascending a flight of steps, I found myself in the hall of justice, in the presence of the magistrates, and amidst a great many people, amongst whom I observed my friend the attorney and his client. The magistrates upon the whole were rather a fine body of men. Lord V— was in the chair, a highly-intelligent-looking person, with fresh complexion, hooked nose, and dark hair. A policeman very civilly procured me a commodious seat. I had scarcely taken possession of it when the poaching case was brought forward. The first witness against the accused was a fellow dressed in a dirty snuff-coloured suit, with a debauched look, and having much the appearance of a town shack. He deposed that he was a hired keeper, and went with another to watch the river at about four o’clock in the morning; that they placed themselves behind a bush, and that a little before daylight they saw the farmer drive some cattle across the river. He was attended by a dog. Suddenly they saw him put a spear upon a stick which he had in his hand, run back to the river, and plunging the spear in, after a struggle pull out a salmon; that they then ran forward, and he himself asked the farmer what he was doing, whereupon the farmer flung the salmon and spear into the river, and said that if he did not take himself off he would fling him in too. The attorney then got up, and began to cross-question him. “How long have you been a keeper?”
“About a fortnight.”
“What do you get a week?”
“Ten shillings.”
“Have you not lately been in London?”
“I have.”
“What induced you to go to London?”
“The hope of bettering my condition.”
“Were you not driven out of Machynlleth?”
“I was not.”
“Why did you leave London?”
“Because I could get no work, and my wife did not like the place.”
“Did you obtain possession of the salmon and the spear?”
“I did not.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“The pool was deep where the salmon was struck, and I was not going to lose my life by going into it.”
“How deep was it?”
“Over the tops of the houses,” said the fellow, lifting up his hands.
The other keeper then came forward; he was brother to the former, but had much more the appearance of a keeper, being rather a fine fellow and dressed in a wholesome, well-worn suit of velveteen. He had no English, and what he said was translated by a sworn interpreter. He gave the same evidence as his brother about watching behind the bush, and seeing the farmer strike a salmon. When cross-questioned, however, he said that no words passed between the farmer and his brother, at least, that he heard. The evidence for the prosecution being given, my friend the attorney entered upon the defence. He said that he hoped the court were not going to convict his client, one of the most respectable farmers in the county, on the evidence of two such fellows as the keepers, one of whom was a well-known bad one, who for his evil deeds had been driven from Machynlleth to London, and from London back again to Machynlleth, and the other, who was his brother, a fellow not much better, and who, moreover, could not speak a word of English—the honest lawyer forgetting, no doubt, that his own client had just as little English as the keeper. He repeated that he hoped the court would not convict his respectable client on the evidence of these fellows, more especially as they flatly contradicted each other in one material point, one saying that words had passed between the farmer and himself, and the other that no words at all had passed, and were unable to corroborate their testimony by anything visible or tangible. If his client speared the salmon, and then flung the salmon with the spear sticking in its body into the pool, why didn’t they go into the pool and recover the spear and salmon? They might have done so with perfect safety, there being an old proverb—he need not repeat it—which would have secured them from drowning had the pool been not merely over the tops of the houses, but over the tops of the steeples. But he would waive all the advantage which his client derived from the evil character of the witnesses, the discrepancy of their evidence, and their not producing the spear and salmon in court. He would rest the issue of the affair with confidence, on one argument, on one question; it was this. Would any man in his senses—and it was well known that his client was a very sensible man—spear a salmon not his own, when he saw two keepers close at hand watching him—staring at him? Here the chairman observed that there was no proof that he saw them—that they were behind a bush. But my friend the attorney very properly, having the interest of his client and his own character for consistency in view, stuck to what he had said, and insisted that the farmer must have seen them, and he went on reiterating that he must have seen them, notwithstanding that several magistrates shook their heads.
Just as he was about to sit down, I moved up behind him and whispered, “Why don’t you mention the dog? Wouldn’t the dog have been likely to have scented the fellows out, even if they had been behind the bush.”
He looked at me for a moment, and then said with a kind of sigh, “No, no! twenty dogs would be of no use here. It’s no go—I shall leave the case as it is.”
The court was cleared for a time, and when the audience were again admitted, Lord V— said that the Bench found the prisoner guilty; that they had taken into consideration what his counsel had said in his defence, but that they could come to no other conclusion, more especially as the accused was known to have been frequently guilty of similar offences. They fined him four pounds, including costs.
As the people were going out I said to the farmer in Welsh, “A bad affair this.”
“Drwg iawn—very bad indeed,” he replied.
“Did those fellows speak truth?” said I.
“Nage—Dim ond celwydd—not they! nothing but lies.”
“Dear me!” said I to myself, “what an ill-treated individual!”
Chapter LXXIX
Machynlleth—Remarkable Events—Ode to Glendower—Dafydd Gam—Lawdden’s Hatchet.
Machynlleth, pronounced Machuncleth, is one of the principal towns of the district which the English call Montgomeryshire, and the Welsh Shire Trefaldwyn, or the Shire of Baldwin’s town; Trefaldwyn, or the town of Baldwin, being the Welsh name for the town which is generally termed Montgomery. It is situated in nearly the centre of the valley of the Dyfi, amidst pleasant green meadows, having to the north the river, from which, however, it is separated by a gentle hill. It possesses a stately church, parts of which are of considerable antiquity, and one or two good streets. It is a thoroughly Welsh town, and the inhabitants, who amount in number to about four thousand, speak the ancient British language with considerable purity.
Machynlleth has been the scene of remarkable events, and is connected with remarkable names, some of which have rung through the world. At Machynlleth in 1402 Owen Glendower, after several brilliant victories over the English, held a parliament in a house which is yet to be seen in the Eastern Street, and was formally crowned King of Wales; in his retinue was the venerable bard Iolo Goch, who, imagining that he now saw the old prophecy fulfilled, namely that a prince of the race of Cadwaladr should rule the Britons, after emancipating them from the Saxon yoke, greeted the chieftain with an ode to the following effect:—
Here’s the life I’ve sigh’d for long: Abash’d is now the Saxon throng, And Britons have a British lord Whose emblem is the conquering sword; There’s none I trow but knows him well The hero of the watery dell, Owain of bloody spear in field, Owain his country’s strongest shield; A sovereign bright in grandeur drest, Whose frown affrights the bravest breast. Let from the world upsoar on high A voice of splendid prophecy! All praise to him who forth doth stand To ’venge his injured native land! Of him, of him a lay I’ll frame Shall bear through countless years his name: In him are blended portents three, Their glories blended sung shall be: There’s Owain meteor of the glen, The head of princely generous men; Owain the lord of trenchant steel, Who makes the hostile squadrons reel; Owain besides of warlike look, A conqueror who no stay will brook; Hail to the lion leader gay, Marshaller of Griffith’s war array; The scourger of the flattering race, For them a dagger has his face; Each traitor false he loves to smite, A lion is he for deeds of might; Soon may he tear, like lion grim, All the Lloegrians limb from limb! May God and Rome’s blest father high Deck him in surest panoply! Hail to the valiant carnager, Worthy three diadems to bear! Hail to the valley’s belted king! Hail to the widely conquering, The liberal, hospitable, kind, Trusty and keen as steel refined! Vigorous of form he nations bows, Whilst from his breast-plate bounty flows. Of Horsa’s seed on hill and plain Four hundred thousand he has slain. The cope-stone of our nation’s he, In him our weal, our all we see; Though calm he looks his plans when breeding, Yet oaks he’d break his clans when leading. Hail to this partisan of war, This bursting meteor flaming far! Where’er he wends Saint Peter guard him, And may the Lord five lives award him!
To Machynlleth on the occasion of the parliament came Dafydd Gam, so celebrated in after time; not, however, with the view of entering into the counsels of Glendower, or of doing him homage, but of assassinating him. This man, whose surname Gam signifies crooked, was a petty chieftain of Breconshire. He was small of stature, and deformed in person, though possessed of great strength. He was very sensitive of injury, though quite as alive to kindness; a thorough-going enemy and a thorough-going friend. In the earlier part of his life he had been driven from his own country for killing a man, called Big Richard of Slwch, in the High Street of Aber Honddu, or Brecon, and had found refuge in England, and kind treatment in the house of John of Gaunt, for whose son Henry, generally called Bolingbroke, he formed one of his violent friendships. Bolingbroke, on becoming King Henry the Fourth, not only restored the crooked little Welshman to his possessions, but gave him employments of great trust and profit in Herefordshire. The insurrection of Glendower against Henry was quite sufficient to kindle against him the deadly hatred of Dafydd, who swore “by the nails of God” that he would stab his countryman for daring to rebel against his friend King Henry, the son of the man who had received him in his house and comforted him, when his own countrymen were threatening his destruction. He therefore went to Machynlleth with the full intention of stabbing Glendower, perfectly indifferent as to what might subsequently be his own fate. Glendower, however, who had heard of his threat, caused him to be seized and conducted in chains to a prison which he had in the mountains of Sycharth. Shortly afterwards, passing through Breconshire with his host, he burnt Dafydd’s house, a fair edifice called the Cyrnigwen, situated on a hillock, near the river Honddu, to the ground, and seeing one of Gam’s dependents gazing mournfully on the smouldering ruins, he uttered the following taunting englyn:—
“Shouldst thou a little red man descry Asking about his dwelling fair, Tell him it under the bank doth lie, And its brow the mark of the coal doth bear.”
Dafydd remained confined till the fall of Glendower, shortly after which event he followed Henry the Fifth to France, where he achieved that glory which will for ever bloom, dying covered with wounds in the field of Agincourt after saving the life of the king, to whom in the dreadest and most critical moment of the fight he stuck closer than a brother, not from any abstract feeling of loyalty, but from the consideration that King Henry the Fifth was the son of King Henry the Fourth, who was the son of the man who received and comforted him in his house, after his own countrymen had hunted him from house and land.
Connected with Machynlleth is a name not so widely celebrated as those of Glendower and Dafydd Gam, but well known to and cherished by the lovers of Welsh song. It is that of Lawdden, a Welsh bard in holy orders, who officiated as priest at Machynlleth from 1440 to 1460. But though Machynlleth was his place of residence for many years, it was not the place of his birth, Llychwr in Carmarthenshire being the spot where he first saw the light. He was an excellent poet, and displayed in his compositions such elegance of language, and such a knowledge of prosody, that it was customary long after his death, when any master-piece of vocal song or eloquence was produced, to say that it bore the traces of Lawdden’s hatchet. At the request of Griffith ap Nicholas, a powerful chieftain of South Wales, and a great patron of the muse, he drew up a statute relating to poets and poetry, and at the great Eisteddfod, or poetical congress, held at Carmarthen, in the year 1450, under the auspices of Griffith, which was attended by the most celebrated bards of the north and south, he officiated as judge in conjunction with the chieftain upon the compositions of the bards who competed for the prize, a little silver chair. Not without reason, therefore, do the inhabitants of Machynlleth consider the residence of such a man within their walls, though at a far, bygone period, as conferring a lustre on their town, and Lewis Meredith has probability on his side when, in his pretty poem on Glen Dyfi, he says:—
“Whilst fair Machynlleth decks thy quiet plain Conjoined with it shall Lawdden’s name remain.”
Chapter LXXX
The Old Ostler—Directions—Church of England Man—The Deep Dingle—The Two Women—The Cutty Pipe—Waen y Bwlch—The Deaf and Dumb—The Glazed Hat.
I rose on the morning of the 2nd of November intending to proceed to the Devil’s Bridge, where I proposed halting a day or two in order that I might have an opportunity of surveying the far-famed scenery of that locality. After paying my bill, I went into the yard to my friend the old ostler, to make inquiries with respect to the road.
“What kind of road,” said I, “is it to the Devil’s Bridge?”
“There are two roads, sir, to the Pont y Gwr Drwg; which do you mean to take?”
“Why do you call the Devil’s Bridge the Pont y Gwr Drwg, or the bridge of the evil man?”
“That we may not bring a certain gentleman upon us, sir, who doesn’t like to have his name taken in vain.”
“Is there much difference between the roads?”
“A great deal, sir; one is over the hills, and the other round by the valleys.”
“Which is the shortest?”
“O that over the hills, sir; it is about twenty miles from here to the Pont y Gwr Drwg over the hills, but more than twice that by the valleys.”
“Well, I suppose you would advise me to go by the hills.”
“Certainly, sir. That is, if you wish to break your neck, or to sink in a bog, or to lose your way, or perhaps, if night comes on, to meet the Gwr Drwg himself taking a stroll. But to talk soberly. The way over the hills is an awful road, and indeed for the greater part is no road at all.”
“Well, I shall go by it. Can’t you give me some directions?”
“I’ll do my best, sir; but I tell you again that the road is a horrible one, and very hard to find.”
He then went with me to the gate of the inn, where he began to give me directions, pointing to the south, and mentioning some names of places through which I must pass, amongst which were Waen y Bwlch and Long Bones; at length he mentioned Pont Erwyd, and said, “If you can but get there you are all right, for from thence there is a very fair road to the bridge of the evil man. Though I dare say if you get to Pont Erwyd—and I wish you may get there—you will have had enough of it, and will stay there for the night, more especially as there is a good inn.”
Leaving Machynlleth, I ascended a steep hill which rises to the south of it. From the top of this hill there is a fine view of the town, the river and the whole valley of Dyfi. After stopping for a few minutes to enjoy the prospect I went on. The road at first was exceedingly good, though up and down, and making frequent turnings. The scenery was beautiful to a degree, lofty hills were on either side clothed most luxuriantly with trees of various kinds, but principally oaks. “This is really very pleasant,” said I, “but I suppose it is too good to last long.” However, I went on for a considerable way, the road neither deteriorating nor the scenery decreasing in beauty; “surely I can’t be in the right road,” said I; “I wish I had an opportunity of asking.” Presently seeing an old man working with a spade in a field near a gate, I stopped and said in Welsh, “Am I in the road to the Pont y Gwr Drwg?” The old man looked at me for a moment, then shouldering his spade he came up to the gate, and said in English, “In truth, sir, you are.”
“I was told that the road thither was a very bad one,” said I, “but this is quite the contrary.”
“This road does not go much farther, sir,” said he; “it was made to accommodate grand folks who live about here.”
“You speak very good English,” said I; “where did you get it?”
He looked pleased, and said that in his youth he had lived some years in England.
“Can you read?” said I.
“O yes,” said he, “both Welsh and English.”
“What have you read in Welsh?” said I.
“The Bible and Twm O’r Nant.”
“What pieces of Twm O’r Nant have you read?”
“I have read two of his interludes and his life.”
“And which do you like best—his life or his interludes.”
“O, I like his life best.”
“And what part of his life do you like best?”
“O, I like that part best where he gets the ship into the water at Abermarlais.”
“You have a good judgment,” said I; “his life is better than his interludes, and the best part of his life is where he describes his getting the ship into the water. But do the Methodists about here in general read Twm O’r Nant?”
“I don’t know,” said he; “I am no Methodist.”
“Do you belong to the Church?”
“I do.”
“And why do you belong to the Church?”
“Because I believe it is the best religion to get to heaven by.”
“I am much of your opinion,” said I. “Are there many Church-people about here?”
“Not many,” said he, “but more than when I was young.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixty-nine.”
“You are not very old,” said I.
“Ain’t I? I only want one year of fulfilling my proper time on earth.”
“You take things very easily,” said I.
“Not so very easily, sir; I have often my quakings and fears, but then I read my Bible, say my prayers, and find hope and comfort.”
“I really am very glad to have seen you,” said I; “and now can you tell me the way to the bridge?”
“Not exactly, sir, for I have never been there, but you must follow this road some way farther, and then bear away to the right along yon hill”—and he pointed to a distant mountain.
I thanked him, and proceeded on my way. I passed through a deep dingle, and shortly afterwards came to the termination of the road; remembering, however, the directions of the old man, I bore away to the right, making for the distant mountain. My course lay now over very broken ground, where there was no path—at least that I could perceive. I wandered on for some time; at length, on turning round a bluff, I saw a lad tending a small herd of bullocks. “Am I in the road,” said I, “to the Pont y Gwr Drwg?”
“Nis gwn! I don’t know,” said he sullenly. “I am a hired servant, and have only been here a little time.”
“Where’s the house,” said I, “where you serve?”
But as he made no answer I left him. Some way further on I saw a house on my left, a little way down the side of a deep dingle, which was partly overhung with trees, and at the bottom of which a brook murmured. Descending a steep path, I knocked at the door. After a little time it was opened, and two women appeared, one behind the other. The first was about sixty; she was very powerfully made, had stern grey eyes and harsh features, and was dressed in the ancient Welsh female fashion, having a kind of riding-habit of blue, and a high conical hat like that of the Tyrol. The other seemed about twenty years younger; she had dark features, was dressed like the other, but had no hat. I saluted the first in English, and asked her the way to the Bridge. Whereupon she uttered a deep guttural “augh” and turned away her head, seemingly in abhorrence. I then spoke to her in Welsh, saying I was a foreign man—I did not say a Saxon—was bound to the Devil’s Bridge, and wanted to know the way. The old woman surveyed me sternly for some time, then turned to the other and said something, and the two began to talk to each other, but in a low, buzzing tone, so that I could not distinguish a word. In about half-a-minute the eldest turned to me, and extending her arm, and spreading out her five fingers wide, motioned to the side of the hill in the direction which I had been following.
“If I go that way shall I get to the bridge of the evil man?” said I; but got no other answer than a furious grimace and violent agitations of the arm and fingers in the same direction. I turned away, and scarcely had I done so when the door was slammed to behind me with great force, and I heard two “aughs,” one not quite so deep and abhorrent as the other, probably proceeding from the throat of the younger female.
“Two regular Saxon-hating Welsh women,” said I, philosophically; “just the same sort, no doubt, as those who played such pranks on the slain bodies of the English soldiers, after the victory achieved by Glendower over Mortimer on the Severn’s side.”
I proceeded in the direction indicated, winding round the side of the hill, the same mountain which the old man had pointed out to me some time before. At length, on making a turn, I saw a very lofty mountain in the far distance to the south-west, a hill right before me to the south, and on my left a meadow overhung by the southern hill, in the middle of which stood a house, from which proceeded a violent barking of dogs. I would fain have made immediately up to it for the purpose of inquiring my way, but saw no means of doing so, a high precipitous bank lying between it and me. I went forward and ascended the side of the hill before me, and presently came to a path running east and west. I followed it a little way towards the east. I was now just above the house, and saw some children and some dogs standing beside it. Suddenly I found myself close to a man who stood in a hollow part of the road from which a narrow path led down to the house; a donkey with panniers stood beside him. He was about fifty years of age, with a carbuncled countenance, high but narrow forehead, grey eyebrows, and small, malignant grey eyes. He had a white hat with narrow eaves, and the crown partly knocked out, a torn blue coat, corduroy breeches, long stockings and high-lows. He was sucking a cutty pipe, but seemed unable to extract any smoke from it. He had all the appearance of a vagabond, and of a rather dangerous vagabond. I nodded to him, and asked him in Welsh the name of the place. He glared at me malignantly, then taking the pipe out of his mouth, said that he did not know, that he had been down below to inquire and light his pipe, but could get neither light nor answer from the children. I asked him where he came from, but he evaded the question by asking where I was going to.
“To the Pont y Gwr Drwg,” said I.
He then asked me if I was an Englishman.
“O yes!” said I, “I am Carn Sais;” whereupon with a strange mixture in his face of malignity and contempt, he answered in English that he didn’t understand me.
“You understood me very well,” said I, without changing my language, “till I told you I was an Englishman. Harkee, man with the broken hat, you are one of the bad Welsh, who don’t like the English to know the language, lest they should discover your lies and rogueries.” He evidently understood what I said, for he gnashed his teeth though he said nothing. “Well,” said I, “I shall go down to those children and inquire the name of the house,” and I forthwith began to descend the path, the fellow uttering a contemptuous “humph” behind me, as much as to say, much you’ll make out down there. I soon reached the bottom, and advanced towards the house. The dogs had all along been barking violently; as I drew near to them, however, they ceased, and two of the largest came forward wagging their tails. “The dogs were not barking at me,” said I, “but at that vagabond above.” I went up to the children; they were four in number, two boys and two girls, all red-haired, but tolerably good-looking. They had neither shoes nor stockings. “What is the name of this house?” said I to the eldest, a boy about seven years old. He looked at me, but made no answer. I repeated my question; still there was no answer, but methought I heard a humph of triumph from the hill. “Don’t crow quite yet, old chap,” thought I to myself, and putting my hand into my pocket, I took out a penny; and offering it to the child, said, “Now, small man, Peth wy y enw y lle hwn?” Instantly the boy’s face became intelligent, and putting out the fat little hand, he took the ceiniog, and said in an audible whisper, “Waen y Bwlch.” “I am all right,” said I to myself, “that is one of the names of the places which the old ostler said I must go through.” Then addressing myself to the child, I said, “Where’s your father and mother?”
“Out on the hill,” whispered the child.
“What’s your father?”
“A shepherd.”
“Good,” said I. “Now can you tell me the way to the bridge of the evil man?” But the features became blank, the finger was put to the mouth, and the head was hung down. That question was evidently beyond the child’s capacity. “Thank you!” said I, and turning round, I regained the path on the top of the bank. The fellow and his donkey were still there. “I had no difficulty,” said I, “in obtaining information; the place’s name is Waen y Bwlch. But oes genoch dim Cumraeg—you have no Welsh.” Thereupon I proceeded along the path in the direction of the east. Forthwith the fellow said something to his animal, and both came following fast behind. I quickened my pace, but the fellow and his beast were close in my rear. Presently I came to a place where another path branched off to the south. I stopped, looked at it, and then went on, but scarcely had done so when I heard another exulting “humph” behind. “I am going wrong,” said I to myself; “that other path is the way to the Devil’s Bridge, and the scamp knows it, or he would not have grunted.” Forthwith I faced round, and brushing past the fellow without a word turned into the other path and hurried along it. By a side glance which I cast I could see him staring after me; presently, however, he uttered a sound very much like a Welsh curse, and kicking his beast proceeded on his way, and I saw no more of him. In a little time I came to a slough which crossed the path. I did not like the look of it at all; and to avoid it ventured upon some green mossy-looking ground to the left, and had scarcely done so when I found myself immersed to the knees in a bog. I, however, pushed forward, and with some difficulty got to the path on the other side of the slough. I followed the path, and in about half-an-hour saw what appeared to be houses at a distance. “God grant that I may be drawing near some inhabited place,” said I. The path now grew very miry, and there were pools of water on either side. I moved along slowly. At length I came to a place where some men were busy in erecting a kind of building. I went up to the nearest and asked him the name of the place. He had a crow-bar in his hand, was half-naked, had a wry mouth and only one eye. He made me no answer, but moved and gibbered at me.
“For God’s sake,” said I, “don’t do so, but tell me where I am!” He still uttered no word, but mowed and gibbered yet more frightfully than before. As I stood staring at him another man came to me and said in broken English, “It is of no use speaking to him, sir, he is deaf and dumb.”
“I am glad he is no worse,” said I, “for I really thought he was possessed with the evil one. My good person, can you tell me the name of this place?”
“Esgyrn Hirion, sir,” said he.
“Esgyrn Hirion,” said I to myself; “Esgyrn means bones, and Hirion means long. I am doubtless at the place which the old ostler called Long Bones. I shouldn’t wonder if I get to the Devil’s Bridge to-night after all.” I then asked the man if he could tell me the way to the bridge of the evil man, but he shook his head and said that he had never heard of such a place, adding, however, that he would go with me to one of the overseers, who could perhaps direct me. He then proceeded towards a row of buildings, which were in fact those objects which I had guessed to be houses in the distance. He led me to a corner house, at the door of which stood a middle-aged man, dressed in a grey coat, and saying to me, “This person is an overseer,” returned to his labour. I went up to the man, and saluting him in English, asked whether he could direct me to the devil’s bridge, or rather to Pont Erwyd.
“It would be of no use directing you, sir,” said he, “for with all the directions in the world it would be impossible for you to find the way. You would not have left these premises five minutes before you would be in a maze, without knowing which way to turn. Where do you come from?”
“From Machynlleth,” I replied.
“From Machynlleth!” said he. “Well, I only wonder you ever got here, but it would be madness to go further alone.”
“Well,” said I, “can I obtain a guide?”
“I really don’t know,” said he; “I am afraid all the men are engaged.”
As we were speaking a young man made his appearance at the door from the interior of the house. He was dressed in a brown short coat, had a glazed hat on his head, and had a pale but very intelligent countenance.
“What is the matter?” said he to the other man.
“This gentleman,” replied the latter, “is going to Pont Erwyd, and wants a guide.”
“Well,” said the young man, “we must find him one. It will never do to let him go by himself.”
“If you can find me a guide,” said I, “I shall be happy to pay him for his trouble.”
“O, you can do as you please about that,” said the young man; “but, pay or not, we would never suffer you to leave this place without a guide, and as much for our own sake as yours, for the directors of the company would never forgive us if they heard we had suffered a gentleman to leave these premises without a guide, more especially if he were lost, as it is a hundred to one you would be if you went by yourself.”
“Pray,” said I, “what company is this, the directors of which are so solicitous about the safety of strangers?”
“The Potosi Mining Company,” said he, “the richest in all Wales. But pray walk in and sit down, for you must be tired.”
Chapter LXXXI
The Mining Compting Room—Native of Aberystwyth—Story of a Bloodhound—The Young Girls—The Miner’s Tale—Gwen Frwd—The Terfyn.
I followed the young man with the glazed hat into a room, the other man following behind me. He of the glazed hat made me sit down before a turf fire, apologising for its smoking very much. The room seemed half compting room, half apartment. There was a wooden desk with a ledger upon it by the window which looked to the west, and a camp bedstead extended from the southern wall nearly up to the desk. After I had sat for about a minute the young man asked me if I would take any refreshment. I thanked him for his kind offer, which I declined, saying, however, that if he would obtain me a guide I should feel much obliged. He turned to the other man and told him to go and inquire whether there was any one who would be willing to go. The other nodded, and forthwith went out.
“You think, then,” said I, “that I could not find the way by myself?”
“I am sure of it,” said he, “for even the people best acquainted with the country frequently lose their way. But I must tell you that if we do find you a guide it will probably be one who has no English.”
“Never mind,” said I, “I have enough Welsh to hold a common discourse.”
A fine girl about fourteen now came in, and began bustling about.
“Who is this young lady?” said I.
“The daughter of a captain of a neighbouring mine,” said he; “she frequently comes here with messages, and is always ready to do a turn about the house, for she is very handy.”
“Has she any English?” said I.
“Not a word,” he replied. “The young people of these hills have no English, except they go abroad to learn it.”
“What hills are these?” said I.
“Part of the Plynlimmon range,” said he.
“Dear me,” said I, “am I near Plynlimmon?”
“Not very far from it,” said the young man, “and you will be nearer when you reach Pont Erwyd.”
“Are you a native of these parts?” said I.
“I am not,” he replied. “I am a native of Aberystwyth, a place on the sea-coast about a dozen miles from here.”
“This seems to be a cold, bleak spot,” said I; “is it healthy?”
“I have reason to say so,” said he; “for I came here from Aberystwyth about four months ago very unwell, and am now perfectly recovered. I do not believe there is a healthier spot in all Wales.”
We had some further discourse. I mentioned to him the adventure which I had on the hill with the fellow with the donkey. The young man said that he had no doubt that he was some prowling thief.
“The dogs of the shepherd’s house,” said I, “didn’t seem to like him, and dogs generally know an evil customer. A long time ago I chanced to be in a posada, or inn, at Valladolid in Spain. One hot summer’s afternoon I was seated in a corridor which ran round a large, open court in the middle of the inn; a fine yellow, three-parts-grown bloodhound was lying on the ground beside me, with whom I had been playing a little time before. I was just about to fall asleep, when I heard a ‘hem’ at the outward door of the posada, which was a long way below at the end of a passage which communicated with the court. Instantly the hound started upon his legs, and with a loud yell, and with eyes flashing fire, ran nearly round the corridor down a flight of steps and through the passage to the gate. There was then a dreadful noise, in which the cries of a human being and the yells of the hound were blended. I forthwith started up and ran down, followed by several other guests who came rushing out of their chambers round the corridor. At the gate we saw a man on the ground, and the hound trying to strangle him. It was with the greatest difficulty, and chiefly through the intervention of the master of the dog, who happened to be present, that the animal could be made to quit his hold. The assailed person was a very powerful man, but had an evil countenance, was badly dressed, and had neither hat, shoes nor stockings. We raised him up and gave him wine, which he drank greedily, and presently without saying a word disappeared. The guests said they had no doubt that he was a murderer flying from justice, and that the dog by his instinct, even at a distance, knew him to be such. The master said that it was the first time the dog had ever attacked any one or shown the slightest symptom of ferocity. Not the least singular part of the matter was, that the dog did not belong to the house, but to one of the guests from a distant village; the creature therefore could not consider itself the house’s guardian.”
I had scarcely finished my tale when the other man came in and said that he had found a guide, a young man from Pont Erwyd, who would be glad of such an opportunity to go and see his parents; that he was then dressing himself and would shortly make his appearance. In about twenty minutes he did so. He was a stout young fellow with a coarse blue coat, and coarse white felt hat; he held a stick in his hand. The kind young book-keeper now advised us to set out without delay as the day was drawing to a close, and the way was long. I shook him by the hand, told him that I should never forget his civility, and departed with the guide.
The fine young girl, whom I have already mentioned, and another about two years younger, departed with us. They were dressed in the graceful female attire of old Wales.
We bore to the south down a descent, and came to some moory quaggy ground intersected with watercourses. The agility of the young girls surprised me; they sprang over the water-courses, some of which were at least four feet wide, with the ease and alacrity of fawns. After a short time we came to a road, which, however, we did not long reap the benefit of as it only led to a mine. Seeing a house on the top of a hill, I asked my guide whose it was.
“Ty powdr,” said he, “a powder house,” by which I supposed he meant a magazine of powder used for blasting in the mines. He had not a word of English.
If the young girls were nimble with their feet, they were not less so with their tongues, as they kept up an incessant gabble with each other and with the guide. I understood little of what they said, their volubility preventing me from catching more than a few words. After we had gone about two miles and a half they darted away with surprising swiftness down a hill towards a distant house, where as I learned from my guide the father of the eldest lived. We ascended a hill, passed between two craggy elevations, and then wended to the south-east over a strange miry place, in which I thought any one at night not acquainted with every inch of the way would run imminent risk of perishing. I entered into conversation with my guide. After a little time he asked me if I was a Welshman. I told him no.
“You could teach many a Welshman,” said he.
“Why do you think so?” said I.
“Because many of your words are quite above my comprehension,” said he.
“No great compliment,” thought I to myself, but putting a good face upon the matter, I told him that I knew a great many old Welsh words.
“Is Potosi an old Welsh word?” said he.
“No,” said I; “it is the name of a mine in the Deheubarth of America.”
“Is it a lead mine?”
“No!” said I; “it is a silver mine.”
“Then why do they call our mine, which is a lead mine, by the name of a silver mine?”
“Because they wish to give people to understand,” said I, “that it is very rich, as rich in lead as Potosi in silver. Potosi is, or was, the richest silver mine in the world, and from it has come at least one-half of the silver which we use in the shape of money and other things.”
“Well,” said he, “I have frequently asked, but could never learn before, why our mine was called Potosi.”
“You did not ask at the right quarter,” said I; “the young man with the glazed hat could have told you as well as I.” I inquired why the place where the mine was bore the name of Esgyrn Hirion, or Long Bones. He told me that he did not know, but believed that the bones of a cawr, or giant, had been found there in ancient times. I asked him if the mine was deep.
“Very deep,” he replied.
“Do you like the life of a miner?” said I.
“Very much,” said he, “and should like it more, but for the noises of the hill.”
“Do you mean the powder blasts?” said I.
“O no!” said he; “I care nothing for them, I mean the noises made by the spirits of the hill in the mine. Sometimes they make such noises as frighten the poor fellow who works underground out of his senses. Once on a time I was working by myself very deep underground, in a little chamber to which a very deep shaft led. I had just taken up my light to survey my work, when all of a sudden I heard a dreadful rushing noise, as if an immense quantity of earth had come tumbling down. ‘O God!’ said I, and fell backwards, letting the light fall, which instantly went out. I thought the whole shaft had given way, and that I was buried alive. I lay for several hours half stupefied, thinking now and then what a dreadful thing it was to be buried alive. At length I thought I would get up, go to the mouth of the shaft, feel the mould with which it was choked up, and then come back, lie down and die. So I got up and tottered to the mouth of the shaft, put out my hand and felt—nothing. All was clear. I went forward and presently felt the ladder. Nothing had fallen; all was just the same as when I came down. I was dreadfully afraid that I should never be able to get up in the dark without breaking my neck; however, I tried, and at last, with a great deal of toil and danger, got to a place where other men were working. The noise was caused by the spirits of the hill in the hope of driving the miner out of his senses. They very nearly succeeded. I shall never forget how I felt when I thought I was buried alive. If it were not for those noises in the hill the life of a miner would be quite heaven below.”
We came to a cottage standing under a hillock, down the side of which tumbled a streamlet close by the northern side of the building. The door was open, and inside were two or three females and some children. “Have you any enwyn?” said the lad, peeping in.
“O yes!” said a voice—“digon! digon!” Presently a buxom laughing girl brought out two dishes of buttermilk, one of which she handed to me and the other to the guide. I asked her the name of the place.
“Gwen Frwd: the Fair Rivulet,” said she.
“Who lives here?”
“A shepherd.”
“Have you any English?”
“Nagos!” said she, bursting into a loud laugh. “What should we do with English here?” After we had drunk the buttermilk I offered the girl some money, but she drew back her hand angrily, and said, “We don’t take money from tired strangers for two drops of buttermilk; there’s plenty within, and there are a thousand ewes on the hill. Farvel!”
“Dear me!” thought I to myself as I walked away, “that I should once in my days have found shepherd life something as poets have represented it!”
I saw a mighty mountain at a considerable distance on the right, the same I believe which I had noted some hours before. I inquired of my guide whether it was Plynlimmon.
“O no!” said he, “that is Gaverse; Pumlimmon is to the left.”
“Plynlimmon is a famed hill,” said I; “I suppose it is very high.”
“Yes!” said he, “it is high, but it is not famed because it is high, but because the three grand rivers of the world issue from its breast; the Hafren, the Rheidol, and the Gwy.”
Night was now coming rapidly on, attended with a drizzling rain. I inquired if we were far from Pont Erwyd. “About a mile,” said my guide; “we shall soon be there.” We quickened our pace. After a little time he asked me if I was going farther than Pont Erwyd.
“I am bound for the bridge of the evil man,” said I; “but I dare say I shall stop at Pont Erwyd tonight.”
“You will do right,” said he; “it is only three miles from Pont Erwydd to the bridge of the evil man, but I think we shall have a stormy night.”
“When I get to Pont Erwyd,” said I, “how far shall I be from South Wales?”
“From South Wales!” said he; “you are in South Wales now; you passed the Terfyn of North Wales a quarter of an hour ago.”
The rain now fell fast, and there was so thick a mist that I could only see a few yards before me. We descended into a valley, at the bottom of which I heard a river roaring.
“That’s the Rheidol,” said my guide, “coming from Pumlimmon, swollen with rain.”
Without descending to the river we turned aside up a hill, and after passing by a few huts came to a large house, which my guide told me was the inn of Pont Erwyd.
Chapter LXXXII
Consequential Landlord—Cheek—Darfel Gatherel—Dafydd Nanmor—Sheep Farms—Wholesome Advice—The Old Postman—The Plant de Bat—The Robber’s Cavern.
My guide went to a side door, and opening it without ceremony, went in. I followed, and found myself in a spacious and comfortable-looking kitchen; a large fire blazed in a huge grate, on one side of which was a settle; plenty of culinary utensils, both pewter and copper, hung around on the walls, and several goodly rows of hams and sides of bacon were suspended from the roof. There were several people present, some on the settle, and others on chairs in the vicinity of the fire. As I advanced a man arose from a chair and came towards me. He was about thirty-five years of age, well and strongly made, with a fresh complexion, a hawk nose and a keen grey eye. He wore top boots and breeches, a half-jockey coat, and had a round cap made of the skin of some animal on his head.
“Servant, sir!” said he in rather a sharp tone, and surveying me with something of a supercilious air.
“Your most obedient humble servant!” said I; “I presume you are the landlord of this house.”
“Landlord!” said he, “landlord! It is true I receive guests sometimes into my house, but I do so solely with the view of accommodating them; I do not depend upon innkeeping for a livelihood. I hire the principal part of the land in this neighbourhood.”
“If that be the case,” said I, “I had better continue my way to the Devil’s Bridge; I am not at all tired, and I believe it is not very far distant.”
“O, as you are here,” said the farmer-landlord, “I hope you will stay. I should be very sorry if any gentleman should leave my house at night after coming with an intention of staying, more especially in a night like this. Martha!” said he, turning to a female between thirty and forty, who I subsequently learned was the mistress—“prepare the parlour instantly for this gentleman, and don’t fail to make up a good fire.”
Martha forthwith hurried away, attended by a much younger female.
“Till your room is prepared, sir,” said he, “perhaps you will have no objection to sit down before our fire?”
“Not in the least,” said I; “nothing gives me greater pleasure than to sit before a kitchen fire. First of all, however, I must settle with my guide, and likewise see that he has something to eat and drink.”
“Shall I interpret for you?” said the landlord; “the lad has not a word of English; I know him well.”
“I have not been under his guidance for the last three hours,” said I, “without knowing that he cannot speak English; but I want no interpreter.”
“You do not mean to say, sir,” said the landlord, with a surprised and dissatisfied air, “that you understand Welsh?”
I made no answer, but turning to the guide, thanked him for his kindness, and giving him some money, asked him if that was enough.
“More than enough, sir,” said the lad; “I did not expect half as much. Farewell!”
He was then about to depart, but I prevented him, saying:
“You must not go till you have eaten and drunk. What will you have?”
“Merely a cup of ale, sir,” said the lad.
“That won’t do,” said I; “you shall have bread and cheese and as much ale as you can drink. Pray,” said I to the landlord, “let this young man have some bread and cheese and a large quart of ale.”
The landlord looked at me for a moment, then turning to the lad he said:
“What do you think of that, Shon? It is some time since you had a quart of ale to your own cheek.”
“Cheek,” said I, “cheek! Is that a Welsh word? Surely it is an importation from the English, and not a very genteel one.”
“O come, sir!” said the landlord, “we can dispense with your criticisms. A pretty thing indeed for you, on the strength of knowing half-a-dozen words of Welsh, to set up for a Welsh critic in the house of a person who knows the ancient British language perfectly.”
“Dear me!” said I, “how fortunate I am! a person thoroughly versed in the ancient British language is what I have long wished to see. Pray what is the meaning of Darfel Gatherel?”
“O sir,” said the landlord, “you must answer that question yourself; I don’t pretend to understand gibberish!”
“Darfel Gatherel,” said I, “is not gibberish; it was the name of the great wooden image at Ty Dewi, or Saint David’s, in Pembrokeshire, to which thousands of pilgrims in the days of popery used to repair for the purpose of adoring it, and which at the time of the Reformation was sent up to London as a curiosity, where it eventually served as firewood to burn the monk Forrest upon, who was sentenced to the stake by Henry the Eighth for denying his supremacy. What I want to know is, the meaning of the name, which I could never get explained, but which you who know the ancient British language perfectly can doubtless interpret.”
“O sir,” said the landlord, “when I said I knew the British language perfectly, I perhaps went too far; there are of course some obsolete terms in the British tongue, which I don’t understand. Dar, Dar—what is it? Darmod Cotterel amongst the rest, but to a general knowledge of the Welsh language I think I may lay some pretensions; were I not well acquainted with it I should not have carried off the prize at various eisteddfodau, as I have done. I am a poet, sir, a prydydd.”
“It is singular enough,” said I, “that the only two Welsh poets I have seen have been innkeepers—one is yourself, the other a person I met in Anglesey. I suppose the Muse is fond of cwrw da.”
“You would fain be pleasant, sir,” said the landlord; “but I beg leave to inform you that I am not fond of pleasantries; and now as my wife and the servant are returned, I will have the pleasure of conducting you to the parlour.”
“Before I go,” said I, “I should like to see my guide provided with what I ordered.” I stayed till the lad was accommodated with bread and cheese and a foaming tankard of ale, and then bidding him farewell, I followed the landlord into the parlour, where I found a fire kindled, which, however, smoked exceedingly. I asked my host what I could have for supper, and was told that he did not know, but that if I would leave the matter to him he would send the best he could. As he was going away, I said, “So you are a poet. Well, I am very glad to hear it, for I have been fond of Welsh poetry from my boyhood. What kind of verse do you employ in general? Did you ever write an awdl in the four-and-twenty measures? What are the themes of your songs? The deeds of the ancient heroes of South Wales, I suppose, and the hospitality of the great men of the neighbourhood who receive you as an honoured guest at their tables. I’ll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be you never sang anything in praise of your landlord’s housekeeping equal to what Dafydd Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago:
‘For Ryce if hundred thousands plough’d, The lands around his fair abode; Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed, Still corn and wine great Ryce would need; If all the earth had bread’s sweet savour, And water all had cyder’s flavour, Three roaring feasts in Ryce’s hall Would swallow earth and ocean all.’
Hey?”
“Really, sir,” said the landlord, “I don’t know how to reply to you, for the greater part of your discourse is utterly unintelligible to me. Perhaps you are a better Welshman than myself; but however that may be, I shall take the liberty of retiring in order to give orders about your supper.”
In about half-an-hour the supper made its appearance in the shape of some bacon and eggs; on tasting them I found them very good, and calling for some ale I made a very tolerable supper. After the things had been removed I drew near to the fire, but, as it still smoked, I soon betook myself to the kitchen. My guide had taken his departure, but the others whom I had left were still there. The landlord was talking in Welsh to a man in a rough great-coat about sheep. Setting myself down near the fire I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, and then observing that the landlord and his friend had suddenly become silent, I said, “Pray go on with your discourse! Don’t let me be any hindrance to you.”
“Yes, sir,” said the landlord snappishly, “go on with our discourse; for your edification, I suppose?”
“Well,” said I, “suppose it is for my edification, surely you don’t grudge a stranger a little edification which will cost you nothing?”
“I don’t know that, sir,” said the landlord; “I don’t know that. Really, sir, the kitchen is not the place for a gentleman.”
“Yes, it is,” said I, “provided the parlour smokes. Come, come, I am going to have a glass of whiskey-and-water; perhaps you will take one with me.”
“Well, sir!” said the landlord in rather a softened tone, “I have no objection to take a glass with you.”
Two glasses of whiskey-and-water were presently brought, and the landlord and I drank to each other’s health.
“Is this a sheep district?” said I, after a pause of a minute or two.
“Yes, sir!” said the landlord; “it may to a certain extent be called a sheep district.”
“I suppose the Southdown and Norfolk breeds would not do for these here parts,” said I with a regular Norfolk whine.
“No, sir! I don’t think they would exactly,” said the landlord, staring at me. “Do you know anything about sheep?”
“Plenty, plenty,” said I; “quite as much indeed as about Welsh words and poetry.” Then in a yet more whining tone than before, I said, “Do you think that a body with money in his pocket could hire a comfortable sheep farm hereabouts?”
“O sir!” said the landlord in a furious tone, “you have come to look out for a farm, I see, and to outbid us poor Welshmen; it is on that account you have studied Welsh; but, sir, I would have you know—”
“Come,” said I, “don’t be afraid; I wouldn’t have all the farms in your country, provided you would tie them in a string and offer them to me. If I talked about a farm it was because I am in the habit of talking about everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting to be so, which comes much to the same thing. My real business in this neighbourhood is to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery about it.”
“Very good, sir!” said the landlord; “I thought so at first. A great many English go to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery near it, though I really don’t know why, for there is nothing so very particular in either. We have a bridge here too quite as good as the Devil’s Bridge; and as for scenery, I’ll back the scenery about this house against anything of the kind in the neighbourhood of the Devil’s Bridge. Yet everybody goes to the Devil’s Bridge and nobody comes here.”
“You might easily bring everybody here,” said I, “if you would but employ your talent. You should celebrate the wonders of your neighbourhood in cowydds, and you would soon have plenty of visitors; but you don’t want them, you know, and prefer to be without them.”
The landlord looked at me for a moment, then taking a sip of his whiskey-and-water, he turned to the man with whom he had previously been talking, and recommenced the discourse about sheep. I made no doubt, however, that I was a restraint upon them; they frequently glanced at me, and soon fell to whispering. At last both got up and left the room; the landlord finishing his glass of whiskey-and-water before he went away.
“So you are going to the Devil’s Bridge, sir!” said an elderly man, dressed in a grey coat with a broad-brimmed hat, who sat on the settle smoking a pipe in company with another elderly man with a leather hat, with whom I had heard him discourse, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in English, the Welsh which he spoke being rather broken.
“Yes!” said I, “I am going to have a sight of the bridge and the neighbouring scenery.”
“Well, sir, I don’t think you will be disappointed, for both are wonderful.”
“Are you a Welshman?” said I.
“No, sir! I am not; I am an Englishman from Durham, which is the best county in England.”
“So it is,” said I; “for some things, at any rate. For example, where do you find such beef as in Durham?”
“Ah, where indeed, sir? I have always said that neither the Devonshire nor the Lincolnshire beef is to be named in the same day with that of Durham.”
“Well,” said I, “what business do you follow in these parts? I suppose you farm?”
“No, sir! I do not; I am what they call a mining captain.”
“I suppose that gentleman,” said I, motioning to the man in the leather hat, “is not from Durham?”
“No, sir, he is not; he is from the neighbourhood.”
“And does he follow mining?”
“No, sir, he does not; he carries about the letters.”
“Is your mine near this place?” said I.
“Not very, sir; it is nearer the Devil’s Bridge.”
“Why is the bridge called the Devil’s Bridge?” said I.
“Because, sir, ’tis said that the Devil built it in the old time, though that I can hardly believe, for the Devil, do ye see, delights in nothing but mischief, and it is not likely that such being the case he would have built a thing which must have been of wonderful service to people by enabling them to pass in safety over a dreadful gulf.”
“I have heard,” said the old postman with the leather hat, “that the Devil had no hand in de work at all, but that it was built by a Mynach, or monk, on which account de river over which de bridge is built is called Afon y Mynach—dat is de Monk’s River.”
“Did you ever hear,” said I, “of three creatures who lived a long time ago near the Devil’s Bridge called the Plant de Bat?”
“Ah, master!” said the old postman, “I do see that you have been in these parts before; had you not you would not know of the Plant de Bat.”
“No,” said I, “I have never been here before; but I heard of them when I was a boy from a Cumro who taught me Welsh, and had lived for some time in these parts. Well, what do they say here about the Plant de Bat? for he who mentioned them to me could give me no further information about them than that they were horrid creatures who lived in a cave near the Devil’s Bridge several hundred years ago.”
“Well, master,” said the old postman, thrusting his forefinger twice or thrice into the bowl of his pipe, “I will tell you what they says here about the Plant de Bat. In de old time two, three hundred year ago, a man lived somewhere about here called Bat, or Bartholomew; this man had three children, two boys and one girl, who, because their father’s name was Bat, were generally called Plant de Bat, or Bat’s children. Very wicked children they were from their cradle, giving their father and mother much trouble and uneasiness; no good in any one of them, neither in the boys nor the girl. Now the boys, once when they were rambling idly about, lighted by chance upon a cave near the Devil’s Bridge. Very strange cave it was, with just one little hole at top to go in by. So the boys said to one another, ‘Nice cave this for thief to live in. Suppose we come here when we are a little more big and turn thief ourselves.’ Well, they waited till they were a little more big, and then leaving their father’s house they came to de cave and turned thief, lying snug there all day, and going out at night to rob upon the roads. Well, there was soon much talk in the country about the robberies which were being committed, and people often went out in search of de thieves, but all in vain; and no wonder, for they were in a cave very hard to light upon, having as I said before merely one little hole at top to go in by. So Bat’s boys went on swimmingly for a long time, lying snug in cave by day and going out at night to rob, letting no one know where they were but their sister, who was as bad as themselves, and used to come to them and bring them food, and stay with them for weeks, and sometimes go out and rob with them. But as de pitcher which goes often to de well comes home broke at last, so it happened with Bat’s children. After robbing people upon the roads by night many a long year and never being found out, they at last met one great gentleman upon the roads by night, and not only robbed but killed him, leaving his body all cut and gashed near to Devil’s Bridge. That job was the ruin of Plant de Bat, for the great gentleman’s friends gathered together and hunted after his murderers with dogs, and at length came to the cave, and going in found it stocked with riches, and the Plant de Bat sitting upon the riches, not only the boys but the girl also. So they took out the riches and the Plant de Bat, and the riches they did give to churches and spyttys, and the Plant de Bat they did execute, hanging the boys and burning the girl. That, master, is what they says in dese parts about the Plant de Bat.”
“Thank you!” said I. “Is the cave yet to be seen?”
“O yes! it is yet to be seen, or part of it, for it is not now what it was, having been partly flung open to hinder other thieves from nestling in it. It is on the bank of the river Mynach, just before it joins the Rheidol. Many gentlefolk in de summer go to see the Plant de Bat’s cave.”
“Are you sure?” said I, “that Plant de Bat means Bat’s children?”
“I am not sure, master; I merely says what I have heard other people say. I believe some says that it means the wicked children, or the Devil’s children. And now, master, we may as well have done with them, for should you question me through the whole night I could tell you nothing more about the Plant de Bat.”
After a little farther discourse, chiefly about sheep and the weather, I retired to the parlour, where the fire was now burning brightly; seating myself before it, I remained for a considerable time staring at the embers and thinking over the events of the day. At length I rang the bell and begged to be shown to my chamber, where I soon sank to sleep, lulled by the pattering of rain against the window and the sound of a neighbouring cascade.
Chapter LXXXIII
Wild Scenery—Awful Chasm—John Greaves—Durham County—Queen Philippa—The Two Aldens—Welsh Wife—The Noblest Business—The Welsh and the Salve—The Lad John.
A rainy and boisterous night was succeeded by a bright and beautiful morning. I arose, and having ordered breakfast, went forth to see what kind of country I had got into. I found myself amongst wild, strange-looking hills, not, however, of any particular height. The house, which seemed to front the east, stood on the side of a hill on a wide platform abutting on a deep and awful chasm, at the bottom of which chafed and foamed the Rheidol. This river enters the valley of Pont Erwyd from the north-west, then makes a variety of snake-like turns, and at last bears away to the south-east just below the inn. The banks are sheer walls from sixty to a hundred feet high, and the bed of the river has all the appearance of a volcanic rent. A brook running from the south past the inn, tumbles into the chasm at an angle, and forms the cascade whose sound had lulled me to sleep the preceding night.
After breakfasting, I paid my bill, and set out for the Devil’s Bridge without seeing anything more of that remarkable personage in whom were united landlord, farmer, poet, and mighty fine gentleman—the master of the house. I soon reached the bottom of the valley, where are a few houses, and the bridge from which the place takes its name, Pont Erwyd signifying the Bridge of Erwyd. As I was looking over the bridge near which are two or three small waterfalls, an elderly man in a grey coat, followed by a young lad and dog, came down the road which I had myself just descended.
“Good day, sir,” said he, stopping, when he came upon the bridge. “I suppose you are bound my road?”
“Ah,” said I, recognising the old mining captain with whom I had talked in the kitchen the night before, “is it you? I am glad to see you. Yes! I am bound your way, provided you are going to the Devil’s Bridge.”
“Then, sir, we can go together, for I am bound to my mine, which lies only a little way t’other side of the Devil’s Bridge.”
Crossing the bridge of Erwyd, we directed our course to the south-east.
“What young man is that?” said I, “who is following behind us?”
“The young man, sir, is my son John, and the dog with him is his dog Joe.”
“And what may your name be, if I may take the liberty of asking?”
“Greaves, sir; John Greaves from the county of Durham.”
“Ah! a capital county that,” said I.
“You like the county, sir! God bless you! John!” said he in a loud voice, turning to the lad, “why don’t you offer to carry the gentleman’s knapsack?”
“Don’t let him trouble himself,” said I. “As I was just now saying, a capital county is Durham county.”
“You really had better let the boy carry your bag, sir.”
“No!” said I; “I would rather carry it myself. I question upon the whole whether there is a better county in England.”
“Is it long since your honour was in Durham county?”
“A good long time. A matter of forty years.”
“Forty years! why that’s the life of a man. That’s longer than I have been out of the county myself. I suppose your honour can’t remember much about the county.”
“O yes I can, I remember a good deal.”
“Please your honour tell me what you remember about the county. It would do me good to hear it.”
“Well, I remember it was a very fine county in more respects than one. One part of it was full of big hills and mountains, where there were mines of coal and lead with mighty works with tall chimneys spouting out black smoke, and engines roaring and big wheels going round, some turned by steam, and others by what they called forces, that is brooks of water dashing down steep channels. Another part was a more level country with beautiful woods, happy-looking farmhouses, well-filled fields and rich glorious meadows, in which stood stately with brown sides and short horns the Durham ox.”
“O dear, O dear!” said my companion. “Ah, I see your honour knows everything about Durham county. Forces! none but one who had been in Durham county would have used that word. I haven’t heard it for five-and-thirty years. Forces! there was a force close to my village. I wonder if your honour has ever been in Durham city.”
“O yes! I have been there.”
“Does your honour remember anything about Durham city?”
“O yes! I remember a good deal about it.”
“Then, your honour, pray tell us what you remember about it—pray do! perhaps it will do me good.”
“Well, then, I remember that it was a fine old city standing on a hill with a river running under it, and that it had a fine old church, one of the finest in the whole of Britain; likewise a fine old castle; and last, not least, a capital old inn, where I got a capital dinner off roast Durham beef, and a capital glass of ale, which I believe was the cause of my being ever after fond of ale.”
“Dear me! Ah, I see your honour knows all about Durham city. And now let me ask one question. How came your honour to Durham city and county? I don’t think your honour is a Durham man, either of town or field.”
“I am not; but when I was a little boy I passed through Durham county with my mother and brother to a place called Scotland.”
“Scotland! a queer country that, your honour!”
“So it is,” said I; “a queerer country I never saw in all my life.”
“And a queer set of people, your honour.”
“So they are,” said I; “a queerer set of people than the Scotch you would scarcely see in a summer’s day.”
“The Durham folks, neither of town or field, have much reason to speak well of the Scotch, your honour.”
“I dare say not,” said I; “very few people have.”
“And yet the Durham folks, your honour, generally contrived to give them as good as they brought.”
“That they did,” said I; “a pretty licking the Durham folks once gave the Scots under the walls of Durham city, after the scamps had been plundering the country for three weeks—a precious licking they gave them, slaying I don’t know how many thousands, and taking their king prisoner.”
“So they did, your honour, and under the command of a woman too.”
“Very true,” said I; “Queen Philippa.”
“Just so, your honour! the idea that your honour should know so much about Durham, both field and town!”
“Well,” said I, “since I have told you so much about Durham, perhaps you will now tell me something about yourself. How did you come here?”
“I had better begin from the beginning, your honour. I was born in Durham county close beside the Great Force, which no doubt your honour has seen. My father was a farmer and had a bit of a share in a mining concern. I was brought up from my childhood both to farming and mining work, but most to mining, because, do you see, I took most pleasure in it, being the more noble business of the two. Shortly after I had come to man’s estate my father died leaving me a decent little property, whereupon I forsook farming altogether and gave myself up, body, soul and capital, to mining, which at last I thoroughly understood in all its branches. Well, your honour, about five-and-thirty years ago, that was when I was about twenty-eight, a cry went through the north country that a great deal of money might be made by opening Wales, that is, by mining in Wales in the proper fashion, which means the north-country fashion, for there is no other fashion of mining good for much—there had long been mines in Wales, but they had always been worked in a poor, weak, languid manner, very different from that of the north country. So a company was formed, at the head of which were the Aldens, George and Thomas, for opening Wales, and they purchased certain mines in these districts, which they knew to be productive, and which might be made yet more so, and settling down here called themselves the Rheidol United. Well, after they had been here a little time they found themselves in want of a man to superintend their concerns, above all in the smelting department. So they thought of me, who was known to most of the mining gentry in the north country, and they made a proposal to me through George Alden, afterwards Sir George, to come here and superintend. I said no, at first, for I didn’t like the idea of leaving Durham county to come to such an outlandish place as Wales; howsomever, I at last allowed myself to be overpersuaded by George Alden, afterwards Sir George, and here I came with my wife and family, for I must tell your honour I had married a respectable young woman of Durham county, by whom I had two little ones—here I came and did my best for the service of the Rheidol United. The company was terribly set to it for a long time, spending a mint of money and getting very poor returns. To my certain knowledge the two Aldens, George and Tom, spent between them thirty thousand pounds—the company, however, persevered, chiefly at the instigation of the Aldens, who were in the habit of saying ‘Never say die!’ and at last got the better of all their difficulties and rolled in riches, and had the credit of being the first company that ever opened Wales, which they richly deserved, for I will uphold it that the Rheidol United, particularly the Aldens, George and Thomas, were the first people who really opened Wales. In their service I have been for five-and-thirty years, and dare say shall continue so till I die. I have been tolerably comfortable, your honour, though I have had my griefs, the bitterest of which was the death of my wife, which happened about eight years after I came to this country. I thought I should have gone wild at first, your honour! Having, however, always plenty to do, I at last got the better of my affliction. I continued single till my English family grew up and left me, when feeling myself rather lonely I married a decent young Welshwoman, by whom I had one son, the lad John, who is following behind with his dog Joe. And now your honour knows the whole story of John Greaves, miner from the county of Durham.”
“And a most entertaining and instructive history it is,” said I. “You have not told me, however, how you contrived to pick up Welsh: I heard you speaking it last night with the postman.”
“Why, through my Welsh wife, your honour! Without her I don’t think I should ever have picked up the Welsh manner of discoursing—she is a good kind of woman, my Welsh wife, though—”
“The loss of your Durham wife must have been a great grief to you,” said I.
“It was the bitterest grief, your honour, as I said before, that I ever had—my next worst I think was the death of a dear friend.”
“Who was that?” said I.
“Who was it, your honour? why, the Duke of Newcastle.”
“Dear me!” said I; “how came you to know him?”
“Why, your honour, he lived at a place not far from here, called Hafod, and so—”
“Hafod!” said I; “I have often heard of Hafod and its library; but I thought it belonged to an old Welsh family called Johnes.”
“Well, so it did, your honour! but the family died away, and the estate was put up for sale, and purchased by the Duke, who built a fine house upon it, which he made his chief place of residence—the old family house, I must tell your honour, in which the library was had been destroyed by fire: well, he hadn’t been long settled there before he found me out and took wonderfully to me, discoursing with me and consulting me about his farming and improvements. Many is the pleasant chat and discourse I have had with his Grace for hours and hours together, for his Grace had not a bit of pride, at least he never showed any to me, though, perhaps, the reason of that was that we were both north-country people. Lord! I would have laid down my life for his Grace and have done anything but one which he once asked me to do: ‘Greaves,’ said the Duke to me one day, ‘I wish you would give up mining and become my steward.’ ‘Sorry I can’t oblige your Grace,’ said I; ‘but give up mining I cannot. I will at any time give your Grace all the advice I can about farming and such like, but give up mining I cannot: because why? I conceive mining to be the noblest business in the ‘versal world.’ Whereupon his Grace laughed, and said he dare say I was right, and never mentioned the subject again.”
“Was his Grace very fond of farming and improving?”
“O yes, your honour! like all the great gentry, especially the north-country gentry, his Grace was wonderfully fond of farming and improving—and a wonderful deal of good he did, reclaiming thousands of acres of land which was before good for nothing, and building capital farm-houses and offices for his tenants. His grand feat, however, was bringing the Durham bull into this country, which formed a capital cross with the Welsh cows. Pity that he wasn’t equally fortunate with the north-country sheep.”
“Did he try to introduce them into Wales?”
“Yes; but they didn’t answer, as I knew they wouldn’t. Says I to the Duke, ‘It won’t do, your Grace, to bring the north-country sheep here: because why? the hills are too wet and cold for their constitutions;’ but his Grace, who had sometimes a will of his own, persisted and brought the north-country sheep to these parts, and it turned out as I said: the sheep caught the disease and the wool parted and—”
“But,” said I, “you should have told him about the salve made of bran, butter and oil; you should have done that.”
“Well, so I did, your honour; I told him about the salve, and the Duke listened to me, and the salve was made by these very hands; but when it was made, what do you think? the foolish Welsh wouldn’t put it on, saying that it was against their laws and statties and religion to use it, and talked about Devil’s salves and the Witch of Endor, and the sin against the Holy Ghost, and such-like nonsense. So to prevent a regular rebellion, the Duke gave up the salve and the poor sheep pined away and died, till at last there was not one left.”
“Who holds the estate at present?” said I.
“Why, a great gentleman from Lancashire, your honour, who bought it when the Duke died; but he doesn’t take the same pleasure in it which the Duke did, nor spend so much money about it, the consequence being that everything looks very different from what it looked in the Duke’s time. The inn at the Devil’s Bridge and the grounds look very different from what they looked in the Duke’s time, for you must know that the inn and the grounds form part of the Hafod estate, and are hired from the proprietor.”
By this time we had arrived at a small village, with a toll-bar and a small church or chapel at some little distance from the road, which here made a turn nearly full south. The road was very good, but the country was wild and rugged; there was a deep vale on the right, at the bottom of which rolled the Rheidol in its cleft, rising beyond which were steep, naked hills.
“This village,” said my companion, “is called Ysbytty Cynfyn. Down on the right, past the church, is a strange bridge across the Rheidol, which runs there through a horrid kind of a place. The bridge is called Pont yr Offeiriad, or the Parson’s Bridge, because in the old time the clergyman passed over it every Sunday to do duty in the church here.”
“Why is this place called Ysbytty Cynfyn?” said I, “which means the hospital of the first boundary; is there a hospital of the second boundary near here?”
“I can’t say anything about boundaries, your honour; all I know is, that there is another Spytty farther on beyond Hafod called Ysbytty Ystwyth, or the ’Spytty upon the Ystwyth. But to return to the matter of the Minister’s Bridge: I would counsel your honour to go and see that bridge before you leave these parts. A vast number of gentry go to see it in the summer time. It was the bridge which the landlord was mentioning last night, though it scarcely belongs to his district, being quite as near the Devil’s Bridge inn, as it is to his own, your honour.”
We went on discoursing for about half-a-mile farther, when, stopping by a road which branched off to the hills on the left, my companion said, “I must now wish your honour good day, being obliged to go a little way up here to a mining work on a small bit of business; my son, however, and his dog Joe will show your honour the way to the Devil’s Bridge, as they are bound to a place a little way past it. I have now but one word to say, which is, that should ever your honour please to visit me at my mine, your honour shall receive every facility for inspecting the works, and moreover have a bellyfull of drink and victuals from Jock Greaves, miner from the county of Durham.”
I shook the honest fellow by the hand and went on in company with the lad John and his dog as far as the Devil’s Bridge. John was a highly intelligent lad, spoke Welsh and English fluently, could read, as he told me, both languages, and had some acquaintance with the writings of Twm o’r Nant, as he showed by repeating the following lines of the carter poet, certainly not the worst which he ever wrote:—
“Twm o’r Nant mae cant a’m galw Tomas Edwards yw fy enw.
Tom O Nant is a nickname I’ve got, My name’s Thomas Edwards, I wot.”
Chapter LXXXIV
The Hospice—The Two Rivers—The Devil’s Bridge—Pleasant Recollections.
I arrived at the Devil’s Bridge at about eleven o’clock of a fine but cold day, and took up my quarters at the inn, of which I was the sole guest during the whole time that I continued there, for the inn, standing in a lone, wild district, has very few guests except in summer, when it is thronged with tourists, who avail themselves of that genial season to view the wonders of Wales, of which the region close by is considered amongst the principal.
The inn, or rather hospice, for the sounding name of hospice is more applicable to it than the common one of inn, was built at a great expense by the late Duke of Newcastle. It is an immense lofty cottage with projecting eaves, and has a fine window to the east which enlightens a stately staircase and a noble gallery. It fronts the north and stands in the midst of one of the most remarkable localities in the world, of which it would require a far more vigorous pen than mine to convey an adequate idea.
Far to the west is a tall, strange-looking hill, the top of which bears no slight resemblance to that of a battlemented castle. This hill, which is believed to have been in ancient times a stronghold of the Britons, bears the name of Bryn y Castell or the hill of the castle. To the north-west are russet hills, to the east two brown paps, whilst to the south is a high, swelling mountain. To the north and just below the hospice is a profound hollow with all the appearance of the crater of an extinct volcano; at the bottom of this hollow the waters of two rivers unite; those of the Rheidol from the north, and those of the Afon y Mynach, or the Monks’ River, from the south-east. The Rheidol falling over a rocky precipice at the northern side of the hollow forms a cataract very pleasant to look upon from the middle upper window of the inn. Those of the Mynach which pass under the celebrated Devil’s Bridge are not visible, though they generally make themselves heard. The waters of both, after uniting, flow away through a romantic glen towards the west. The sides of the hollow, and indeed of most of the ravines in the neighbourhood, which are numerous, are beautifully clad with wood.
Penetrate now into the hollow above which the hospice stands. You descend by successive flights of steps, some of which are very slippery and insecure. On your right is the Monks’ River, roaring down its dingle in five successive falls, to join its brother the Rheidol. Each of the falls has its own peculiar basin, one or two of which are said to be of awful depth. The length which these falls with their basins occupy is about five hundred feet. On the side of the basin of the last but one is the cave, or the site of the cave, said to have been occupied in old times by the Wicked Children, the mysterious Plant de Bat, two brothers and a sister, robbers and murderers. At present it is nearly open on every side, having, it is said, been destroyed to prevent its being the haunt of other evil people: there is a tradition in the country that the fall at one time tumbled over its mouth. This tradition, however, is evidently without foundation, as from the nature of the ground the river could never have run but in its present channel. Of all the falls the fifth or last is the most considerable: you view it from a kind of den, to which the last flight of steps, the ruggedest and most dangerous of all, has brought you; your position here is a wild one. The fall, which is split into two, is thundering beside you; foam, foam, foam is flying all about you; the basin or cauldron is boiling frightfully below you; hirsute rocks are frowning terribly above you, and above them forest trees, dank and wet with spray and mist, are distilling drops in showers from their boughs.
But where is the bridge, the celebrated bridge of the Evil Man? From the bottom of the first flight of steps leading down into the hollow you see a modern-looking bridge bestriding a deep chasm or cleft to the southeast, near the top of the dingle of the Monks’ River; over it lies the road to Pont Erwyd. That, however, is not the Devil’s Bridge—but about twenty feet below that bridge and completely overhung by it, don’t you see a shadowy, spectral object, something like a bow, which likewise bestrides the chasm? You do! Well! that shadowy, spectral object is the celebrated Devil’s Bridge, or, as the timorous peasants of the locality call it, the Pont y Gwr Drwg. It is now merely preserved as an object of curiosity, the bridge above being alone used for transit, and is quite inaccessible except to birds, and the climbing wicked boys of the neighbourhood, who sometimes at the risk of their lives contrive to get upon it from the frightfully steep northern bank, and snatch a fearful joy, as, whilst lying on their bellies, they poke their heads over its sides worn by age, without parapet to prevent them from falling into the horrid gulf below. But from the steps in the hollow the view of the Devil’s Bridge, and likewise of the cleft, is very slight and unsatisfactory. To view it properly, and the wonders connected with it, you must pass over the bridge above it, and descend a precipitous dingle on the eastern side till you come to a small platform in a crag. Below you now is a frightful cavity, at the bottom of which the waters of the Monks’ River, which comes tumbling from a glen to the east, whirl, boil and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron, called in the language of the country Twll yn y graig, or the hole in the rock, in a manner truly tremendous. On your right is a slit, probably caused by volcanic force, through which the waters after whirling in the cauldron eventually escape. The slit is wonderfully narrow considering its altitude, which is very great, considerably upwards of a hundred feet—nearly above you, crossing the slit, which is partially wrapped in darkness, is the far-famed bridge, the Bridge of the Evil Man, a work which though crumbling and darkly grey does much honour to the hand which built it, whether it was the hand of Satan or of a monkish architect, for the arch is chaste and beautiful, far superior in every respect, except in safety and utility, to the one above it, which from this place you have not the mortification of seeing. Gaze on these objects, namely, the horrid seething pot or cauldron, the gloomy volcanic slit, and the spectral, shadowy Devil’s Bridge for about three minutes, allowing a minute to each, then scramble up the bank and repair to your inn, and have no more sight-seeing that day, for you have seen enough. And if pleasant recollections do not haunt you through life of the noble falls and the beautiful wooded dingles to the west of the Bridge of the Evil One, and awful and mysterious ones of the monks’ boiling cauldron, the long, savage, shadowy cleft, and the grey, crumbling spectral bridge, I say boldly that you must be a very unpoetical person indeed.
Chapter LXXXV
Dinner at the Hospice—Evening Gossip—A Day of Rain—A Scanty Flock—The Bridge of the Minister—Legs in Danger.
I dined in a parlour of the inn commanding an excellent view of the hollow and the Rheidol fall. Shortly after I had dined a fierce storm of rain and wind came on. It lasted for an hour, and then everything again became calm. Just before evening was closing in I took a stroll to a village which stands a little way to the west of the inn. It consists only of a few ruinous edifices, and is chiefly inhabited by miners and their families. I saw no men, but plenty of women and children. Seeing a knot of women and girls chatting I went up and addressed them—some of the girls were very good-looking—none of the party had any English; all of them were very civil. I first talked to them about religion, and found that without a single exception they were Calvinistic Methodists. I next talked to them about the Plant de Bat. They laughed heartily at the first mention of their name, but seemed to know very little about their history. After some twenty minutes’ discourse I bade them good-night and returned to my inn.
The night was very cold; the people of the house, however, made up for me a roaring fire of turf, and I felt very comfortable. About ten o’clock I went to bed, intending next morning to go and see Plynlimmon, which I had left behind me on entering Cardiganshire. When the morning came, however, I saw at once that I had entered upon a day by no means adapted for excursions of any considerable length, for it rained terribly; but this gave me very little concern; my time was my own, and I said to myself, “If I can’t go to-day I can perhaps go to-morrow.” After breakfast I passed some hours in a manner by no means disagreeable, sometimes meditating before my turf fire with my eyes fixed upon it, and sometimes sitting by the window with my eyes fixed upon the cascade of the Rheidol, which was every moment becoming more magnificent. At length, about twelve o’clock, fearing that if I stayed within I should lose my appetite for dinner, which has always been one of the greatest of my enjoyments, I determined to go and see the Minister’s Bridge which my friend the old mining captain had spoken to me about. I knew that I should get a wetting by doing so, for the weather still continued very bad, but I don’t care much for a wetting provided I have a good roof, a good fire and good fare to betake myself to afterwards.
So I set out. As I passed over the bridge of the Mynach River I looked down over the eastern balustrade. The Bridge of the Evil One, which is just below it, was quite invisible. I could see, however, the pot or crochan distinctly enough, and a horrible sight it presented. The waters were whirling round in a manner to describe which any word but frenzied would be utterly powerless. Half-an-hour’s walking brought me to the little village through which I had passed the day before. Going up to a house I knocked at the door, and a middle-aged man opening it, I asked him the way to the Bridge of the Minister. He pointed to the little chapel to the west and said that the way lay past it, adding that he would go with me himself, as he wanted to go to the hills on the other side to see his sheep.
We got presently into discourse. He at first talked broken English, but soon began to speak his native language. I asked him if the chapel belonged to the Methodists.
“It is not a chapel,” said he, “it is a church.”
“Do many come to it?” said I.
“Not many, sir, for the Methodists are very powerful here. Not more than forty or fifty come.”
“Do you belong to the Church?” said I.
“I do, sir, thank God!”
“You may well be thankful,” said I, “for it is a great privilege to belong to the Church of England.”
“It is so, sir!” said the man, “though few, alas! think so.”
I found him a highly intelligent person: on my talking to him about the name of the place, he said that some called it Spytty Cynfyn, and others Spytty Cynwyl, and that both Cynwyl and Cynfyn were the names of people, to one or other of which the place was dedicated, and that like the place farther on called Spytty Ystwyth, it was in the old time a hospital or inn for the convenience of the pilgrims going to the great monastery of Ystrad Flur or Strata Florida.
Passing through a field or two we came to the side of a very deep ravine, down which there was a zigzag path leading to the bridge. The path was very steep, and, owing to the rain, exceedingly slippery. For some way it led through a grove of dwarf oaks, by grasping the branches of which I was enabled to support myself tolerably well; nearly at the bottom, however, where the path was most precipitous, the trees ceased altogether. Fearing to trust my legs I determined to slide down, and put my resolution in practice, arriving at a little shelf close by the bridge without any accident. The man, accustomed to the path, went down in the usual manner. The bridge consisted of a couple of planks and a pole flung over a chasm about ten feet wide, on the farther side of which was a precipice with a path at least quite as steep as the one down which I had come, and without any trees or shrubs, by which those who used it might support themselves. The torrent rolled about nine feet below the bridge; its channel was tortuous; on the south-east side of the bridge was a cauldron, like that on which I had looked down from the bridge over the river of the monks. The man passed over the bridge and I followed him; on the other side we stopped and turned round. The river was rushing and surging, the pot was boiling and roaring, and everything looked wild and savage; but the locality for awfulness and mysterious gloom could not compare with that on the east side of the Devil’s Bridge, nor for sublimity and grandeur with that on the west.
“Here you see, sir,” said the man, “the Bridge of the Offeiriad, called so, it is said, because the popes used to pass over it in the old time; and here you have the Rheidol, which, though not so smooth nor so well off for banks as the Hafren and the Gwy, gets to the sea before either of them, and as the pennill says is quite as much entitled to honour:—
“‘Hafren a Wy yn hyfryd eu wêdd A Rheidol vawr ei anrhydedd.’
Good rhyme, sir, that. I wish you would put it into Saesneg.”
“I am afraid I shall make a poor hand of it,” said I; “however, I will do my best.
“‘O pleasantly do glide along the Severn and the Wye; But Rheidol’s rough, and yet he’s held by all in honour high.’”
“Very good rhyme that, sir! though not so good as the pennill Cymraeg. Ha, I do see that you know the two languages and are one poet. And now, sir, I must leave you, and go to the hills to my sheep, who I am afraid will be suffering in this dreadful weather. However, before I go, I should wish to see you safe over the bridge.”
I shook him by the hand, and retracing my steps over the bridge began clambering up the bank on my knees.
“You will spoil your trowsers, sir!” cried the man from the other side.
“I don’t care if I do,” said I, “provided I save my legs, which are in some danger of this place, as well as my neck, which is of less consequence.”
I hurried back amidst rain and wind to my friendly hospice, where, after drying my wet clothes as well as I could, I made an excellent dinner on fowl and bacon. Dinner over I took up a newspaper which was brought me, and read an article about the Russian war, which did not seem to be going on much to the advantage of the allies. Soon flinging the paper aside I stuck my feet on the stove, one on each side of the turf fire, and listened to the noises without. The bellowing of the wind down the mountain passes and the roaring of the Rheidol fall at the north side of the valley, and the rushing of the five cascades of the river Mynach, were truly awful. Perhaps I ought not to have said the five cascades of the Mynach, but the Mynach cascade, for now its five cascades had become one, extending from the chasm over which hung the bridge of Satan to the bottom of the valley.
After a time I fell into a fit of musing. I thought of the Plant de Bat: I thought of the spitties or hospitals connected with the great monastery of Ystrad Flur or Strata Florida: I thought of the remarkable bridge close by, built by a clever monk of that place to facilitate the coming of pilgrims with their votive offerings from the north to his convent: I thought of the convent built in the time of our Henry the Second by Ryce ab Gruffyd, prince of South Wales; and lastly I thought of a wonderful man who was buried in its precincts, the greatest genius which Wales, and perhaps Britain, ever produced, on whose account, and not because of old it had been a magnificent building, and the most celebrated place of popish pilgrimage in Wales, I had long ago determined to visit it on my journey, a man of whose life and works the following is a brief account.
Chapter LXXXVI
Birth and Early Years of Ab Gwilym—Morfudd—Relic of Druidism—The Men of Glamorgan—Legend of Ab Gwilym—Ab Gwilym as a Writer—Wonderful Variety—Objects of Nature—Gruffydd Gryg.
Dafydd Ab Gwilym was born about the year 1320 at a place called Bro Gynnin in the county of Cardigan. Though born in wedlock he was not conceived legitimately. His mother being discovered by her parents to be pregnant was turned out of doors by them, whereupon she went to her lover, who married her, though in so doing he acted contrary to the advice of his relations. After a little time, however, a general reconciliation took place. The parents of Ab Gwilym, though highly connected, do not appear to have possessed much property. The boy was educated by his mother’s brother, Llewelyn ab Gwilym Fychan, a chief of Cardiganshire; but his principal patron in after life was Ifor, a cousin of his father, surnamed Hael or the bountiful, a chieftain of Glamorganshire. This person received him within his house, made him his steward and tutor to his daughter. With this young lady Ab Gwilym speedily fell in love, and the damsel returned his passion. Ifor, however, not approving of the connection, sent his daughter to Anglesey and eventually caused her to take the veil in a nunnery of that island. Dafydd pursued her, but not being able to obtain an interview he returned to his patron, who gave him a kind reception. Under Ifor’s roof he cultivated poetry with great assiduity and wonderful success. Whilst very young, being taunted with the circumstances of his birth by a brother bard called Rhys Meigan, he retorted in an ode so venomously bitter that his adversary, after hearing it, fell down and expired. Shortly after this event he was made head bard of Glamorgan by universal acclamation.
After a stay of some time with Ifor he returned to his native county and lived at Bro Gynnin. Here he fell in love with a young lady of birth called Dyddgu, who did not favour his addresses. He did not break his heart, however, on her account, but speedily bestowed it on the fair Morfudd, whom he first saw at Rhosyr in Anglesey, to which place both had gone on a religious account. The lady after some demur consented to become his wife. Her parents refusing to sanction the union their hands were joined beneath the greenwood tree by one Madawg Benfras, a bard and a great friend of Ab Gwilym. The joining of people’s hands by bards, which was probably a relic of Druidism, had long been practised in Wales, and marriages of this kind were generally considered valid, and seldom set aside. The ecclesiastical law, however, did not recognise these poetical marriages, and the parents of Morfudd by appealing to the law soon severed the union. After confining the lady for a short time they bestowed her hand in legal fashion upon a chieftain of the neighbourhood, very rich but rather old, and with a hump on his back, on which account he was nick-named bow-back or little hump-back. Morfudd, however, who passed her time in rather a dull manner with this person, which would not have been the case had she done her duty by endeavouring to make the poor man comfortable, and by visiting the sick and needy around her, was soon induced by the bard to elope with him. The lovers fled to Glamorgan, where Ifor Hael, not much to his own credit, received them with open arms, probably forgetting how he had immured his own daughter in a convent rather than bestow her on Ab Gwilym. Having a hunting-lodge in a forest on the banks of the lovely Taf, he allotted it to the fugitives as a residence. Ecclesiastical law, however, as strong in Wild Wales as in other parts of Europe, soon followed them into Glamorgan, and, very properly, separated them. The lady was restored to her husband, and Ab Gwilym fined to a very high amount. Not being able to pay the fine he was cast into prison; but then the men of Glamorgan arose to a man, swearing that their head bard should not remain in prison. “Then pay his fine!” said the ecclesiastical law, or rather the ecclesiastical lawyer. “So we will!” said the men of Glamorgan; and so they did. Every man put his hand into his pocket; the amount was soon raised, the fine paid, and the bard set free.
Ab Gwilym did not forget this kindness of the men of Glamorgan, and to requite it wrote an address to the sun, in which he requests that luminary to visit Glamorgan, to bless it and to keep it from harm. The piece concludes with some noble lines somewhat to this effect:—
“If every strand oppression strong Should arm against the son of song, The weary wight would find, I ween, A welcome in Glamorgan green.”
Some time after his release he meditated a second elopement with Morfudd, and even induced her to consent to go off with him. A friend to whom he disclosed what he was thinking of doing, asking him whether he would venture a second time to take such a step, “I will,” said the bard, “in the name of God and the men of Glamorgan.” No second elopement, however, took place, the bard probably thinking, as has been well observed, that neither God nor the men of Glamorgan would help him a second time out of such an affair. He did not attain to any advanced age, but died when about sixty, some twenty years before the rising of Glendower. Some time before his death his mind fortunately took a decidedly religious turn.
He is said to have been eminently handsome in his youth, tall, slender, with yellow hair falling in ringlets down his shoulders. He is likewise said to have been a great libertine. The following story is told of him:—
“In a certain neighbourhood he had a great many mistresses, some married and others not. Once upon a time in the month of June he made a secret appointment with each of his lady-loves, the place and hour of meeting being the same for all; each was to meet him at the same hour beneath a mighty oak which stood in the midst of a forest glade. Some time before the appointed hour he went, and climbing up the oak, hid himself amidst the dense foliage of its boughs. When the hour arrived he observed all the nymphs tripping to the place of appointment; all came, to the number of twenty-four, not one stayed away. For some time they remained beneath the oak staring at each other. At length an explanation ensued, and it appeared that they had all come to meet Ab Gwilym.
“‘Oh, the treacherous monster!’ cried they with one accord; ‘only let him show himself and we will tear him to pieces.’
“‘Will you?’ said Ab Gwilym from the oak; ‘here I am! let her who has been most wanton with me make the first attack upon me!’
“The females remained for some time speechless; all of a sudden, however, their anger kindled, not against the bard, but against each other. From harsh and taunting words they soon came to actions: hair was torn off; faces were scratched; blood flowed from cheek and nose. Whilst the tumult was at its fiercest Ab Gwilym slipped away.”
The writer merely repeats this story, and he repeats it as concisely as possible, in order to have an opportunity of saying that he does not believe one particle of it. If he believed it he would forthwith burn the most cherished volume of the small collection of books from which he derives delight and recreation, namely, that which contains the songs of Ab Gwilym, for he would have nothing in his possession belonging to such a heartless scoundrel as Ab Gwilym must have been had he got up the scene above described. Any common man who would expose to each other and the world a number of hapless, trusting females who had favoured him with their affections, and from the top of a tree would feast his eyes upon their agonies of shame and rage would deserve to be . . . emasculated. Had Ab Gwilym been so dead to every feeling of gratitude and honour as to play the part which the story makes him play, he would have deserved not only to be emasculated, but to be scourged with harp-strings in every market-town in Wales, and to be dismissed from the service of the Muse. But the writer repeats that he does not believe one tittle of the story, though Ab Gwilym’s biographer, the learned and celebrated William Owen, not only seems to believe it, but rather chuckles over it. It is the opinion of the writer that the story is of Italian origin, and that it formed part of one of the many rascally novels brought over to England after the marriage of Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son of Edward the Third, with Violante, daughter of Galeazzo, Duke of Milan.
Dafydd Ab Gwilym has been in general considered as a songster who never employed his muse on any subject save that of love, and there can be no doubt that by far the greater number of his pieces are devoted more or less to the subject of love. But to consider him merely in the light of an amatory poet would be wrong. He has written poems of wonderful power on almost every conceivable subject. Ab Gwilym has been styled the Welsh Ovid, and with great justice, but not merely because like the Roman he wrote admirably on love. The Roman was not merely an amatory poet: let the shade of Pythagoras say whether the poet who embodied in immortal verse the oldest, the most wonderful and at the same time the most humane of all philosophy was a mere amatory poet. Let the shade of blind Homer be called up to say whether the bard who composed the tremendous line—
“Surgit ad hos clypei dominus septemplicis Ajax”—
equal to any save one of his own, was a mere amatory songster. Yet, diversified as the genius of the Roman was, there was no species of poetry in which he shone in which the Welshman may not be said to display equal merit. Ab Gwilym then has been fairly styled the Welsh Ovid. But he was something more—and here let there be no sneers about Welsh; the Welsh are equal in genius, intellect and learning to any people under the sun, and speak a language older than Greek, and which is one of the immediate parents of the Greek. He was something more than the Welsh Ovid; he was the Welsh Horace, and wrote light, agreeable, sportive pieces, equal to any things of the kind composed by Horace in his best moods. But he was something more; he was the Welsh Martial, and wrote pieces equal in pungency to those of the great Roman epigrammatist, perhaps more than equal, for we never heard that any of Martial’s epigrams killed anybody, whereas Ab Gwilym’s piece of vituperation on Rhys Meigan—pity that poets should be so virulent—caused the Welshman to fall down dead. But he was yet something more; he could, if he pleased, be a Tyrtæus; he was no fighter—where was there ever a poet that was?—but he wrote an ode on a sword, the only warlike piece that he ever wrote, the best poem on the subject ever written in any language. Finally, he was something more; he was what not one of the great Latin poets was, a Christian; that is, in his latter days, when he began to feel the vanity of all human pursuits, when his nerves began to be unstrung, his hair to fall off, and his teeth to drop out, and he then composed sacred pieces entitling him to rank with—we were going to say Cædmon—had we done so we should have done wrong; no uninspired poet ever handled sacred subjects like the grand Saxon Skald—but which entitle him to be called a great religious poet, inferior to none but the protégé of Hilda.
Before ceasing to speak of Ab Gwilym, it will be necessary to state that his amatory pieces, which constitute more than one-half of his productions, must be divided into two classes, the purely amatory and those only partly devoted to love. His poems to Dyddgu, and the daughter of Ifor Hael, are productions very different from those addressed to Morfudd. There can be no doubt that he had a sincere affection for the two first; there is no levity in the cowydds which he addressed to them, and he seldom introduces any other objects than those of his love. But in his cowydds addressed to Morfudd is there no levity? Is Morfudd ever prominent? His cowydds to that woman abound with humorous levity, and for the most part have far less to do with her than with natural objects—the snow, the mist, the trees of the forest, the birds of the air, and the fishes of the stream. His first piece to Morfudd is full of levity quite inconsistent with true love. It states how, after seeing her for the first time at Rhosyr in Anglesey, and falling in love with her, he sends her a present of wine by the hands of a servant, which present she refuses, casting the wine contemptuously over the head of the valet. This commencement promises little in the way of true passion, so that we are not disappointed when we read a little farther on that the bard is dead and buried, all on account of love, and that Morfudd makes a pilgrimage to Mynyw to seek for pardon for killing him, nor when we find him begging the popish image to convey a message to her. Then presently we almost lose sight of Morfudd amidst birds, animals and trees, and we are not sorry that we do; for though Ab Gwilym is mighty in humour, great in describing the emotions of love and the beauties of the lovely, he is greatest of all in describing objects of nature; indeed in describing them he has no equal, and the writer has no hesitation in saying that in many of his cowydds in which he describes various objects of nature, by which he sends messages to Morfudd, he shows himself a far greater poet than Ovid appears in any one of his Metamorphoses. There are many poets who attempt to describe natural objects without being intimately acquainted with them, but Ab Gwilym was not one of these. No one was better acquainted with nature; he was a stroller, and there is every probability that during the greater part of the summer he had no other roof than the foliage, and that the voices of birds and animals were more familiar to his ears than was the voice of man. During the summer months, indeed, in the early part of his life, he was, if we may credit him, generally lying perdue in the woodland or mountain recesses near the habitation of his mistress, before or after her marriage, awaiting her secret visits, made whenever she could escape the vigilance of her parents, or the watchful jealousy of her husband, and during her absence he had nothing better to do than to observe objects of nature and describe them. His ode to the Fox, one of the most admirable of his pieces, was composed on one of these occasions.
Want of space prevents the writer from saying as much as he could wish about the genius of this wonderful man, the greatest of his country’s songsters, well calculated by nature to do honour to the most polished age and the most widely-spoken language. The bards his contemporaries, and those who succeeded him for several hundred years, were perfectly convinced of his superiority not only over themselves but over all the poets of the past, and one, and a mighty one, old Iolo the bard of Glendower, went so far as to insinuate that after Ab Gwilym it would be of little avail for any one to make verses:—
“Aed lle mae’r eang dangneff, Ac aed y gerdd gydag ef.”
To Heaven’s high peace let him depart, And with him go the minstrel art.
He was buried at Ystrad Flur, and a yew tree was planted over his grave, to which Gruffydd Gryg, a brother bard, who was at one time his enemy, but eventually became one of the most ardent of his admirers, addressed an ode, of part of which the following is a paraphrase:—
Thou noble tree; who shelt’rest kind The dead man’s house from winter’s wind; May lightnings never lay thee low, Nor archer cut from thee his bow; Nor Crispin peel thee pegs to frame, But may thou ever bloom the same, A noble tree the grave to guard Of Cambria’s most illustrious bard!
LXXXVII. Start for Plynlimmon—Plynlimmon’s Celebrity—Troed Rhiw Goch
The morning of the fifth of November looked rather threatening. As, however, it did not rain, I determined to set off for Plynlimmon, and returning at night to the inn, resume my journey to the south on the following day. On looking into a pocket almanac I found it was Sunday. This very much disconcerted me, and I thought at first of giving up my expedition. Eventually, however, I determined to go, for I reflected that I should be doing no harm, and that I might acknowledge the sacredness of the day by attending morning service at the little Church of England chapel which lay in my way.
The mountain of Plynlimmon to which I was bound is the third in Wales for altitude, being only inferior to Snowdon and Cadair Idris. Its proper name is Pum or Pump Lumon, signifying the five points, because towards the upper part it is divided into five hills or points. Plynlimmon is a celebrated hill on many accounts. It has been the scene of many remarkable events: in the tenth century a dreadful battle was fought on one of its spurs between the Danes and the Welsh, in which the former sustained a bloody overthrow, and in 1401 a conflict took place in one of its valleys between the Welsh under Glendower and the Flemings of Pembrokeshire, who, exasperated at having their homesteads plundered and burned by the chieftain, who was the mortal enemy of their race, assembled in considerable numbers and drove Glendower and his forces before them to Plynlimmon, where the Welshmen standing at bay a contest ensued, in which, though eventually worsted, the Flemings were at one time all but victorious. What, however, has more than anything else contributed to the celebrity of the hill is the circumstance of its giving birth to three rivers. The first of which, the Severn, is the principal stream in Britain; the second, the Wye, the most lovely river, probably, which the world can boast of; and the third, the Rheidol, entitled to high honour from its boldness and impetuosity, and the remarkable banks between which it flows in its very short course, for there are scarcely twenty miles between the ffynnon or source of the Rheidol and the aber or place where it disembogues itself into the sea.
I started about ten o’clock on my expedition, after making, of course, a very hearty breakfast. Scarcely had I crossed the Devil’s Bridge when a shower of hail and rain came on. As, however, it came down nearly perpendicularly, I put up my umbrella and laughed. The shower pelted away till I had nearly reached Spytty Cynwyl, when it suddenly left off, and the day became tolerably fine. On arriving at the Spytty I was sorry to find that there would be no service till three in the afternoon. As waiting till that time was out of the question, I pushed forward on my expedition. Leaving Pont Erwyd at some distance on my left, I went duly north till I came to a place amongst hills where the road was crossed by an angry-looking rivulet, the same I believe which enters the Rheidol near Pont Erwyd, and which is called the Castle River. I was just going to pull off my boots and stockings in order to wade through, when I perceived a pole and a rail laid over the stream at a little distance above where I was. This rustic bridge enabled me to cross without running the danger of getting a regular sousing, for these mountain streams, even when not reaching so high as the knee, occasionally sweep the wader off his legs, as I know by my own experience. From a lad whom I presently met I learned that the place where I crossed the water was called Troed rhiw goch, or the Foot of the Red Slope.
About twenty minutes’ walk from hence brought me to Castell Dyffryn, an inn about six miles distant from the Devil’s Bridge, and situated near a spur of the Plynlimmon range. Here I engaged a man to show me the sources of the rivers and the other wonders of the mountain. He was a tall, athletic fellow, dressed in brown coat, round buff hat, corduroy trowsers, linen leggings and highlows, and though a Cumro had much more the appearance of a native of Tipperary than a Welshman. He was a kind of shepherd to the people of the house, who like many others in South Wales followed farming and inn-keeping at the same time.
Chapter LXXXVIII
The Guide—The Great Plynlimmon—A Dangerous Path—Source of the Rheidol—Source of the Severn—Pennillion—Old Times and New—The Corpse-Candle—Supper.
Leaving the inn my guide and myself began to ascend a steep hill just behind it. When we were about half way up I asked my companion, who spoke very fair English, why the place was called the Castle.
“Because, sir,” said he, “there was a castle here in the old time.”
“Whereabouts was it?” said I.
“Yonder,” said the man, standing still and pointing to the right. “Don’t you see yonder brown spot in the valley? There the castle stood.”
“But are there no remains of it?” said I. “I can see nothing but a brown spot.”
“There are none, sir! but there a castle once stood, and from it the place we came from had its name, and likewise the river that runs down to Pont Erwyd.”
“And who lived there?” said I.
“I don’t know, sir,” said the man. “But I suppose they were grand people or they would not have lived in a castle.”
After ascending the hill and passing over its top we went down its western side and soon came to a black frightful bog between two hills. Beyond the bog and at some distance to the west of the two hills rose a brown mountain, not abruptly but gradually, and looking more like what the Welsh call a rhiw or slope than a mynydd or mountain.
“That, sir,” said my guide, “is the great Plynlimmon.”
“It does not look much of a hill,” said I.
“We are on very high ground, sir, or it would look much higher. I question, upon the whole, whether there is a higher hill in the world. God bless Pumlummon Mawr!” said he, looking with reverence towards the hill. “I am sure I have a right to say so, for many is the good crown I have got by showing gentlefolks, like yourself, to the top of him.”
“You talk of Plynlimmon Mawr, or the great Plynlimmon,” said I; “where are the small ones?”
“Yonder they are,” said the guide, pointing to two hills towards the north—“one is Plynlimmon Canol, and the other Plynlimmon Bach. The middle and the small Plynlimmon.”
“Pumlummon,” said I, “means five summits. You have pointed out only three—now, where are the other two?”
“Those two hills which we have just passed make up the five. However, I will tell your worship that there is a sixth summit. Don’t you see that small hill connected with the big Pumlummon, on the right?”
“I see it very clearly,” said I.
“Well, your worship, that’s called Bryn y Llo—the Hill of the Calf, or the Calf Plynlimmon, which makes the sixth summit.”
“Very good,” said I, “and perfectly satisfactory. Now let us ascend the Big Pumlummon.”
In about a quarter of an hour we reached the summit of the hill, where stood a large carn or heap of stones. I got up on the top and looked around me.
A mountainous wilderness extended on every side, a waste of russet-coloured hills, with here and there a black, craggy summit. No signs of life or cultivation were to be discovered, and the eye might search in vain for a grove or even a single tree. The scene would have been cheerless in the extreme had not a bright sun lighted up the landscape.
“This does not seem to be a country of much society,” said I to my guide.
“It is not, sir. The nearest house is the inn we came from, which is now three miles behind us. Straight before you there is not one for at least ten, and on either side it is an anialwch to a vast distance. Plunlummon is not a sociable country, sir; nothing to be found in it, but here and there a few sheep or a shepherd.”
“Now,” said I, descending from the carn, “we will proceed to the sources of the rivers.”
“The ffynnon of the Rheidol is not far off,” said the guide; “it is just below the hill.”
We descended the western side of the hill for some way; at length, coming to a very craggy and precipitous place my guide stopped, and pointing with his finger into the valley below, said:
“There, sir, if you look down you can see the source of the Rheidol.”
I looked down, and saw far below what appeared to be part of a small sheet of water.
“And that is the source of the Rheidol?” said I.
“Yes, sir,” said my guide; “that is the ffynnon of the Rheidol.”
“Well,” said I, “is there no getting to it?”
“O yes! but the path, sir, as you see, is rather steep and dangerous.”
“Never mind,” said I. “Let us try it.”
“Isn’t seeing the fountain sufficient for you, sir?”
“By no means,” said I. “It is not only necessary for me to see the sources of the rivers, but to drink of them, in order that in after times I may be able to harangue about them with a tone of confidence and authority.”
“Then follow me, sir; but please to take care, for this path is more fit for sheep or shepherds than gentlefolk.”
And a truly bad path I found it; so bad indeed that before I had descended twenty yards I almost repented having ventured. I had a capital guide, however, who went before and told me where to plant my steps. There was one particularly bad part, being little better than a sheer precipice; but even here I got down in safety with the assistance of my guide, and a minute afterwards found myself at the source of the Rheidol.
The source of the Rheidol is a small, beautiful lake, about a quarter of a mile in length. It is overhung on the east and north by frightful crags, from which it is fed by a number of small rills. The water is of the deepest blue and of very considerable depth. The banks, except to the north and east, slope gently down, and are clad with soft and beautiful moss. The river, of which it is the head, emerges at the south-western side, and brawls away in the shape of a considerable brook, amidst moss and rushes down a wild glen tending to the south. To the west the prospect is bounded, at a slight distance, by high, swelling ground. If few rivers have a more wild and wondrous channel than the Rheidol, fewer still have a more beautiful and romantic source.
After kneeling down and drinking freely of the lake I said:
“Now, where are we to go to next?”
“The nearest ffynnon to that of the Rheidol, sir, is the ffynnon of the Severn.”
“Very well,” said I; “let us now go and see the ffynnon of the Severn!”
I followed my guide over a hill to the north-west into a valley, at the farther end of which I saw a brook streaming apparently to the south, where was an outlet.
“That brook,” said the guide, “is the young Severn.” The brook came from round the side of a very lofty rock, singularly variegated, black and white, the northern summit presenting something of the appearance of the head of a horse. Passing round this crag we came to a fountain surrounded with rushes, out of which the brook, now exceedingly small, came murmuring.
“The crag above,” said my guide, “is called Crag y Cefyl, or the Rock of the Horse, and this spring at its foot is generally called the ffynnon of the Hafren. However, drink not of it, master; for the ffynnon of the Hafren is higher up the nant. Follow me, and I will presently show you the real ffynnon of the Hafren.”
I followed him up a narrow and very steep dingle. Presently we came to some beautiful little pools of water in the turf, which was here remarkably green.
“These are very pretty pools, an’t they, master?” said my companion. “Now, if I was a false guide I might bid you stoop and drink, saying that these were the sources of the Severn; but I am a true cyfarwydd and therefore tell you not to drink, for these pools are not the sources of the Hafren, no more than the spring below. The ffynnon of the Severn is higher up the nant. Don’t fret, however, but follow me, and we shall be there in a minute.”
So I did as he bade me, following him without fretting higher up the nant. Just at the top he halted and said, “Now, master, I have conducted you to the source of the Severn. I have considered the matter deeply, and have come to the conclusion that here, and here only, is the true source. Therefore stoop down and drink, in full confidence that you are taking possession of the Holy Severn.”
The source of the Severn is a little pool of water some twenty inches long, six wide, and about three deep. It is covered at the bottom with small stones, from between which the water gushes up. It is on the left-hand side of the nant, as you ascend, close by the very top. An unsightly heap of black turf-earth stands just above it to the north. Turf-heaps, both large and small, are in abundance in the vicinity.
After taking possession of the Severn by drinking at its source, rather a shabby source for so noble a stream, I said, “Now let us go to the fountain of the Wye.”
“A quarter of an hour will take us to it, your honour,” said the guide, leading the way.
The source of the Wye, which is a little pool, not much larger than that which constitutes the fountain of the Severn, stands near the top of a grassy hill which forms part of the Great Plynlimmon. The stream after leaving its source runs down the hill towards the east, and then takes a turn to the south. The fountains of the Severn and the Wye are in close proximity to each other. That of the Rheidol stands somewhat apart from both, as if, proud of its own beauty, it disdained the other two for their homeliness. All three are contained within the compass of a mile.
“And now, I suppose, sir, that our work is done, and we may go back to where we came from,” said my guide, as I stood on the grassy hill after drinking copiously of the fountain of the Wye.
“We may,” said I; “but before we do I must repeat some lines made by a man who visited these sources, and experienced the hospitality of a chieftain in this neighbourhood four hundred years ago.” Then taking off my hat I lifted up my voice and sang:—
“From high Plynlimmon’s shaggy side Three streams in three directions glide, To thousands at their mouth who tarry Honey, gold and mead they carry. Flow also from Plynlimmon high Three streams of generosity; The first, a noble stream indeed, Like rills of Mona runs with mead; The second bears from vineyards thick Wine to the feeble and the sick; The third, till time shall be no more, Mingled with gold shall silver pour.”
“Nice pennillion, sir, I dare say,” said my guide, “provided a person could understand them. What’s meant by all this mead, wine, gold and silver?”
“Why,” said I, “the bard meant to say that Plynlimmon, by means of its three channels, sends blessings and wealth in three different directions to distant places, and that the person whom he came to visit, and who lived on Plynlimmon, distributed his bounty in three different ways, giving mead to thousands at his banquets, wine from the vineyards of Gascony to the sick and feeble of the neighbourhood, and gold and silver to those who were willing to be tipped, amongst whom no doubt was himself, as poets have never been above receiving a present.”
“Nor above asking for one, your honour; there’s a prydydd in this neighbourhood, who will never lose a shilling for want of asking for it. Now, sir, have the kindness to tell me the name of the man who made those pennillion.”
“Lewis Glyn Cothi,” said I; “at least, it was he who made the pennillion from which those verses are translated.”
“And what was the name of the gentleman whom he came to visit?”
“His name,” said I, “was Dafydd ab Thomas Vychan.”
“And where did he live?”
“Why, I believe, he lived at the castle, which you told me once stood on the spot which you pointed out as we came up. At any rate, he lived somewhere upon Plynlimmon.”
“I wish there was some such rich gentleman at present living on Plynlimmon,” said my guide; “one of that sort is much wanted.”
“You can’t have everything at the same time,” said I: “formerly you had a chieftain who gave away wine and mead, and occasionally a bit of gold or silver, but then no travellers and tourists came to see the wonders of the hills, for at that time nobody cared anything about hills; at present you have no chieftain, but plenty of visitors who come to see the hills and the sources and scatter plenty of gold about the neighbourhood.”
We now bent our steps homeward, bearing slightly to the north, going over hills and dales covered with gorse and ling. My guide walked with a calm and deliberate gait, yet I had considerable difficulty in keeping up with him. There was, however, nothing surprising in this; he was a shepherd walking on his own hill, and having first-rate wind, and knowing every inch of the ground, made great way without seeming to be in the slightest hurry: I would not advise a road-walker, even if he be a first-rate one, to attempt to compete with a shepherd on his own, or indeed any hill; should he do so, the conceit would soon be taken out of him.
After a little time we saw a rivulet running from the west.
“This ffrwd,” said my guide, “is called Frennig. It here divides shire Trefaldwyn from Cardiganshire, one in North and the other in South Wales.”
Shortly afterwards we came to a hillock of rather a singular shape.
“This place, sir,” said he, “is called Eisteddfa.”
“Why is it called so?” said I. “Eisteddfa means the place where people sit down.”
“It does so,” said the guide, “and it is called the place of sitting because three men from different quarters of the world once met here, and one proposed that they should sit down.”
“And did they?” said I.
“They did, sir; and when they had sat down they told each other their histories.”
“I should be glad to know what their histories were,” said I.
“I can’t exactly tell you what they were, but I have heard say that there was a great deal in them about the Tylwith Teg or fairies.”
“Do you believe in fairies?” said I.
“I do, sir; but they are very seldom seen, and when they are they do no harm to anybody. I only wish there were as few corpse-candles as there are Tylwith Teg, and that they did as little harm.”
“They foreshow people’s deaths, don’t they?” said I.
“They do, sir? but that’s not all the harm they do. They are very dangerous for anybody to meet with. If they come bump up against you when you are walking carelessly it’s generally all over with you in this world. I’ll give you an example: A man returning from market from Llan Eglos to Llan Curig, not far from Plynlimmon, was struck down dead as a horse not long ago by a corpse-candle. It was a rainy, windy night, and the wind and rain were blowing in his face, so that he could not see it, or get out of its way. And yet the candle was not abroad on purpose to kill the man. The business that it was about was to prognosticate the death of a woman who lived near the spot and whose husband dealt in wool—poor thing! she was dead and buried in less than a fortnight. Ah, master, I wish that corpse-candles were as few and as little dangerous as the Tylwith Teg or fairies.”
We returned to the inn where I settled with the honest fellow, adding a trifle to what I had agreed to give him. Then sitting down I called for a large measure of ale and invited him to partake of it. He accepted my offer with many thanks and bows, and as we sat and drank our ale we had a great deal of discourse about the places we had visited. The ale being finished I got up and said:
“I must now be off for the Devil’s Bridge!”
Whereupon he also arose, and offering me his hand, said:
“Farewell, master; I shall never forget you: were all the gentlefolks who come here to see the sources like you, we should indeed feel no want in these hills of such a gentleman as is spoken of in the pennillion.”
The sun was going down as I left the inn. I recrossed the streamlet by means of the pole and rail. The water was running with much less violence than in the morning, and was considerably lower. The evening was calm and beautifully cool, with a slight tendency to frost. I walked along with a bounding and elastic step, and never remember to have felt more happy and cheerful.
I reached the hospice at about six o’clock, a bright moon shining upon me, and found a capital supper awaiting me, which I enjoyed exceedingly.
How one enjoys one’s supper at one’s inn, after a good day’s walk, provided one has the proud and glorious consciousness of being able to pay one’s reckoning on the morrow!
Chapter LXXXIX
A Morning View—Hafod Ychdryd—The Monument—Fairy-looking Place—Edward Lhuyd.
The morning of the sixth was bright and glorious. As I looked from the window of the upper sitting-room of the hospice the scene which presented itself was wild and beautiful to a degree. The oak-covered tops of the volcanic crater were gilded with the brightest sunshine, whilst the eastern sides remained in dark shade and the gap or narrow entrance to the north in shadow yet darker, in the midst of which shone the silver of the Rheidol cataract. Should I live a hundred years I shall never forget the wild fantastic beauty of that morning scene.
I left the friendly hospice at about nine o’clock to pursue my southern journey. By this time the morning had lost much of its beauty, and the dull grey sky characteristic of November began to prevail. The way lay up a hill to the south-east; on my left was a glen down which the river of the Monk rolled with noise and foam. The country soon became naked and dreary and continued so for some miles. At length coming to the top of a hill I saw a park before me, through which the road led after passing under a stately gateway. I had reached the confines of the domain of Hafod.
Hafod Ychdryd, or the summer mansion of Uchtryd, has from time immemorial been the name of a dwelling on the side of the hill above the Ystwyth, looking to the east. At first it was a summer boothie or hunting lodge to Welsh chieftains, but subsequently expanded into the roomy, comfortable dwelling of Welsh squires, where hospitality was much practised and bards and harpers liberally encouraged. Whilst belonging to an ancient family of the name of Johnes, several members of which made no inconsiderable figure in literature, it was celebrated, far and wide, for its library, in which was to be found, amongst other treasures, a large collection of Welsh manuscripts on various subjects—history, medicine, poetry and romance. The house, however, and the library were both destroyed in a dreadful fire which broke out. This fire is generally called the great fire of Hafod, and some of those who witnessed it have been heard to say that its violence was so great that burning rafters mixed with flaming books were hurled high above the summits of the hills. The loss of the house was a matter of triviality compared with that of the library. The house was soon rebuilt, and probably, phœnix-like, looked all the better for having been burnt, but the library could never be restored. On the extinction of the family, the last hope of which, an angelic girl, faded away in the year 1811, the domain became the property of the late Duke of Newcastle, a kind and philanthropic nobleman and a great friend of agriculture, who held it for many years and considerably improved it. After his decease it was purchased by the head of an ancient Lancashire family, who used the modern house as a summer residence, as the Welsh chieftains had used the wooden boothie of old.
I went to a kind of lodge, where I had been told that I should find somebody who would admit me to the church, which stood within the grounds and contained a monument which I was very desirous of seeing, partly from its being considered one of the masterpieces of the great Chantrey, and partly because it was a memorial to the lovely child, the last scion of the old family who had possessed the domain. A good-looking young woman, the only person whom I saw, on my telling my errand forthwith took a key and conducted me to the church. The church was a neat edifice with rather a modern look. It exhibited nothing remarkable without, and only one thing remarkable within, namely the monument, which was indeed worthy of notice, and which, had Chantrey executed nothing else, might well have entitled him to be considered, what the world has long pronounced him, the prince of British sculptors.
This monument, which is of the purest marble, is placed on the eastern side of the church, below a window of stained glass, and represents a truly affecting scene: a lady and gentleman are standing over a dying girl of angelic beauty who is extended on a couch, and from whose hand a volume, the Book of Life, is falling. The lady is weeping.
Beneath is the following inscription:—
To the Memory of Mary The only child of Thomas and Jane Johnes Who died in 1811 After a few days’ sickness This monument is dedicated By her parents.
An inscription worthy, by its simplicity and pathos, to stand below such a monument.
After presenting a trifle to the woman, who to my great surprise could not speak a word of English, I left the church, and descended the side of the hill, near the top of which it stands. The scenery was exceedingly beautiful. Below me was a bright green valley, at the bottom of which the Ystwyth ran brawling, now hid amongst groves, now showing a long stretch of water. Beyond the river to the east was a noble mountain, richly wooded. The Ystwyth, after a circuitous course, joins the Rheidol near the strand of the Irish Channel, which the united rivers enter at a place called Aber Ystwyth, where stands a lovely town of the same name, which sprang up under the protection of a baronial castle, still proud and commanding even in its ruins, built by Strongbow the conqueror of the great western isle. Near the lower part of the valley the road tended to the south, up and down through woods and bowers, the scenery still ever increasing in beauty. At length, after passing through a gate and turning round a sharp corner, I suddenly beheld Hafod on my right hand, to the west at a little distance above me, on a rising ground, with a noble range of mountains behind it.
A truly fairy place it looked, beautiful but fantastic, in the building of which three styles of architecture seemed to have been employed. At the southern end was a Gothic tower; at the northern an Indian pagoda; the middle part had much the appearance of a Grecian villa. The walls were of resplendent whiteness, and the windows which were numerous shone with beautiful gilding. Such was modern Hafod, a strange contrast, no doubt, to the hunting lodge of old.
After gazing at this house of eccentric taste for about a quarter of an hour, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with a strong disposition to laugh, I followed the road, which led past the house in nearly a southerly direction. Presently the valley became more narrow, and continued narrowing till there was little more room than was required for the road and the river, which ran deep below it on the left-hand side. Presently I came to a gate, the boundary in the direction in which I was going of the Hafod domain.
Here, when about to leave Hafod, I shall devote a few lines to a remarkable man whose name should be ever associated with the place. Edward Lhuyd was born in the vicinity of Hafod about the period of the Restoration. His father was a clergyman, who after giving him an excellent education at home sent him to Oxford, at which seat of learning he obtained an honourable degree, officiated for several years as tutor, and was eventually made custodiary of the Ashmolean Museum. From his early youth he devoted himself with indefatigable zeal to the acquisition of learning. He was fond of natural history and British antiquities, but his favourite pursuit and that in which he principally distinguished himself was the study of the Celtic dialects; and it is but doing justice to his memory to say, that he was not only the best Celtic scholar of his time, but that no one has arisen since worthy to be considered his equal in Celtic erudition. Partly at the expense of the university, partly at that of various powerful individuals who patronised him, he travelled through Ireland, the Western Highlands, Wales, Cornwall and Armorica, for the purpose of collecting Celtic manuscripts. He was partially successful in Ireland and Wales. Several of the most precious Irish manuscripts in Oxford and also in the Chandos Library were of Lhuyd’s collection, and to him the old hall at Hafod was chiefly indebted for its treasures of ancient British literature. Shortly after returning to Oxford from his Celtic wanderings he sat down to the composition of a grand work in three parts, under the title of Archæologia Britannica, which he had long projected. The first was to be devoted to the Celtic dialects; the second to British Antiquities, and the third to the natural history of the British Isles. He only lived to complete the first part. It contains various Celtic grammars and vocabularies, to each of which there is a preface written by Lhuyd in the particular dialect to which the vocabulary or grammar is devoted. Of all these prefaces the one to the Irish is the most curious and remarkable. The first part of the Archæologia was published at Oxford in 1707, two years before the death of the author. Of his correspondence, which was very extensive, several letters have been published, all of them relating to philology, antiquities, and natural history.
XC. An Adventure—Spytty Ystwyth—Wormwood
Shortly after leaving the grounds of Hafod I came to a bridge over the Ystwyth. I crossed it, and was advancing along the road which led apparently to the south-east, when I came to a company of people who seemed to be loitering about. It consisted entirely of young men and women, the former with crimson favours, the latter in the garb of old Wales, blue tunics and sharp crowned hats. Going up to one of the young women I said, “Peth yw? what’s the matter?”
“Priodas (a marriage),” she replied, after looking at me attentively. I then asked her the name of the bridge, whereupon she gave a broad grin, and after some little time replied: “Pont y Groes; (the bridge of the cross).” I was about to ask her some other question when she turned away with a loud chuckle, and said something to another wench near her, who grinning yet more uncouthly, said something to a third, who grinned too, and lifting up her hands and spreading her fingers wide said: “Dyn oddi dir y Gogledd—a man from the north country, hee, hee!” Forthwith there was a general shout—the wenches crying: “A man from the north country, hee, hee!” and the fellows crying: “A man from the north country, hoo, hoo!”
“Is this the way you treat strangers in the south?” said I. But I had scarcely uttered the words when with redoubled shouts the company exclaimed: “There’s Cumraeg! there’s pretty Cumraeg. Go back, David, to shire Fon! That Cumraeg won’t pass here.”
Finding they disliked my Welsh I had recourse to my own language. “Really,” said I in English, “such conduct is unaccountable. What do you mean?” But this only made matters worse, for the shouts grew louder still, and every one cried: “There’s pretty English! Well, if I couldn’t speak English better than that I’d never speak English at all. No, David; if you must speak at all, stick to Cumraeg.” Then forthwith all the company set themselves in violent motion: the women rushing up to me with their palms and fingers spread out in my face, without touching me, however, as they wheeled round me at about a yard’s distance, crying: “A man from the north country, hee, hee!” and the fellows acting just in the same way, rushing up with their hands spread out, and then wheeling round me with cries of “A man from the north country, hoo, hoo!” I was so enraged that I made for a heap of stones by the road-side, intending to take some up and fling them at the company. Reflecting, however, that I had but one pair of hands and the company at least forty, and that by such an attempt at revenge I should only make myself ridiculous, I gave up my intention, and continued my journey at a rapid pace, pursued for a long way by “hee, hee,” and “hoo, hoo,” and, “Go back, David, to your goats in Anglesey, you are not wanted here.”
I began to ascend a hill forming the eastern side of an immense valley, at the bottom of which rolled the river. Beyond the valley to the west was an enormous hill, on the top of which was a most singular-looking crag, seemingly leaning in the direction of the south. On the right-hand side of the road were immense works of some kind in full play and activity, for engines were clanging and puffs of smoke were ascending from tall chimneys. On inquiring of a boy the name of the works I was told that they were called the works of Level Vawr, or the Great Level, a mining establishment; but when I asked him the name of the hill with the singular peak, on the other side of the valley, he shook his head and said he did not know. Near the top of the hill I came to a village consisting of a few cottages and a shabby-looking church. A rivulet descending from some crags to the east crosses the road, which leads through the place, and tumbling down the valley, joins the Ystwyth at the bottom. Seeing a woman standing at the door I enquired the name of the village.
“Spytty Ystwyth,” she replied, but she, no more than the boy down below, could tell me the name of the strange-looking hill across the valley. This second Spytty or monastic hospital, which I had come to, looked in every respect an inferior place to the first. Whatever its former state might have been, nothing but dirt and wretchedness were now visible. Having reached the top of the hill I entered upon a wild moory region. Presently I crossed a little bridge over a rivulet, and seeing a small house on the shutter of which was painted ‘cwrw,’ I went in, sat down on an old chair which I found vacant, and said in English to an old woman who sat knitting by the window: “Bring me a pint of ale!”
“Dim Saesneg!” said the old woman.
“I told you to bring me a pint of ale,” said I to her in her own language.
“You shall have it immediately, sir,” said she; and going to a cask, she filled a jug with ale, and after handing it to me resumed her seat and knitting.
“It is not very bad ale,” said I, after I had tasted it.
“It ought to be very good,” said the old woman, “for I brewed it myself.”
“The goodness of ale,” said I, “does not so much depend on who brews it as on what it is brewed of. Now there is something in this ale which ought not to be. What is it made of?”
“Malt and hop.”
“It tastes very bitter,” said I. “Is there no chwerwlys {506} in it?”
“I do not know what chwerwlys is,” said the old woman.
“It is what the Saxons call wormwood,” said I.
“O, wermod. No, there is no wermod in my beer, at least not much.”
“O, then there is some; I thought there was. Why do you put such stuff into your ale?”
“We are glad to put it in sometimes when hops are dear, as they are this year. Moreover, wermod is not bad stuff, and some folks like the taste better than that of hops.”
“Well, I don’t. However, the ale is drinkable. What am I to give you for the pint?”
“You are to give me a groat.”
“That is a great deal,” said I, “for a groat I ought to have a pint of ale made of the best malt and hops.”
“I give you the best I can afford. One must live by what one sells. I do not find that easy work.”
“Is this house your own?”
“O no! I pay rent for it, and not a cheap one.”
“Have you a husband?”
“I had, but he is dead.”
“Have you any children?”
“I had three, but they are dead too, and buried with my husband at the Monastery.”
“Where is the Monastery?”
“A good way farther on, at the strath beyond Rhyd Fendigaid.”
“What is the name of the little river by the house?”
“Avon Marchnad (Market River).”
“Why is it called Avon Marchnad?”
“Truly, gentleman, I cannot tell you.”
I went on sipping my ale and finding fault with its bitterness till I had finished it, when getting up I gave the old lady her groat, bade her farewell and departed.
Chapter XCI
Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid—Strata Florida—The Yew-Tree—Idolatry—The Teivi—The Llostlydan.
And now for the resting-place of Dafydd Ab Gwilym! After wandering for some miles towards the south over a bleak moory country I came to a place called Fair Rhos, a miserable village, consisting of a few half-ruined cottages, situated on the top of a hill. From the hill I looked down on a wide valley of a russet colour, along which a river ran towards the south. The whole scene was cheerless. Sullen hills were all around. Descending the hill I entered a large village divided into two by the river, which here runs from east to west, but presently makes a turn. There was much mire in the street; immense swine lay in the mire, who turned up their snouts at me as I passed. Women in Welsh hats stood in the mire, along with men without any hats at all, but with short pipes in their mouths; they were talking together; as I passed, however, they held their tongues, the women leering contemptuously at me, the men glaring sullenly at me, and causing tobacco smoke to curl in my face; on my taking off my hat, however, and enquiring the way to the Monachlog, everybody was civil enough, and twenty voices told me the way to the Monastery. I asked the name of the river.
“The Teivi, sir; the Teivi.”
“The name of the bridge?”
“Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid—the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, sir.”
I crossed the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, and presently leaving the main road I turned to the east by a dung-hill, up a narrow lane parallel with the river. After proceeding a mile up the lane, amidst trees and copses, and crossing a little brook, which runs into the Teivi, out of which I drank, I saw before me in the midst of a field, in which were tombstones and broken ruins, a rustic-looking church; a farm-house stood near it, in the garden of which stood the framework of a large gateway. I crossed over into the churchyard, ascended a green mound, and looked about me. I was now in the very midst of the Monachlog Ystrad Flur, the celebrated monastery of Strata Florida, to which in old times Popish pilgrims from all parts of the world repaired. The scene was solemn and impressive: on the north side of the river a large bulky hill looked down upon the ruins and the church, and on the south side, some way behind the farm-house, was another which did the same. Rugged mountains formed the background of the valley to the east, down from which came murmuring the fleet but shallow Teivi. Such is the scenery which surrounds what remains of Strata Florida: those scanty broken ruins compose all which remains of that celebrated monastery, in which kings, saints and mitred abbots were buried, and in which, or in whose precincts, was buried Dafydd Ab Gwilym, the greatest genius of the Cimbric race and one of the first poets of the world.
After standing for some time on the mound I descended, and went up to the church. I found the door fastened, but obtained through the window a tolerable view of the interior, which presented an appearance of the greatest simplicity. I then strolled about the churchyard looking at the tomb-stones, which were humble enough and for the most part modern. I would give something, said I, to know whereabouts in this neighbourhood Ab Gwilym lies. That, however, is a secret that no one can reveal to me. At length I came to a yew-tree which stood just by the northern wall which is at a slight distance from the Teivi. It was one of two trees, both of the same species, which stood in the churchyard, and appeared to be the oldest of the two. Who knows, said I, but this is the tree that was planted over Ab Gwilym’s grave, and to which Gruffyd Gryg wrote an ode? I looked at it attentively, and thought that there was just a possibility of its being the identical tree. If it was, however, the benison of Gruffyd Gryg had not had exactly the effect which he intended, for either lightning or the force of wind had splitten off a considerable part of the head and trunk, so that though one part of it looked strong and blooming, the other was white and spectral. Nevertheless, relying on the possibility of its being the sacred tree, I behaved just as I should have done had I been quite certain of the fact: Taking off my hat I knelt down and kissed its root, repeating lines from Gruffydd Gryg, with which I blended some of my own in order to accommodate what I said to circumstances:
“O tree of yew, which here I spy, By Ystrad Flur’s blest monast’ry, Beneath thee lies, by cold Death bound, The tongue for sweetness once renown’d.
Better for thee thy boughs to wave, Though scath’d, above Ab Gwilym’s grave, Than stand in pristine glory drest Where some ignobler bard doth rest; I’d rather hear a taunting rhyme From one who’ll live through endless time, Than hear my praises chanted loud By poets of the vulgar crowd.”
I had left the churchyard, and was standing near a kind of garden, at some little distance from the farmhouse, gazing about me and meditating, when a man came up attended by a large dog. He had rather a youthful look, was of the middle size and dark complexioned. He was respectably drest, except that upon his head he wore a common hairy cap.
“Good evening,” said I to him in Welsh.
“Good evening, gentleman,” said he in the same language.
“Have you much English?” said I.
“Very little; I can only speak a few words.”
“Are you the farmer?”
“Yes! I farm the greater part of the Strath.”
“I suppose the land is very good here?”
“Why do you suppose so?”
“Because the monks built their house here in the old time, and the monks never built their houses except on good land.”
“Well, I must say the land is good; indeed I do not think there is any so good in Shire Aberteifi.”
“I suppose you are surprised to see me here; I came to see the old Monachlog.”
“Yes, gentleman! I saw you looking about it.”
“Am I welcome to see it?”
“Croesaw! gwr boneddig, croesaw! many, many welcomes to you, gentleman!”
“Do many people come to see the monastery?”
Farmer.—Yes! many gentlefolk come to see it in the summer time.
Myself.—It is a poor place now.
Farmer.—Very poor, I wonder any gentlefolks come to look at it.
Myself.—It was a wonderful place once; you merely see the ruins of it now. It was pulled down at the Reformation.
Farmer.—Why was it pulled down then?
Myself.—Because it was a house of idolatry to which people used to resort by hundreds to worship images. Had you lived at that time you would have seen people down on their knees before stocks and stones, worshipping them, kissing them and repeating pennillion to them.
Farmer.—What fools! How thankful I am that I live in wiser days. If such things were going on in the old Monachlog it was high time to pull it down.
Myself.—What kind of a rent do you pay for your land?
Farmer.—O, rather a stiffish one.
Myself.—Two pound an acre?
Farmer.—Two pound an acre! I wish I paid no more.
Myself.—Well! I think that would be quite enough. In the time of the old monastery you might have had the land at two shillings an acre.
Farmer.—Might I? Then those couldn’t have been such bad times, after all.
Myself.—I beg your pardon! They were horrible times—times in which there were monks and friars and graven images, which people kissed and worshipped and sang pennillion to. Better pay three pounds an acre and live on crusts and water in the present enlightened days than pay two shillings an acre and sit down to beef and ale three times a day in the old superstitious times.
Farmer.—Well, I scarcely know what to say to that.
Myself.—What do you call that high hill on the other side of the river?
Farmer.—I call that hill Bunk Pen Bannedd.
Myself.—Is the source of the Teivi far from here?
Farmer.—The head of the Teivi is about two miles from here high up in the hills.
Myself.—What kind of place is the head of the Teivi?
Farmer.—The head of the Teivi is a small lake about fifty yards long and twenty across.
Myself.—Where does the Teivi run to?
Farmer.—The Teivi runs to the sea, which it enters at a place which the Cumry call Aber Teivi and the Saxons Cardigan.
Myself.—Don’t you call Cardiganshire Shire Aber Teivi?
Farmer.—We do.
Myself.—Are there many gleisiaid in the Teivi?
Farmer.—Plenty, and salmons too—that is, farther down. The best place for salmon and gleisiaid is a place, a great way down the stream, called Dinas Emlyn.
Myself.—Do you know an animal called Llostlydan?
Farmer.—No, I do not know that beast.
Myself.—There used to be many in the Teivi.
Farmer.—What kind of beast is the Llostlydan?
Myself.—A beast with a broad tail, on which account the old Cumry did call him Llostlydan. Clever beast he was; made himself house of wood in middle of the river, with two doors, so that when hunter came upon him he might have good chance of escape. Hunter often after him, because he had skin good to make hat.
Farmer.—Ha, I wish I could catch that beast now in Teivi.
Myself.—Why so?
Farmer.—Because I want hat. Would make myself hat of his skin.
Myself.—O, you could not make yourself a hat even if you had the skin.
Farmer.—Why not? Shot coney in Bunk Pen Blanedd; made myself cap of his skin. So, why not make hat of skin of broadtail, should I catch him in Teivi?
Myself.—How far is it to Tregaron?
Farmer.—’Tis ten miles from here, and eight from the Rhyd Fendigaid.
Myself.—Must I go back to Rhyd Fendigaid to get to Tregaron?
Farmer.—You must.
Myself.—Then I must be going, for the night is coming down. Farewell!
Farmer.—Farvel, Saxon gentleman!