Chapter XCII
Nocturnal Journey—Maes y Llyn—The Figure—Earl of Leicester—Twm Shone Catti—The Farmer and Bull—Tom and the Farmer—The Cave—The Threat—Tom a Justice—The Big Wigs—Tregaron.
It was dusk by the time I had regained the highroad by the village of the Rhyd Fendigaid.
As I was yet eight miles from Tregaron, the place where I intended to pass the night, I put on my best pace. In a little time I reached a bridge over a stream which seemed to carry a considerable tribute to the Teivi.
“What is the name of this bridge?” said I to a man riding in a cart whom I met almost immediately after I had crossed the bridge.
“Pont Vleer,” methought he said, but as his voice was husky and indistinct, very much like that of a person somewhat the worse for liquor, I am by no means positive.
It was now very dusk, and by the time I had advanced about a mile farther dark night settled down, which compelled me to abate my pace a little, more especially as the road was by no means first-rate. I had come, to the best of my computation, about four miles from the Rhyd Fendigaid when the moon began partly to show itself, and presently by its glimmer I saw some little way off on my right hand what appeared to be a large sheet of water. I went on, and in about a minute saw two or three houses on the left, which stood nearly opposite to the object which I had deemed to be water, and which now appeared to be about fifty yards distant in a field which was separated from the road by a slight hedge. Going up to the principal house I knocked, and a woman making her appearance at the door, I said—
“I beg pardon for troubling you, but I wish to know the name of this place.”
“Maes y Llyn—The Field of the Lake,” said the woman.
“And what is the name of the lake?” said I.
“I do not know,” said she; “but the place where it stands is called Maes Llyn, as I said before.”
“Is the lake deep?” said I.
“Very deep,” said she.
“How deep?” said I.
“Over the tops of the houses,” she replied.
“Any fish in the lake?”
“O yes! plenty.”
“What fish?”
“O there are llysowen, and the fish we call ysgetten.”
“Eels and tench,” said I; “anything else?”
“I do not know,” said the woman; “folks say that there used to be queer beast in the lake, water-cow used to come out at night and eat people’s clover in the fields.”
“Pooh,” said I, “that was merely some person’s cow or horse, turned out at night to fill its belly at other folks’ expense.”
“Perhaps so,” said the woman; “have you any more questions to ask?”
“Only one,” said I; “how far is it to Tregaron?”
“About three mile: are you going there?”
“Yes, I am going to Tregaron.”
“Pity that you did not come a little time ago,” said the woman; “you might then have had pleasant company on your way; pleasant man stopped here to light his pipe; he too going to Tregaron.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said I; “I am never happier than when keeping my own company.” Bidding the woman good night, I went on. The moon now shone tolerably bright, so that I could see my way, and I sped on at a great rate. I had proceeded nearly half-a-mile, when I thought I heard steps in advance, and presently saw a figure at some little distance before me. The individual, probably hearing the noise of my approach, soon turned round and stood still. As I drew near I distinguished a stout burly figure of a man, seemingly about sixty, with a short pipe in his mouth.
“Ah, is it you?” said the figure, in English, taking the pipe out of his mouth; “good evening, I am glad to see you.” Then shaking some burning embers out of his pipe, he put it into his pocket, and trudged on beside me.
“Why are you glad to see me?” said I, slackening my pace; “I am a stranger to you; at any rate, you are to me.”
“Always glad to see English gentleman,” said the figure; “always glad to see him.”
“How do you know that I am an English gentleman?” said I.
“O, I know Englishman at first sight; no one like him in the whole world.”
“Have you seen many English gentlemen?” said I.
“O yes, have seen plenty when I have been up in London.”
“Have you been much in London?”
“O yes; when I was a drover was up in London every month.”
“And were you much in the society of English gentlemen when you were there?”
“O yes; a great deal.”
“Whereabouts in London did you chiefly meet them?”
“Whereabouts? Oh, in Smithfield.”
“Dear me!” said I; “I thought that was rather a place for butchers than gentlemen.”
“Great place for gentlemen, I assure you,” said the figure; “met there the finest gentlemen I ever saw in my life; very grand, but kind and affable, like every true gentleman. Talked to me a great deal about Anglesey runts, and Welsh legs of mutton, and at parting shook me by the hand, and asked me to look in upon him, if I was ever down in his parts, and see his sheep and taste his ale.”
“Do you know who he was?” said I.
“O yes; know all about him; Earl of Leicester, from county of Norfolk; fine old man indeed—you very much like him—speak just in same way.”
“Have you given up the business of drover long?” said I.
“O yes; given him up a long time ever since domm’d railroad came into fashion.”
“And what do you do now?” said I.
“O, not much; live upon my means; picked up a little property, a few sticks, just enough for old crow to build him nest with—sometimes, however, undertake a little job for neighbouring people and get a little money. Can do everything in small way, if necessary; build little bridge, if asked;—Jack of all Trades—live very comfortably.”
“And where do you live?”
“O, not very far from Tregaron.”
“And what kind of place is Tregaron?”
“O, very good place; not quite so big as London, but very good place.”
“What is it famed for?” said I.
“O, famed for very good ham; best ham at Tregaron in all Shire Cardigan.”
“Famed for anything else?”
“O yes! famed for great man, clever thief, Twm Shone Catti, who was born there.”
“Dear me!” said I; “when did he live?”
“O, long time ago, more than two hundred year.”
“And what became of him?” said I; “was he hung?”
“Hung, no! only stupid thief hung. Twm Shone clever thief; died rich man, justice of the peace and mayor of Brecon.”
“Very singular,” said I, “that they should make a thief mayor of Brecon.”
“O, Twm Shone Catti very different from other thieves; funny fellow, and so good-natured that everybody loved him—so they made him magistrate, not, however, before he had become very rich man by marrying great lady who fell in love with him.”
“Ah, ah,” said I; “that’s the way of the world. He became rich, so they made him a magistrate; had he remained poor they would have hung him in spite of all his fun and good-nature. Well, can’t you tell me some of the things he did?”
“O yes, can tell you plenty. One day in time of fair Tom Shone Catti goes into ironmonger’s shop in Llandovery. ‘Master,’ says he, ‘I want to buy a good large iron porridge pot; please to show me some.’ So the man brings out three or four big iron porridge pots, the very best he has. Tom takes up one and turns it round. ‘This looks very good porridge pot,’ said he; ‘I think it will suit me.’ Then he turns it round and round again, and at last lifts it above his head and peaks into it. ‘Ha, ha,’ says he; ‘this won’t do; I see one hole here. What mean you by wanting to sell article like this to stranger?’ Says the man, ‘there be no hole in it.’ ‘But there is,’ says Tom, holding it up and peaking into it again; ‘I see the hole quite plain. Take it and look into it yourself.’ So the man takes the pot, and having held it up and peaked in, ‘as I hope to be saved,’ says he, ‘I can see no hole.’ Says Tom, ‘good man, if you put your head in, you will find that there is a hole.’ So the man tries to put in his head, but having some difficulty Tom lends him a helping hand by jamming the pot quite down over the man’s face, then whisking up the other pots Tom leaves the shop, saying as he goes, ‘Friend, I suppose you now see that there is a hole in the pot, otherwise how could you have got your head inside?’”
“Very good,” said I; “can you tell us something more about Twm Shone Catti?”
“O yes; can tell you plenty about him. The farmer at Newton, just one mile beyond the bridge at Brecon, had one very fine bull, but with a very short tail. Says Tom to himself: ‘By God’s nails and blood I will steal the farmer’s bull, and then sell it to him for other bull in open market place.’ Then Tom makes one fine tail, just for all the world such a tail as the bull ought to have had, then goes by night to the farmer’s stall at Newton, steals away the bull, and then sticks to the bull’s short stump the fine bull’s tail which he himself had made. The next market day he takes the bull to the market-place at Brecon and calls out: ‘Very fine bull this, who will buy my fine bull?’ Quoth the farmer who stood nigh at hand, ‘That very much like my bull, which thief stole t’other night; I think I can swear to him.’ Says Tom, ‘What do you mean? This bull is not your bull, but mine.’ Says the farmer, ‘I could swear that this is my bull but for the tail. The tail of my bull was short, but the tail of this is long. I would fain know whether the tail of this be real tail or not.’ ‘You would?’ says Tom; ‘well, so you shall.’ Thereupon he whips out big knife and cuts off the bull’s tail, some little way above where the false tail was joined on. ‘Ha, ha,’ said Tom, as the bull’s stump of tail bled, and the bit of tail bled, too, to which the false tail was stuck, and the bull kicked and bellowed. ‘What say you now? Is it a true tail or no?’ ‘By my faith!’ says the farmer, ‘I see that the tail is a true tail, and that the bull is not mine. I beg pardon for thinking that he was.’ ‘Begging pardon,’ says Tom, ‘is all very well; but will you buy the bull?’ ‘No,’ said the farmer, ‘I should be loth to buy a bull with tail cut off close to the rump.’ ‘Ha,’ says Tom, ‘who made me cut off the tail but yourself? Did you not force me to do so in order to clear my character? Now as you made me cut off my bull’s tail, I will make you buy my bull without his tail.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ cried the mob; ‘as he forced you to cut off the tail, do you now force him to buy the bull without the tail.’ Says the farmer, ‘What do you ask for the bull?’ Says Tom, ‘I ask for him ten pound.’ Says the farmer, ‘I will give you eight.’ ‘No,’ says Tom; ‘you shall give me ten, or I will have you up before the justice.’ ‘That is right,’ cried the mob. ‘If he won’t pay you ten pound, have him up before the justice.’ Thereupon the farmer, becoming frightened, pulled out the ten pounds and gave it for his own bull to Tom Shone Catti, who wished him joy of his bargain. As the farmer was driving the bull away he said to Tom: ‘Won’t you give me the tail?’ ‘No,’ said Tom; ‘I shall keep it against the time I steal another bull with a short tail;’ and thereupon he runs off.”
“A clever fellow,” said I; “though it was rather cruel in him to cut off the poor bull’s tail. Now, perhaps, you will tell me how he came to marry the rich lady?”
“O yes; I will tell you. One day as he was wandering about, dressed quite like a gentleman, he heard a cry, and found one very fine lady in the hands of one highwayman, who would have robbed and murdered her. Tom kills the highwayman and conducts the lady home to her house and her husband, for she was a married lady. Out of gratitude to Tom for the service he has done, the gentleman and lady invite him to stay with them. The gentleman, who is a great gentleman, fond of his bottle and hunting, takes mightily to Tom for his funny sayings, and because Tom’s a good hand at a glass when at table, and a good hand at a leap when in field; the lady also takes very much to Tom, because he one domm’d handsome fellow, with plenty of wit and what they call boetry,—for Tom amongst other things was no bad boet, and could treat a lady to pennillion about her face and her ancle, and the tip of her ear. At last Tom goes away upon his wanderings, not, however, before he has got one promise from the lady, that if ever she becomes disengaged she will become his wife. Well, after some time the lady’s husband dies and leaves her all his property, so that all of a sudden she finds herself one great independent lady, mistress of the whole of Strath Feen, one fair and pleasant valley far away there over the Eastern hills; by the Towey; on the borders of Shire Car. Tom, as soon as he hears the news of all this, sets off for Strath Feen and asks the lady to perform her word; but the lady, who finds herself one great and independent lady, and moreover does not quite like the idea of marrying one thief, for she had learnt who Tom was, does hum and hah, and at length begs to be excused, because she has changed her mind. Tom begs and entreats, but quite in vain, till at last she tells him to go away and not trouble her any more. Tom goes away, but does not yet lose hope. He takes up his quarters in one strange little cave, nearly at the top of one wild hill, very much like sugar loaf, which does rise above the Towey, just within Shire Car. I have seen the cave myself, which is still called Ystafell Twm Shone Catty. Very queer cave it is, in strange situation: steep rock just above it, Towey river roaring below. There Tom takes up his quarters, and from there he often sallies forth, in hope of having interview with fair lady and making her alter her mind, but she will have nothing to do with him, and at last shuts herself up in her house and will not go out. Well, Tom nearly loses all hope; he, however, determines to make one last effort; so one morning he goes to the house and stands before the door, entreating with one loud and lamentable voice that the lady will see him once more, because he is come to bid her one eternal farewell, being about to set off for the wars in the kingdom of France. Well, the lady who hears all he says relents one little, and showing herself at the window before which are very strong iron bars she says: ‘Here I am! whatever you have to say, say it quickly, and go your way.’ Says Tom: ‘I am come to bid you one eternal farewell, and have but one last slight request to make, which is that you vouchsafe to stretch out of the window your lily-white hand, that I may impress one last burning kiss of love on the same.’ Well, the lady hesitates one little time; at last, having one woman’s heart, she thinks she may grant him this last little request, and stretching her hand through the bars she says: ‘Well, there’s my hand, kiss it once and begone.’ Forthwith Tom seizing her wrist with his left hand says: ‘I have got you now, and will never let you go till you swear to become my wife.’ ‘Never,’ said the lady, ‘will I become the wife of one thief,’ and strives with all her might to pull her hand free, but cannot, for the left hand of Tom is more strong than the right of other man. Thereupon Tom with his right hand draws forth his sword, and with one dreadful shout does exclaim: ‘Now will you swear to become my wife, for if you don’t, by God’s blood and nails, I will this moment smite off your hand with this sword.’ Then the lady being very much frightened, and having one sneaking kindness for Tom, who though he looked very fierce looked also very handsome, said: ‘Well, well! a promise is a promise; I promised to become your wife, and so I will; I swear I will; by all I hold holy I swear; so let go my hand, which you have almost pulled off, and come in and welcome!’ So Tom lets go her hand, and the lady opens her door, and before night they were married, and in less than one month Tom, being now very rich and lord of Ystrad Feen, was made justice of the peace and chairman at quarter session.”
“And what kind of justice of the peace did Tom make?”
“Ow, the very best justice of the peace that there ever was. He made the old saying good: you must set one thief to catch one thief. He had not been a justice three year before there was not a thief in Shire Brecon nor in Shire Car, for they also made him justice of Carmarthenshire, and a child might walk through the country quite safe with a purse of gold in its hand. He said that as he himself could not have a finger in the pie, he would take care nobody else should. And yet he was not one bloody justice either; never hanged thief without giving him a chance to reform; but when he found him quite hardened he would say: ‘Hang up de rogue!’ O Tom was not a very hard man, and had one grateful heart for any old kindness which had been shown him. One day as Tom sat on de bench with other big wigs, Tom the biggest wig of the lot, a man was brought up charged with stealing one bullock. Tom no sooner cast eye on the man than he remembered him quite well. Many years before Tom had stole a pair of oxen, which he wished to get through the town of Brecon, but did not dare to drive them through, for at that very time there was one warrant out against Tom at Brecon for something he had done. So Tom stands with his oxen on the road, scratching his head and not knowing what to do. At length there comes a man along the road, making towards Brecon, to whom Tom says: ‘Honest man, I want these two oxen to be driven to such and such a public-house two miles beyond Brecon; I would drive them myself only I have business to do elsewhere of more importance. Now if you will drive them for me there and wait till I come, which will not be long, I will give you a groat.’ Says the man: ‘I will drive them for nothing, for as my way lies past that same public-house I can easily afford to do so.’ So Tom leaves the oxen with the man, and by rough and roundabout road makes for the public-house beyond Brecon, where he finds the man waiting with the oxen, who hands them over to him and goes on his way. Now, in the man brought up before him and the other big wigs on the bench for stealing the bullock, Tom does recognise the man who had done him that same good turn. Well! the evidence was heard against the man, and it soon appeared quite clear that the man did really steal the bullock. Says the other big wigs to Tom: ‘The fact has been proved quite clear. What have we now to do but to adshudge at once that the domm’d thief be hung?’ But Tom, who remembered that the man had once done him one good turn, had made up his mind to save the man. So says he to the other big wigs: ‘My very worthy esteemed friends and coadshutors, I do perfectly agree with you that the fact has been proved clear enough, but with respect to de man, I should be very much grieved should he be hung for this one fact, for I did know him long time ago, and did find him to be one domm’d honest man in one transaction which I had with him. So my wordy and esteemed friends and coadshutors I should esteem it one great favour if you would adshudge that the man should be let off this one time. If, however, you deem it inexpedient to let the man off, then of course the man must be hung, for I shall not presume to set my opinions and judgments against your opinions and judgments, which are far better than my own.’ Then the other big wigs did look very big and solemn, and did shake their heads and did whisper to one another that they were afraid the matter could not be done. At last, however, they did come to the conclusion that as Tom had said that he had known the fellow once to be one domm’d honest man, and as they had a great regard for Tom, who was one domm’d good magistrate and highly respectable gentleman with whom they were going to dine the next day—for Tom I must tell you was in the habit of giving the very best dinners in all Shire Brecon—it might not be incompatible with the performance of their duty to let the man off this one time, seeing as how the poor fellow had probably merely made one slight little mistake. Well: to make the matter short, the man was let off with only a slight reprimand, and left the court. Scarcely, however, had he gone twenty yards, when Tom was after him, and tapping him on the shoulder said: ‘Honest friend, a word with you!’ Then the man turning round, Tom said: ‘Do you know me, pray?’ ‘I think I do, your honour,’ said the man. ‘I think your honour was one of the big wigs, who were just now so kind as to let me off.’ ‘I was so,’ said Tom; ‘and it is well for you that I was the biggest of those big wigs before whom you stood placed, otherwise to a certainty you would have been hung up on high; but did you ever see me before this affair?’ ‘No, your honour,’ said the man, ‘I don’t remember ever to have seen your honour before.’ Says Tom, ‘Don’t you remember one long time ago driving a pair of oxen through Brecon for a man who stood scratching his head on the road?’ ‘O yes,’ says the man; ‘I do remember that well enough.’ ‘Well,’ said Tom, ‘I was that man. I had stolen that pair of oxen, and I dared not drive them through Brecon. You drove them for me; and for doing me that good turn I have this day saved your life. I was thief then, but am now big wig. I am Twm Shone Catti. Now lookee! I have saved your life this one time, but I can never save it again. Should you ever be brought up before me again, though but for stealing one kid, I will hang you as high as ever Haman was hung. One word more: here are five pieces of gold. Take them: employ them well, and reform as I have done, and perhaps in time you may become one big wig, like myself.’ Well: the man took the money, and laid it out to the best advantage, and became at last so highly respectable a character that they made him constable. And now, my gentleman, we are close upon Tregaron.”
After descending a hill we came to what looked a small suburb, and presently crossed a bridge over the stream, the waters of which sparkled merrily in the beams of the moon which was now shining bright over some lofty hills to the south-east. Beyond the bridge was a small market-place, on the right-hand side of which stood an ancient-looking church. The place upon the whole put me very much in mind of an Andalusian village overhung by its sierra. “Where is the inn?” said I to my companion.
“Yonder it be,” said he, pointing to a large house at the farther end of the market-place. “Very good inn that—Talbot Arms—where they are always glad to see English gentlemans.” Then touching his hat, and politely waving his hand, he turned on one side, and I saw him no more.
Chapter XCIII
Tregaron Church—The Minister—Good Morning—Tom Shone’s Disguises—Tom and the Lady—Klim and Catti.
I experienced very good entertainment at the Tregaron Inn, had an excellent supper and a very comfortable bed. I arose at about eight in the morning. The day was dull and misty. After breakfast, according to my usual fashion, I took a stroll to see about. The town, which is very small, stands in a valley, near some wild hills called the Berwyn, like the range to the south of Llangollen. The stream, which runs through it and which falls into the Teivi at a little distance from the town, is called the Brennig, probably because it descends from the Berwyn hills. These southern Berwyns form a very extensive mountain region, extending into Brecon and Carmarthenshire, and contain within them, as I long subsequently found, some of the wildest solitudes and most romantic scenery in Wales. High up amidst them, at about five miles from Tregaron, is a deep broad lake which constitutes the source of the Towy, a very beautiful stream, which, after many turnings and receiving the waters of numerous small streams, discharges itself into Carmarthen Bay.
I did not fail to pay a visit to Tregaron church. It is an antique building with a stone tower. The door being open, as the door of a church always should be, I entered, and was kindly shown by the clerk, whom I met in the aisle, all about the sacred edifice. There was not much to be seen. Amongst the monuments was a stone tablet to John Herbert, who died 1690. The clerk told me that the name of the clergyman of Tregaron was Hughes; he said that he was an excellent charitable man, who preached the Gospel, and gave himself great trouble in educating the children of the poor. He certainly seemed to have succeeded in teaching them good manners: as I was leaving the church, I met a number of little boys belonging to the church school: no sooner did they see me than they drew themselves up in a rank on one side, and as I passed took off their caps and simultaneously shouted “Good morning!”
And now something with respect to the celebrated hero of Tregaron, Tom Shone Catti, concerning whom I picked up a good deal during my short stay there, and of whom I subsequently read something in printed books. {524}
According to the tradition of the country, he was the illegitimate son of Sir John Wynn of Gwedir, by one Catharine Jones of Tregaron, and was born at a place called Fynnon Lidiart, close by Tregaron, towards the conclusion of the sixteenth century. He was baptised by the name of Thomas Jones, but was generally called Tom Shone Catti, that is Tom Jones, son of Catti, or Catharine. His mother, who was a person of some little education, brought him up, and taught him to read and write. His life, till his eighteenth year, was much like that of other peasant boys; he kept crows, drove bullocks, and learned to plough and harrow, but always showed a disposition to roguery and mischief. Between eighteen and nineteen, in order to free himself and his mother from the poverty which they had long endured, he adopted the profession of a thief, and soon became celebrated through the whole of Wales for the cleverness and adroitness which he exercised in his calling; qualities in which he appears to have trusted much more than in strength and daring, though well endowed with both. His disguises were innumerable, and all impenetrable; sometimes he would appear as an ancient crone: sometimes as a begging cripple; sometimes as a broken soldier. Though by no means scrupulous as to what he stole, he was particularly addicted to horse and cattle stealing, and was no less successful in altering the appearance of animals than his own, as he would frequently sell cattle to the very persons from whom he had stolen them, after they had been subject to such a metamorphosis, by means of dyes and the scissors, that recognition was quite impossible. Various attempts were made to apprehend him, but all without success; he was never at home to people who particularly wanted him, or if at home he looked anything but the person they came in quest of. Once a strong and resolute man, a farmer, who conceived, and very justly, that Tom had abstracted a bullock from his stall, came to Tregaron well armed in order to seize him. Riding up to the door of Tom’s mother, he saw an aged and miserable-looking object, with a beggar’s staff and wallet, sitting on a stone bench beside the door. “Does Tom Shone Catti live here?” said the farmer. “O yes: he lives here,” replied the beggar. “Is he at home?” “O yes, he is at home.” “Will you hold my horse whilst I go in and speak to him?” “O yes, I will hold your horse.” Thereupon the man dismounted, took a brace of pistols out of his holsters, gave the cripple his horse’s bridle and likewise his whip, and entered the house boldly. No sooner was he inside than the beggar, or rather Tom Shone Catti, for it was he, jumped on the horse’s back, and rode away to the farmer’s house, which was some ten miles distant, altering his dress and appearance as he rode along, having various articles of disguise in his wallet. Arriving at the house he told the farmer’s wife that her husband was in the greatest trouble, and wanted fifty pounds, which she was to send by him, and that he came mounted on her husband’s horse, and brought his whip, that she might know he was authorised to receive the money. The wife seeing the horse and the whip delivered the money to Tom without hesitation, who forthwith made the best of his way to London, where he sold the horse, and made himself merry with the price, and with what he got from the farmer’s wife, not returning to Wales for several months. Though Tom was known by everybody to be a thief, he appears to have lived on very good terms with the generality of his neighbours, both rich and poor. The poor he conciliated by being very free of the money which he acquired by theft and robbery, and with the rich he ingratiated himself by humorous jesting, at which he was a proficient, and by being able to sing a good song. At length, being an extremely good-looking young fellow, he induced a wealthy lady to promise to marry him. This lady is represented by some as a widow, and by others as a virgin heiress. After some time, however, she refused to perform her promise, and barred her doors against him. Tom retired to a cave on the side of a steep wild hill near the lady’s house, to which he frequently repaired, and at last, having induced her to stretch her hand to him through the window bars, under the pretence that he wished to imprint a parting kiss upon it, he won her by seizing her hand and threatening to cut it off unless she performed her promise. Then, as everything at the time at which he lived could be done by means of money, he soon obtained for himself a general pardon, and likewise a commission as justice of the peace, which he held to the time of his death, to the satisfaction of everybody except thieves and ill-doers, against whom he waged incessant war, and with whom he was admirably qualified to cope, from the knowledge he possessed of their ways and habits, from having passed so many years of his life in the exercise of the thieving trade. In his youth he was much addicted to poetry, and a great many pennillion of his composition, chiefly on his own thievish exploits, are yet recited by the inhabitants of certain districts of the Shires of Brecon, Carmarthen, and Cardigan.
Such is the history, or rather the outline of the history of Twm Shone Catti. Concerning the actions attributed to him it is necessary to say that the greater part consist of myths which are told of particular individuals of every country, from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic: for example, the story of cutting off the bull’s tail is not only told of him but of the Irish thief Delany, and is to be found in the “Lives of Irish Rogues and Rapparees;” certain tricks related of him in the printed tale bearing his name are almost identical with various rogueries related in the story-book of Klim the Russian robber, {527} and the most poetical part of Tom Shone’s history, namely, that in which he threatens to cut off the hand of the reluctant bride unless she performs her promise, is, in all probability, an offshoot of the grand myth of “the severed hand,” which in various ways figures in the stories of most nations, and which is turned to considerable account in the tale of the above-mentioned Russian worthy Klim.
Chapter XCIV
Llan Ddewi Brefi—Pelagian Heresy—Hu Gadarn—God of Agriculture—The Silver Cup—Rude Tablet.
It was about eleven o’clock in the morning when I started from Tregaron; the sky was still cloudy and heavy. I took the road to Lampeter, distant about eight miles, intending, however, to go much farther ere I stopped for the night. The road lay nearly south-west. I passed by Aber Coed, a homestead near the bottom of a dingle down which runs a brook into the Teivi, which flows here close by the road; then by Aber Carvan, where another brook disembogues. Aber, as perhaps the reader already knows, is a disemboguement, and wherever a place commences with Aber there to a certainty does a river flow into the sea or a brook or rivulet into a river. I next passed through Nant Derven, and in about three quarters of an hour after leaving Tregaron reached a place of old renown called Llan Ddewi Brefi.
Llan Ddewi Brefi is a small village situated at the entrance of a gorge leading up to some lofty hills which rise to the east and belong to the same mountain range as those near Tregaron. A brook flowing from the hills murmurs through it and at length finds its way into the Teivi—an ancient church stands on a little rising ground just below the hills, multitudes of rooks inhabit its steeple and fill throughout the day the air with their cawing. The place wears a remarkable air of solitude, but presents nothing of gloom and horror, and seems just the kind of spot in which some quiet pensive man, fatigued but not soured by the turmoil of the world, might settle down, enjoy a few innocent pleasures, make his peace with God and then compose himself to his long sleep.
It is not without reason that Llan Ddewi Brefi has been called a place of old renown. In the fifth century, one of the most remarkable ecclesiastical convocations which the world has ever seen was held in this secluded spot. It was for the purpose of refuting certain doctrines which had for some time past caused much agitation in the Church, and which originated with one Morgan, a native of North Wales, who left his country at an early age and repaired to Italy, where having adopted the appellation of Pelagius, which is a Latin translation of his own name Morgan, which signifies “by the seashore,” he soon became noted as a theological writer. It is not necessary to enter into any detailed exposition of his opinions; it will, however, be as well to state that one of the points which he was chiefly anxious to inculcate was that it is possible for a man to lead a life entirely free from sin by obeying the dictates of his own reason without any assistance from the grace of God—a dogma certainly to the last degree delusive and dangerous. When the convocation met there were a great many sermons preached by various learned and eloquent divines, but nothing was produced which was pronounced by the general voice a satisfactory answer to the doctrines of the heresiarch. At length it was resolved to send for Dewi, a celebrated teacher of theology at Mynyw in Pembrokeshire, who from motives of humility had not appeared in the assembly. Messengers therefore were despatched to Dewi, who after repeated entreaties was induced to repair to the place of meeting, where after three days’ labour in a cell he produced a treatise in writing in which the tenets of Morgan were so triumphantly overthrown that the convocation unanimously adopted it and sent it into the world with a testimony of approbation as an antidote to the heresy, and so great was its efficacy that from that moment the doctrines of Morgan fell gradually into disrepute. {529}
Dewi shortly afterwards became primate of Wales, being appointed to the see of Minevai or Mynyw, which from that time was called Ty Ddewi or David’s House, a name which it still retains amongst the Cumry, though at present called by the Saxons Saint David’s. About five centuries after his death, the crown of canonisation having been awarded to Dewi, various churches were dedicated to him, amongst which was that now called Llan Ddewi Brefi, which was built above the cell in which the good man composed his celebrated treatise.
If this secluded gorge or valley is connected with a remarkable historical event it is also associated with one of the wildest tales of mythology. Here according to old tradition died one of the humped oxen of the team of Hu Gadarn. Distracted at having lost its comrade, which perished from the dreadful efforts which it made along with the others in drawing the avanc hen or old crocodile from the lake of lakes, it fled away from its master, and wandered about till coming to the glen now called that of Llan Ddewi Brefi it fell down and perished after excessive bellowing, from which noise the place probably derived its name of Brefi, for Bref in Cumric signifies a mighty bellowing or lowing. Horns of enormous size, said to have belonged to this humped ox or bison, were for many ages preserved in the church.
Many will exclaim who was Hu Gadarn? Hu Gadarn in the Gwlad yr Haf or summer country, a certain region of the East, perhaps the Crimea, which seems to be a modification of Cumria, taught the Cumry the arts of civilised life, to build comfortable houses, to sow grain and reap, to tame the buffalo and the bison, and turn their mighty strength to profitable account, to construct boats with wicker and the skins of animals, to drain pools and morasses, to cut down forests, cultivate the vine and encourage bees, make wine and mead, frame lutes and fifes and play upon them, compose rhymes and verses, fuse minerals and form them into various instruments and weapons, and to move in masses against their enemies, and finally when the summer country became over-populated led an immense multitude of his countrymen across many lands to Britain, a country of forests in which bears, wolves and bisons wandered, and of morasses and pools full of dreadful efync or crocodiles, a country inhabited only by a few savage Gauls, but which shortly after the arrival of Hu and his people became a smiling region, forests being thinned, bears and wolves hunted down, efync annihilated, bulls and bisons tamed, corn planted and pleasant cottages erected. After his death he was worshipped as the God of agriculture and war by the Cumry and the Gauls. The Germans paid him divine honours under the name of Heus, from which name the province of Hesse in which there was a mighty temple devoted to him derived its appellation. The Scandinavians worshipped him under the name of Odin and Gautr, the latter word a modification of Cadarn or mighty. The wild Finns feared him as a wizard and honoured him as a musician under the name of Wainoemoinen, and it is very probable that he was the wondrous being whom the Greeks termed Odysses. Till a late period the word Hu amongst the Cumry was frequently used to express God—Gwir Hu, God knows, being a common saying. Many Welsh poets have called the Creator by the name of the creature, amongst others Iolo Goch in his ode to the ploughman:—
The Mighty Hu who lives for ever, Of mead and wine to men the giver, The emperor of land and sea, And of all things that living be, Did hold a plough with his good hand, Soon as the Deluge left the land, To show to men both strong and weak, The haughty-hearted and the meek, Of all the arts the heaven below The noblest is to guide the plough.
So much for Hu Gadarn or Hu the Mighty, whose name puts one strangely in mind of the Al Kader Hu or the Almighty He of the Arabians.
I went to see the church. The inside was very rude and plain—a rough table covered with a faded cloth served for an altar—on the right-hand side was a venerable-looking chest.
“What is there in that box?” said I to the old sexton who attended me.
“The treasure of the church, sir,” he replied in a feeble quaking voice.
“Dear me!” said I, “what does the treasure consist of?”
“You shall see, sir,” said he, and drawing a large key out of his pocket he unlocked the chest and taking out a cup of silver he put it into my hand saying:—“This is the treasure of the church, sir!”
I looked at the cup. It was tolerably large and of very chaste workmanship. Graven upon it were the following words:—
“Poculum Eclesie De LXXN Dewy Brefy 1574.”
“Do you always keep this cup in that chest?” said I.
“Yes, sir! we have kept it there since the cup was given to us by de godly Queen Elizabeth.”
I said nothing, but I thought to myself:—“I wonder how long a cup like this would have been safe in a crazy chest in a country church in England.”
I kissed the sacred relic of old times with reverence and returned it to the old sexton.
“What became of the horns of Hu Gadarn’s bull?” said I after he had locked the cup again in its delapidated coffer.
“They did dwindle away, sir, till they came to nothing.”
“Did you ever see any part of them?” said I.
“O no, sir; I did never see any part of them, but one very old man who is buried here did tell me shortly before he died that he had seen one very old man who had seen of dem one little tip.”
“Who was the old man who said that to you?” said I.
“I will show you his monument, sir,” then taking me into a dusky pew he pointed to a small rude tablet against the church wall and said:—“That is his monument, sir.”
The tablet bore the following inscription, and below it a rude englyn on death not worth transcribing:—
Coffadwriaeth am Thomas Jones Diweddar o’r Draws Llwyn yn y Plwyf hwn: Bu farw Chwefror 6 fed 1830 Yn 92 oed.
To the Memory of Thomas Jones Of Traws Llwyn (across the Grove) in this parish who died February the sixth, 1830. Aged 92.
After copying the inscription I presented the old man with a trifle and went my way.
Chapter XCV
Lampeter—The Monk Austin—The Three Publicans—The Tombstone—Sudden Change—Trampers—A Catholic—The Bridge of Twrch.
The country between Llan Ddewi and Lampeter presented nothing remarkable, and I met on the road nothing worthy of being recorded. On arriving at Lampeter I took a slight refreshment at the inn, and then went to see the college which stands a little to the north of the town. It was founded by Bishop Burgess in the year 1820, for the education of youths intended for the ministry of the Church of England. It is a neat quadrate edifice with a courtyard in which stands a large stone basin. From the courtyard you enter a spacious dining-hall, over the door of which hangs a well-executed portrait of the good bishop. From the hall you ascend by a handsome staircase to the library, a large and lightsome room, well stored with books in various languages. The grand curiosity is a manuscript Codex containing a Latin synopsis of Scripture which once belonged to the monks of Bangor Is Coed. It bears marks of blood with which it was sprinkled when the monks were massacred by the heathen Saxons, at the instigation of Austin the Pope’s missionary in Britain. The number of students seldom exceeds forty.
It might be about half-past two in the afternoon when I left Lampeter. I passed over a bridge, taking the road to Llandovery which, however, I had no intention of attempting to reach that night, as it was considerably upwards of twenty miles distant. The road lay, seemingly, due east. After walking very briskly for about an hour I came to a very small hamlet consisting of not more than six or seven houses; of these three seemed to be public-houses, as they bore large flaming signs. Seeing three rather shabby-looking fellows standing chatting with their hands in their pockets, I stopped and inquired in English the name of the place.
“Pen- something,” said one of them, who had a red face and a large carbuncle on his nose, which served to distinguish him from his companions, who though they had both very rubicund faces had no carbuncles.
“It seems rather a small place to maintain three public-houses,” said I; “how do the publicans manage to live?”
“O, tolerably well, sir; we get bread and cheese and have a groat in our pockets. No great reason to complain; have we, neighbours?”
“No! no great reason to complain,” said the other two.
“Dear me!” said I; “are you the publicans?”
“We are, sir,” said the man with the carbuncle on his nose, “and shall be each of us glad to treat you to a pint in his own house in order to welcome you to Shire Car—shan’t we, neighbours?”
“Yes, in truth we shall,” said the other two.
“By Shire Car,” said I, “I suppose you mean Shire Cardigan?”
“Shire Cardigan!” said the man; “no indeed; by Shire Car is meant Carmarthenshire. Your honour has left beggarly Cardigan some way behind you. Come, your honour, come and have a pint; this is my house,” said he, pointing to one of the buildings.
“But,” said I, “I suppose if I drink at your expense you will expect to drink at mine?”
“Why, we can’t say that we shall have any objection, your honour; I think we will arrange the matter in this way: we will go into my house, where we will each of us treat your honour with a pint, and for each pint we treat your honour with your honour shall treat us with one.”
“Do you mean each?” said I.
“Why, yes! your honour, for a pint amongst three would be rather a short allowance.”
“Then it would come to this,” said I, “I should receive three pints from you three, and you three would receive nine from me.”
“Just so, your honour; I see your honour is a ready reckoner.”
“I know how much three times three make,” said I. “Well, thank you, kindly, but I must decline your offer; I am bound on a journey.”
“Where are you bound to, master?”
“To Llandovery, but if I can find an inn a few miles farther on I shall stop there for the night.”
“Then you will put up at the ‘Pump Saint,’ master; well, you can have your three pints here and your three pipes too, and yet get there easily by seven. Come in, master, come in! If you take my advice you will think of your pint and your pipe and let all the rest go to the devil.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I can’t accept your invitation, I must be off;” and in spite of yet more pressing solicitations I went on.
I had not gone far when I came to a point where the road parted in two; just at the point where a house and premises belonging apparently to a stone-mason, as a great many pieces of half-cut granite were standing about, and not a few tombstones. I stopped, and looked at one of the latter. It was to the memory of somebody who died at the age of sixty-six, and at the bottom bore the following bit of poetry:—
“Ti ddaear o ddaear ystyria mewn braw, Mai daear i ddaear yn fuan a ddaw; A ddaear mewn ddaear raid aros bob darn Nes daear o ddaear gyfrodir i farn.”
“Thou earth from earth reflect with anxious mind That earth to earth must quickly be consigned, And earth in earth must lie entranced enthralled Till earth from earth to judgment shall be called.”
“What conflicting opinions there are in this world,” said I, after I had copied the quatrain and translated it. “The publican yonder tells me to think of my pint and pipe and let everything else go to the devil, and the tombstone here tells me to reflect with dread—a much finer expression by the bye than reflect with anxious mind, as I have got it—that in a very little time I must die, and lie in the ground till I am called to judgment. Now, which is most right, the tombstone or the publican? Why, I should say the tombstone decidedly. The publican is too sweeping when he tells you to think of your pint and pipe and nothing else. A pint and pipe are good things. I don’t smoke myself, but I dare say a pipe is a good thing for them who like it, but there are certainly things worth being thought of in this world besides a pint and pipe—hills and dales, woods and rivers, for example—death and judgment too are worthy now and then of very serious thought. So it won’t do to go with the publican the whole hog. But with respect to the tombstone, it is quite safe and right to go with it its whole length. It tells you to think of death and judgment—and assuredly we ought to think of them. It does not, however, tell you to think of nothing but death and judgment and to eschew every innocent pleasure within your reach. If it did it would be a tombstone quite as sweeping in what it says as the publican, who tells you to think of your pint and pipe and let everything else go to the devil. The wisest course evidently is to blend the whole of the philosophy of the tombstone with a portion of the philosophy of the publican and something more, to enjoy one’s pint and pipe and other innocent pleasures, and to think every now and then of death and judgment—that is what I intend to do, and indeed is what I have done for the last thirty years.”
I went on—desolate hills rose in the east, the way I was going, but on the south were beautiful hillocks adorned with trees and hedge-rows. I was soon amongst the desolate hills, which then looked more desolate than they did at a distance. They were of a wretched russet colour, and exhibited no other signs of life and cultivation than here and there a miserable field and vile-looking hovel; and if there was here nothing to cheer the eye, there was also nothing to cheer the ear. There were no songs of birds, no voices of rills; the only sound I heard was the lowing of a wretched bullock from a far-off slope.
I went on slowly and heavily; at length I got to the top of this wretched range—then what a sudden change! Beautiful hills in the far east, a fair valley below me, and groves and woods on each side of the road which led down to it. The sight filled my veins with fresh life, and I descended this side of the hill as merrily as I had come up the other side despondingly. About half-way down the hill I came to a small village. Seeing a public-house I went up to it, and inquired in English of some people within the name of the village.
“Dolwen,” said a dark-faced young fellow of about four-and-twenty.
“And what is the name of the valley?” said I.
“Dolwen,” was the answer, “the valley is named after the village.”
“You mean that the village is named after the valley,” said I, “for Dolwen means fair valley.”
“It may be,” said the young fellow, “we don’t know much here.”
Then after a moment’s pause he said:
“Are you going much farther?”
“Only as far as the ‘Pump Saint.’”
“Have you any business there?” said he.
“No,” I replied, “I am travelling the country, and shall only put up there for the night.”
“You had better stay here,” said the young fellow. “You will be better accommodated here than at the ‘Pump Saint.’”
“Very likely,” said I; “but I have resolved to go there, and when I once make a resolution I never alter it.”
Then bidding him good evening I departed. Had I formed no resolution at all about stopping at the “Pump Saint” I certainly should not have stayed in this house, which had all the appearance of a tramper’s hostelry, and though I am very fond of the conversation of trampers, who are the only people from whom you can learn anything, I would much rather have the benefit of it abroad than in their own lairs. A little farther down I met a woman coming up the ascent. She was tolerably respectably dressed, seemed about five-and-thirty, and was rather good-looking. She walked somewhat slowly, which was probably more owing to a large bundle which she bore in her hand than to her path being up-hill.
“Good evening,” said I, stopping.
“Good evening, your honour,” said she, stopping and slightly panting.
“Do you come from far?” said I.
“Not very far, your honour, but quite far enough for a poor feeble woman.”
“Are you Welsh?” said I.
“Och no! your honour; I am Mary Bane from Dunmanway in the kingdom of Ireland.”
“And what are you doing here?” said I.
“Och sure! I am travelling the country with soft goods.”
“Are you going far?” said I.
“Merely to the village a little farther up, your honour.”
“I am going farther,” said I; “I am thinking of passing the night at the ‘Pump Saint.’”
“Well, then, I would just advise your honour to do no such thing, but to turn back with me to the village above, where there is an illigant inn where your honour will be well accommodated.”
“O, I saw that as I came past,” said I; “I don’t think there is much accommodation there.”
“O, your honour is clane mistaken; there is always an illigant fire and an illigant bed too.”
“Is there only one bed?” said I.
“O yes, there are two beds, one for the accommodation of the people of the house and the other for that of the visitors.”
“And do the visitors sleep together then?” said I.
“O yes! unless they wish to be unsociable. Those who are not disposed to be sociable sleeps in the chimney-corners.”
“Ah,” said I, “I see it is a very agreeable inn; however, I shall go on to the ‘Pump Saint.’”
“I am sorry for it, your honour, for your honour’s sake; your honour won’t be half so illigantly served at the ‘Pump Saint’ as there above.”
“Of what religion are you?” said I.
“O, I’m a Catholic, just like your honour, for if I am not clane mistaken your honour is an Irishman.”
“Who is your spiritual director?” said I.
“Why then, it is jist Father Toban, your honour, whom of course your honour knows.”
“O yes!” said I; “when you next see him present my respects to him.”
“What name shall I mention, your honour?”
“Shorsha Borroo,” said I.
“Oh, then I was right in taking your honour for an Irishman. None but a raal Paddy bears that name. A credit to your honour is your name, for it is a famous name, {538} and a credit to your name is your honour, for it is a neat man without a bend you are. God bless your honour and good night! and may you find dacent quarters in the ‘Pump Saint.’”
Leaving Mary Bane I proceeded on my way. The evening was rather fine but twilight was coming rapidly on. I reached the bottom of the valley and soon overtook a young man dressed something like a groom. We entered into conversation. He spoke Welsh and a little English. His Welsh I had great difficulty in understanding, as it was widely different from that which I had been accustomed to. He asked me where I was going to; I replied to the “Pump Saint,” and then inquired if he was in service.
“I am,” said he.
“With whom do you live?” said I.
“With Mr. Johnes of Dol Cothi,” he answered.
Struck by the word Cothi, I asked if Dol Cothi was ever called Glyn Cothi.
“O yes,” said he, “frequently.”
“How odd,” thought I to myself, “that I should have stumbled all of a sudden upon the country of my old friend Lewis Glyn Cothi, the greatest poet after Ab Gwilym of all Wales!”
“Is Cothi a river?” said I to my companion.
“It is,” said he.
Presently we came to a bridge over a small river.
“Is this river the Cothi?” said I.
“No,” said he, “this is the Twrch; the bridge is called Pont y Twrch.”
“The bridge of Twrch or the hog,” said I to myself; “there is a bridge of the same name in the Scottish Highlands, not far from the pass of the Trossachs. I wonder whether it has its name from the same cause as this, namely, from passing over a river called the Twrch or Torck, which word in Gaelic signifies boar or hog even as it does in Welsh.” It had now become nearly dark. After proceeding some way farther I asked the groom if we were far from the inn of the “Pump Saint.”
“Close by,” said he, and presently pointing to a large building on the right-hand side he said: “This is the inn of the ‘Pump Saint,’ sir. Nos Da’chi!”
Chapter XCVI
Pump Saint—Pleasant Residence—The Watery Coom—Philological Fact—Evening Service—Meditation.
I entered the inn of the “Pump Saint.” It was a comfortable old-fashioned place, with a very large kitchen and a rather small parlour. The people were kind and attentive, and soon set before me in the parlour a homely but savoury supper, and a foaming tankard of ale. After supper I went into the kitchen, and sitting down with the good folks in an immense chimney-corner, listened to them talking in their Carmarthenshire dialect till it was time to go to rest, when I was conducted to a large chamber where I found an excellent and clean bed awaiting me, in which I enjoyed a refreshing sleep occasionally visited by dreams in which some of the scenes of the preceding day again appeared before me, but in an indistinct and misty manner.
Awaking in the very depth of the night I thought I heard the murmuring of a river; I listened and soon found that I had not been deceived. “I wonder whether that river is the Cothi,” said I, “the stream of the immortal Lewis. I will suppose that it is”—and rendered quite happy by the idea, I soon fell asleep again.
I arose about eight and went out to look about me. The village consists of little more than half-a-dozen houses. The name “Pump Saint” signifies “Five Saints.” Why the place is called so I know not. Perhaps the name originally belonged to some chapel which stood either where the village now stands or in the neighbourhood. The inn is a good specimen of an ancient Welsh hostelry. Its gable is to the road and its front to a little space on one side of the way. At a little distance up the road is a blacksmith’s shop. The country around is interesting: on the north-west is a fine wooded hill—to the south a valley through which flows the Cothi, a fair river, the one whose murmur had come so pleasingly upon my ear in the depth of night.
After breakfast I departed for Llandovery. Presently I came to a lodge on the left-hand beside an ornamental gate at the bottom of an avenue leading seemingly to a gentleman’s seat. On inquiring of a woman who sat at the door of the lodge to whom the grounds belonged, she said to Mr. Johnes, and that if I pleased I was welcome to see them. I went in and advanced along the avenue, which consisted of very noble oaks; on the right was a vale in which a beautiful brook was running north and south. Beyond the vale to the east were fine wooded hills. I thought I had never seen a more pleasing locality, though I saw it to great disadvantage, the day being dull, and the season the latter fall. Presently, on the avenue making a slight turn, I saw the house, a plain but comfortable gentleman’s seat with wings. It looked to the south down the dale. “With what satisfaction I could live in that house,” said I to myself, “if backed by a couple of thousands a-year. With what gravity could I sign a warrant in its library, and with what dreamy comfort translate an ode of Lewis Glyn Cothi, my tankard of rich ale beside me. I wonder whether the proprietor is fond of the old bard and keeps good ale. Were I an Irishman instead of a Norfolk man I would go in and ask him.”
Returning to the road I proceeded on my journey. I passed over Pont y Rhanedd or the bridge of the Rhanedd, a small river flowing through a dale, then by Clas Hywel, a lofty mountain which appeared to have three heads. After walking for some miles I came to where the road divided into two. By a sign-post I saw that both led to Llandovery, one by Porth y Rhyd and the other by Llanwrda. The distance by the first was six miles and a half, by the latter eight and a half. Feeling quite the reverse of tired I chose the longest road, namely the one by Llanwrda, along which I sped at a great rate.
In a little time I found myself in the heart of a romantic winding dell overhung with trees of various kinds, which a tall man whom I met told me was called Cwm Dwr Llanwrda, or the Watery Coom of Llanwrda; and well might it be called the Watery Coom, for there were several bridges in it, two within a few hundred yards of each other. The same man told me that the war was going on very badly, that our soldiers were suffering much, and that the snow was two feet deep at Sebastopol.
Passing through Llanwrda, a pretty village with a singular-looking church, close to which stood an enormous yew, I entered a valley which I learned was the valley of the Towey. I directed my course to the north, having the river on my right, which runs towards the south in a spacious bed which, however, except in times of flood, it scarcely half fills. Beautiful hills were on either side, partly cultivated, partly covered with wood, and here and there dotted with farm-houses and gentlemen’s seats; green pastures which descended nearly to the river occupying in general the lower parts. After journeying about four miles amid this kind of scenery I came to a noble suspension bridge, and crossing it found myself in about a quarter of an hour at Llandovery.
It was about half-past two when I arrived. I put up at the Castle Inn and forthwith ordered dinner, which was served up between four and five. During dinner I was waited upon by a strange old fellow who spoke Welsh and English with equal fluency.
“What countryman are you?” said I.
“An Englishman,” he replied.
“From what part of England?”
“From Herefordshire.”
“Have you been long here?”
“O yes! upwards of twenty years.”
“How came you to learn Welsh?”
“O, I took to it and soon picked it up.”
“Can you read it?” said I.
“No, I can’t.”
“Can you read English?”
“Yes, I can; that is, a little.”
“Why didn’t you try to learn to read Welsh?”
“Well, I did; but I could make no hand of it. It’s one thing to speak Welsh and another to read it.”
“I can read Welsh much better than I can speak it,” said I.
“Ah, you are a gentleman—gentlefolks always find it easier to learn to read a foreign lingo than to speak it, but it’s quite the contrary with we poor folks.”
“One of the most profound truths ever uttered connected with language,” said I to myself. I asked him if there were many Church of England people in Llandovery.
“A good many,” he replied.
“Do you belong to the Church?” said I.
“Yes, I do.”
“If this were Sunday I would go to church,” said I.
“O, if you wish to go to church you can go to-night. This is Wednesday, and there will be service at half-past six. If you like I will come for you.”
“Pray do,” said I; “I should like above all things to go.”
Dinner over I sat before the fire occasionally dozing, occasionally sipping a glass of whiskey-and-water. A little after six the old fellow made his appearance with a kind of Spanish hat on his head. We set out, the night was very dark; we went down a long street seemingly in the direction of the west. “How many churches are there in Llandovery?” said I to my companion.
“Only one, but you are not going to Llandovery Church, but to that of Llanfair, in which our clergyman does duty once or twice a week.”
“Is it far?” said I.
“O no; just out of the town, only a few steps farther.”
We seemed to pass over a bridge and began to ascend a rising ground. Several people were going in the same direction.
“There,” said the old man, “follow with these, and a little farther up you will come to the church, which stands on the right hand.”
He then left me. I went with the rest and soon came to the church. I went in and was at once conducted by an old man who I believe was the sexton to a large pew close against the southern wall. The inside of the church was dimly lighted; it was long and narrow, and the walls were painted with a yellow colour. The pulpit stood against the northern wall near the altar, and almost opposite to the pew in which I sat. After a little time the service commenced; it was in Welsh. When the litanies were concluded the clergyman, who appeared to be a middle-aged man, and who had rather a fine voice, began to preach. His sermon was from the 119th Psalm: “Am hynny hoffais dy gorchymynion yn mwy nag aur;” “Therefore have I loved thy commandments more than gold.” The sermon, which was extempore, was delivered with great earnestness, and I make no doubt was a very excellent one, but owing to its being in South Welsh I did not derive so much benefit from it as I otherwise might have done. When it was over a great many got up and went away. Observing, however, that not a few remained, I determined upon remaining too. When everything was quiet the clergyman descending from the pulpit repaired to the vestry, and having taken off his gown went into a pew, and standing up began a discourse, from which I learned that there was to be a sacrament on the ensuing Sabbath. He spoke with much fervency, enlarging upon the high importance of the holy communion and exhorting people to come to it in a fit state of mind. When he had finished a man in a neighbouring pew got up and spoke about his own unworthiness, saying this and that about himself, his sins of commission and omission, and dwelling particularly on his uncharitableness and the malicious pleasure which he took in the misfortunes of his neighbours. The clergyman listened attentively, sometimes saying “Ah!” and the congregation also listened attentively, a voice here and there frequently saying “Ah.” When the man had concluded the clergyman again spoke, making observations on what he had heard and hoping that the rest would be visited with the same contrite spirit as their friend. Then there was a hymn and we went away.
The moon was shining on high and cast its silvery light on the tower, the church, some fine trees which surrounded it, and the congregation going home; a few of the better dressed were talking to each other in English, but with an accent and pronunciation which rendered the discourse almost unintelligible to my ears.
I found my way back to my inn and went to bed after musing awhile on the concluding scene of which I had been witness in the church.
Chapter XCVII
Llandovery—Griffith ap Nicholas—Powerful Enemies—Last Words—Llandovery Church—Rees Pritchard—The Wiser Creature—“God’s Better than All”—The Old Vicarage.
The morning of the ninth was very beautiful, with a slight tendency to frost. I breakfasted, and having no intention of proceeding on my journey that day, I went to take a leisurely view of Llandovery and the neighbourhood.
Llandovery is a small but beautiful town, situated amidst fertile meadows. It is a water-girdled spot, whence its name Llandovery or Llanymdyfri, which signifies the church surrounded by water. On its west is the Towey, and on its east the river Bran or Brein, which descending from certain lofty mountains to the north-east runs into the Towey a little way below the town. The most striking object which Llandovery can show is its castle, from which the inn, which stands near to it, has its name. This castle, majestic though in ruins, stands on a green mound, the eastern side of which is washed by the Bran. Little with respect to its history is known. One thing, however, is certain, namely that it was one of the many strongholds, which at one time belonged to Griffith ap Nicholas, Lord of Dinevor, one of the most remarkable men which South Wales has ever produced, of whom a brief account here will not be out of place.
Griffith ap Nicholas flourished towards the concluding part of the reign of Henry the Sixth. He was a powerful chieftain of South Wales and possessed immense estates in the counties of Carmarthen and Cardigan. King Henry the Sixth, fully aware of his importance in his own country, bestowed upon him the commission of the peace, an honour at that time seldom vouchsafed to a Welshman, and the captaincy of Kilgarran, a strong royal castle situated on the southern bank of the Teivi a few miles above Cardigan. He had many castles of his own, in which he occasionally resided, but his chief residence was Dinevor, half way between Llandovery and Carmarthen, once a palace of the kings of South Wales, from whom Griffith traced lineal descent. He was a man very proud at heart, but with too much wisdom to exhibit many marks of pride, speaking generally with the utmost gentleness and suavity, and though very brave never addicted to dashing into danger for the mere sake of displaying his valour. He was a great master of the English tongue, and well acquainted with what learning it contained, but nevertheless was passionately attached to the language and literature of Wales, a proof of which he gave by holding a congress of bards and literati at Carmarthen, at which various pieces of eloquence and poetry were recited, and certain alterations introduced into the canons of Welsh versification. Though holding offices of trust and emolument under the Saxon, he in the depths of his soul detested the race and would have rejoiced to see it utterly extirpated from Britain. This hatred of his against the English was the cause of his doing that which cannot be justified on any principle of honour, giving shelter and encouragement to Welsh thieves who were in the habit of plundering and ravaging the English borders. Though at the head of a numerous and warlike clan which was strongly attached to him on various accounts, Griffith did not exactly occupy a bed of roses. He had amongst his neighbours four powerful enemies who envied him his large possessions, with whom he had continual disputes about property and privilege. Powerful enemies they may well be called, as they were no less personages than Humphrey Duke of Buckingham, Richard Duke of York, who began the contest for the crown with King Henry the Sixth, Jasper Earl of Pembroke, son of Owen Tudor, and half-brother of the king, and the Earl of Warwick. These accused him at court of being a comforter and harbourer of thieves, the result being that he was deprived not only of the commission of the peace but of the captaincy of Kilgarran which the Earl of Pembroke, through his influence with his half-brother, procured for himself. They moreover induced William Borley and Thomas Corbet, two justices of the peace for the county of Hereford, to grant a warrant for his apprehension on the ground of his being in league with the thieves of the Marches. Griffith in the bosom of his mighty clan bade defiance to Saxon warrants, though once having ventured to Hereford he nearly fell into the power of the ministers of justice, only escaping by the intervention of Sir John Scudamore, with whom he was connected by marriage. Shortly afterwards the civil war breaking out the Duke of York apologised to Griffith and besought his assistance against the king, which the chieftain readily enough promised, not out of affection for York but from the hatred which he felt, on account of the Kilgarran affair, for the Earl of Pembroke, who had sided, very naturally, with his half-brother the king and commanded his forces in the west. Griffith fell at the great battle of Mortimer’s Cross, which was won for York by a desperate charge made right at Pembroke’s banner by Griffith and his Welshmen when the rest of the Yorkists were wavering. His last words were, “Welcome, Death! since honour and victory make for us.”
The power and wealth of Griffith ap Nicholas and also parts of his character have been well described by one of his bards, Gwilym ab Ieuan Hen, in an ode to the following effect:—
“Griffith ap Nicholas, who like thee For wealth and power and majesty! Which most abound, I cannot say, On either side of Towey gay, From hence to where it meets the brine, Trees or stately towers of thine? The chair of judgment thou didst gain, But not to deal in judgments vain— To thee upon thy judgment chair From near and far do crowds repair; But though betwixt the weak and strong No questions rose of right and wrong, The strong and weak to thee would hie; The strong to do thee injury, And to the weak thou wine wouldst deal And wouldst trip up the mighty heel. A lion unto the lofty thou, A lamb unto the weak and low. Much thou resemblest Nudd of yore, Surpassing all who went before; Like him thou’rt fam’d for bravery, For noble birth and high degree. Hail, captain of Kilgarran’s hold! Lieutenant of Carmarthen old! Hail chieftain, Cambria’s choicest boast! Hail Justice at the Saxon’s cost! Seven castles high confess thy sway, Seven palaces thy hands obey. Against my chief, with envy fired, Three dukes and judges two conspired, But thou a dauntless front didst show, And to retreat they were not slow. O, with what gratitude is heard From mouth of thine, the whispered word; The deepest pools in rivers found In summer are of softest sound; The sage concealeth what he knows, A deal of talk no wisdom shows; The sage is silent as the grave, Whilst of his lips the fool is slave; Thy smile doth every joy impart, Of faith a fountain is thy heart; Thy hand is strong, thine eye is keen, Thy head o’er every head is seen.”
The church of Llandovery is a large edifice standing at the southern extremity of the town in the vicinity of the Towey. The outside exhibits many appearances of antiquity, but the interior has been sadly modernised. It contains no remarkable tombs; I was pleased, however, to observe upon one or two of the monuments the name of Ryce, the appellation of the great clan to which Griffith ap Nicholas belonged; of old the regal race of South Wales. On inquiring of the clerk, an intelligent young man who showed me over the sacred edifice, as to the state of the Church of England at Llandovery, he gave me a very cheering account, adding, however, that before the arrival of the present incumbent it was very low indeed. “What is the clergyman’s name?” said I; “I heard him preach last night.”
“I know you did, sir,” said the clerk bowing, “for I saw you at the service at Llanfair—his name is Hughes.”
“Any relation of the clergyman at Tregaron?” said I.
“Own brother, sir.”
“He at Tregaron bears a very high character,” said I.
“And very deservedly, sir,” said the clerk, “for he is an excellent man; he is, however, not more worthy of his high character than his brother here is of the one which he bears, which is equally high, and which the very dissenters have nothing to say against.”
“Have you ever heard,” said I, “of a man of the name of Rees Pritchard, who preached within these walls some two hundred years ago?”
“Rees Pritchard, sir! Of course I have—who hasn’t heard of the old vicar—the Welshman’s candle? Ah, he was a man indeed! We have some good men in the Church, very good; but the old vicar—where shall we find his equal?”
“Is he buried in this church?” said I.
“No, sir, he was buried out abroad in the churchyard, near the wall by the Towey.”
“Can you show me his tomb?” said I. “No, sir, nor can any one; his tomb was swept away more than a hundred years ago by a dreadful inundation of the river, which swept away not only tombs but dead bodies out of graves. But there’s his house in the market-place, the old vicarage, which you should go and see. I would go and show it you myself, but I have church matters just now to attend to—the place of church clerk at Llandovery, long a sinecure, is anything but that under the present clergyman, who though not a Rees Pritchard is a very zealous Christian, and not unworthy to preach in the pulpit of the old vicar.”
Leaving the church I went to see the old vicarage, but, before saying anything respecting it, a few words about the old vicar.
Rees Pritchard was born at Llandovery, about the year 1575, of respectable parents. He received the rudiments of a classical education at the school of the place, and at the age of eighteen was sent to Oxford, being intended for the clerical profession. At Oxford he did not distinguish himself in an advantageous manner, being more remarkable for dissipation and riot than application in the pursuit of learning. Returning to Wales he was admitted into the ministry, and after the lapse of a few years was appointed vicar of Llandovery. His conduct for a considerable time was not only unbecoming a clergyman but a human being in any sphere. Drunkenness was very prevalent in the age in which he lived, but Rees Pritchard was so inordinately addicted to that vice that the very worst of his parishioners were scandalised and said: “Bad as we may be we are not half so bad as the parson.”
He was in the habit of spending the greater part of his time in the public-house, from which he was generally trundled home in a wheelbarrow in a state of utter insensibility. God, however, who is aware of what every man is capable of, had reserved Rees Pritchard for great and noble things, and brought about his conversion in a very remarkable manner.
The people of the tavern which Rees Pritchard frequented had a large he-goat, which went in and out and mingled with the guests. One day Rees in the midst of his orgies called the goat to him and offered it some ale; the creature, far from refusing it, drank greedily, and soon becoming intoxicated fell down upon the floor, where it lay quivering, to the great delight of Rees Pritchard, who made its drunkenness a subject of jest to his boon companions, who, however, said nothing, being struck with horror at such conduct in a person who was placed among them to be a pattern and example. Before night, however, Pritchard became himself intoxicated, and was trundled to the vicarage in the usual manner. During the whole of the next day he was ill and kept at home, but on the following one he again repaired to the public-house, sat down and called for his pipe and tankard. The goat was now perfectly recovered and was standing nigh. No sooner was the tankard brought than Rees, taking hold of it, held it to the goat’s mouth. The creature, however, turned away its head in disgust and hurried out of the room. This circumstance produced an instantaneous effect upon Rees Pritchard. “My God!” said he to himself, “is this poor dumb creature wiser than I? Yes, surely; it has been drunk, but having once experienced the wretched consequences of drunkenness, it refuses to be drunk again. How different is its conduct to mine! I, after having experienced a hundred times the filthiness and misery of drunkenness, have still persisted in debasing myself below the condition of a beast. O, if I persist in this conduct what have I to expect but wretchedness and contempt in this world and eternal perdition in the next? But, thank God, it is not yet too late to amend; I am still alive—I will become a new man—the goat has taught me a lesson.” Smashing his pipe, he left his tankard untasted on the table, went home, and became an altered man.
Different as an angel of light is from the fiend of the pit was Rees Pritchard from that moment from what he had been in former days. For upwards of thirty years he preached the Gospel as it had never been preached before in the Welsh tongue since the time of Saint Paul, supposing the beautiful legend to be true which tells us that Saint Paul in his wanderings found his way to Britain and preached to the inhabitants the inestimable efficacy of Christ’s blood-shedding in the fairest Welsh, having like all the other apostles the miraculous gift of tongues. The good vicar did more. In the short intervals of relaxation which he allowed himself from the labour of the ministry during those years he composed a number of poetical pieces, which after his death were gathered together into a volume and published, under the title of “Canwyll y Cymry; or, the Candle of the Welshman.” This work, which has gone through almost countless editions, is written in two common easy measures, and the language is so plain and simple that it is intelligible to the homeliest hind who speaks the Welsh language. All of the pieces are of a strictly devotional character, with the exception of one, namely a welcome to Charles, Prince of Wales, on his return from Spain, to which country he had gone to see the Spanish ladye whom at one time he sought as bride. Some of the pieces are highly curious, as they bear upon events at present forgotten; for example, the song upon the year 1629, when the corn was blighted throughout the land, and “A Warning to the Cumry to repent when the Plague of Blotches and Boils was prevalent in London.” Some of the pieces are written with astonishing vigour, for example, “The Song of the Husbandman,” and “God’s Better than All,” of which last piece the following is a literal translation.
GOD’S BETTER THAN ALL.
God’s better than heaven or aught therein, Than the earth or aught we there can win, Better than the world or its wealth to me— God’s better than all that is or can be.
Better than father, than mother, than nurse, Better than riches, oft proving a curse, Better than Martha or Mary even— Better by far is the God of heaven.
If God for thy portion thou hast ta’en There’s Christ to support thee in every pain, The world to respect thee thou wilt gain, To fear the fiend and all his train.
Of the best of portions thou choice didst make When thou the high God to thyself didst take, A portion which none from thy grasp can rend Whilst the sun and the moon on their course shall wend.
When the sun grows dark and the moon turns red, When the stars shall drop and millions dread, When the earth shall vanish with its pomps in fire, Thy portion still shall remain entire.
Then let not thy heart though distressed, complain! A hold on thy portion firm maintain. Thou didst choose the best portion, again I say— Resign it not till thy dying day.
The old vicarage of Llandovery is a very large-mansion of dark red brick, fronting the principal street or market-place, and with its back to a green meadow bounded by the river Bran. It is in a very dilapidated condition, and is inhabited at present by various poor families. The principal room, which is said to have been the old vicar’s library, and the place where he composed his undying Candle, is in many respects a remarkable apartment. It is of large dimensions. The roof is curiously inlaid with stucco or mortar, and is traversed from east to west by an immense black beam. The fire-place, which is at the south, is very large and seemingly of high antiquity. The windows, which are two in number and look westward into the street, have a quaint and singular appearance. Of all the houses in Llandovery the old vicarage is by far the most worthy of attention, irrespective of the wonderful monument of God’s providence and grace who once inhabited it.
The reverence in which the memory of Rees Pritchard is still held in Llandovery the following anecdote will show. As I was standing in the principal street staring intently at the antique vicarage, a respectable-looking farmer came up and was about to pass, but observing how I was employed he stopped, and looked now at me and now at the antique house. Presently he said:
“A fine old place, is it not, sir? but do you know who lived there?”
Wishing to know what the man would say provided he thought I was ignorant as to the ancient inmate, I turned a face of inquiry upon him; whereupon he advanced towards me two or three steps, and placing his face so close to mine that his nose nearly touched my cheek, he said in a kind of piercing whisper:
“The Vicar.”
Then drawing his face back he looked me full in the eyes as if to observe the effect of his intelligence, gave me two nods as if to say, “He did, indeed,” and departed.
The Vicar of Llandovery had then been dead nearly two hundred years. Truly the man in whom piety and genius are blended is immortal upon earth.
Chapter XCVIII
Departure from Llandovery—A Bitter Methodist—North and South—The Caravan—Captain Bosvile—Deputy Ranger—A Scrimmage—The Heavenly Gwynfa—Dangerous Position.
On the tenth I departed from Llandovery, which I have no hesitation in saying is about the pleasantest little town in which I have halted in the course of my wanderings. I intended to sleep at Gutter Vawr, a place some twenty miles distant, just within Glamorganshire, to reach which it would be necessary to pass over part of a range of wild hills, generally called the Black Mountains. I started at about ten o’clock; the morning was lowering, and there were occasional showers of rain and hail. I passed by Rees Pritchard’s church, holding my hat in my hand as I did so, not out of respect for the building, but from reverence for the memory of the sainted man who of old from its pulpit called sinners to repentance, and whose remains slumber in the churchyard unless washed away by some frantic burst of the neighbouring Towey. Crossing a bridge over the Bran just before it enters the greater stream, I proceeded along a road running nearly south and having a range of fine hills on the east. Presently violent gusts of wind came on, which tore the sear leaves by thousands from the trees of which there were plenty by the roadsides. After a little time, however, this elemental hurly-burly passed away, a rainbow made its appearance and the day became comparatively fine. Turning to the south-east under a hill covered with oaks, I left the vale of the Towey behind me, and soon caught a glimpse of some very lofty hills which I supposed to be the Black Mountains. It was a mere glimpse, for scarcely had I descried them when mist settled down and totally obscured them from my view.
In about an hour I reached Llangadog, a large village. The name signifies the Church of Gadog. Gadog was a British saint of the fifth century, who after labouring amongst his own countrymen for their spiritual good for many years, crossed the sea to Brittany, where he died. Scarcely had I entered Llangadog when a great shower of rain came down. Seeing an ancient-looking hostelry I at once made for it. In a large and comfortable kitchen I found a middle-aged woman seated by a huge deal table near a blazing fire, with a couple of large books open before her. Sitting down on a chair I told her in English to bring me a pint of ale. She did so and again sat down to her books, which on inquiry I found to be a Welsh Bible and Concordance. We soon got into discourse about religion, but did not exactly agree, for she was a bitter Methodist, as bitter as her beer, only half of which I could get down.
Leaving Llangadog I pushed forward. The day was now tolerably fine. In two or three hours I came to a glen, the sides of which were beautifully wooded. On my left was a river, which came roaring down from a range of lofty mountains right before me to the southeast. The river, as I was told by a lad, was the Sawdde or Southey, the lofty range the Black Mountains. Passed a pretty village on my right standing something in the shape of a semi-circle, and in about half-an-hour came to a bridge over a river which I supposed to be the Sawdde which I had already seen, but which I subsequently learned was an altogether different stream. It was running from the south, a wild fierce flood amidst rocks and stones, the waves all roaring and foaming.
After some time I reached another bridge near the foot of a very lofty ascent. On my left to the east upon a bank was a small house, on one side of which was a wheel turned round by a flush of water running in a little artificial canal; close by it were two small cascades, the waters of which and also those of the canal passed under the bridge in the direction of the west. Seeing a decent-looking man engaged in sawing a piece of wood by the roadside, I asked him in Welsh whether the house with the wheel was a flour-mill.
“Nage,” said he, “it is a pandy, fulling mill.”
“Can you tell me the name of a river,” said I, “which I have left about a mile behind me? Is it the Sawdde?”
“Nage,” said he. “It is the Lleidach.”
Then looking at me with great curiosity he asked me if I came from the north country.
“Yes,” said I, “I certainly come from there.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said he, “for I have long wished to see a man from the north country.”
“Did you never see one before?” said I.
“Never in my life,” he replied: “men from the north country seldom show themselves in these parts.”
“Well,” said I; “I am not ashamed to say that I come from the north.”
“Ain’t you? Well, I don’t know that you have any particular reason to be ashamed, for it is rather your misfortune than your fault; but the idea of any one coming from the north—ho, ho!”
“Perhaps in the north,” said I, “they laugh at a man from the south.”
“Laugh at a man from the south! No, no; they can’t do that.”
“Why not?” said I; “why shouldn’t the north laugh at the south as well as the south at the north?”
“Why shouldn’t it? why, you talk like a fool. How could the north laugh at the south as long as the south remains the south and the north the north? Laugh at the south! you talk like a fool, David, and if you go on in that way I shall be angry with you. However, I’ll excuse you; you are from the north, and what can one expect from the north but nonsense? Now tell me, do you of the north eat and drink like other people? What do you live upon?”
“Why, as for myself,” said I, “I generally live on the best I can get.”
“Let’s hear what you eat; bacon and eggs?”
“O yes! I eat bacon and eggs when I can get nothing better.”
“And what do you drink? Can you drink ale?”
“O yes,” said I; “I am very fond of ale when it’s good. Perhaps you will stand a pint?”
“H’m,” said the man looking somewhat blank; “there is no ale in the Pandy and there is no public-house near at hand, otherwise—. Where are you going to-night?”
“To Gutter Vawr.”
“Well, then, you had better not loiter. Gutter Vawr is a long way off over the mountain. It will be dark, I am afraid, long before you get to Gutter Vawr. Good evening, David! I am glad to have seen you, for I have long wished to see a man from the north country. Good evening! you will find plenty of good ale at Gutter Vawr!”
I went on my way. The road led in a south-eastern direction gradually upward to very lofty regions. After walking about half-an-hour I saw a kind of wooden house on wheels drawn by two horses coming down the hill towards me. A short black-looking fellow in brown top boots, corduroy breeches, jockey coat and jockey cap sat on the box, holding the reins in one hand and a long whip in the other. Beside him was a swarthy woman in a wild flaunting dress. Behind the box out of the fore part of the caravan peered two or three children’s black heads. A pretty little foal about four months old came frisking and gambolling now before now beside the horses, whilst a colt of some sixteen months followed more leisurely behind. When the caravan was about ten yards distant I stopped, and, raising my left hand with the little finger pointed aloft, I exclaimed:
“Shoon, Kaulomengro, shoon! In Dibbel’s nav, where may tu be jawing to?”
Stopping his caravan with considerable difficulty the small black man glared at me for a moment like a wild cat, and then said in a voice partly snappish, partly kind:
“Savo shan tu? Are you one of the Ingrines?”
“I am the chap what certain folks calls the Romany Rye.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered if I wasn’t thinking so and if I wasn’t penning so to my juwa as we were welling down the chong.”
“It is a long time since we last met, Captain Bosvile, for I suppose I may call you Captain now?”
“Yes! the old man has been dead and buried this many a year, and his sticks and titles are now mine. Poor soul, I hope he is happy; indeed I know he is, for he lies in Cockleshell churchyard, the place he was always so fond of, and has his Sunday waistcoat on him with the fine gold buttons, which he was always so proud of. Ah, you may well call it a long time since we met—why, it can’t be less than thirty year.”
“Something about that—you were a boy then of about fifteen.”
“So I was, and you a tall young slip of about twenty; well, how did you come to jin mande?”
“Why, I knew you by your fighting mug—there an’t such another mug in England.”
“No more there an’t—my old father always used to say it was of no use hitting it for it always broke his knuckles. Well, it was kind of you to jin mande after so many years. The last time I think I saw you was near Brummagem, when you were travelling about with Jasper Petulengro and—I say, what’s become of the young woman you used to keep company with?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t? Well, she was a fine young woman and a vartuous. I remember her knocking down and giving a black eye to my old mother, who was wonderfully deep in Romany, for making a bit of a gillie about you and she. What was the song? Lord, how my memory fails me. O, here it is:—
“Ando berkho Rye canó Oteh pivò teh khavó.— Tu lerasque ando berkho piranee Teh corbatcha por pico.”
“Have you seen Jasper Petulengro lately?” said I.
“Yes, I have seen him, but it was at a very considerable distance. Jasper Petulengro doesn’t come near the likes of we now. Lord! you can’t think what grand folks he and his wife have become of late years, and all along of a trumpery lil which some body has written about them. Why, they are hand and glove with the Queen and Prince, and folks say that his wife is going to be made dame of honour, and Jasper Justice of the Peace and Deputy Ranger of Windsor Park.”
“Only think,” said I. “And now tell me, what brought you into Wales?”
“What brought me into Wales? I’ll tell you; my own fool’s head. I was doing nicely in the Kaulo Gav and the neighbourhood, when I must needs pack up and come into these parts with bag and baggage, wife and childer. I thought that Wales was what it was some thirty years agone when our foky used to say—for I was never here before—that there was something to be done in it; but I was never more mistaken in my life. The country is overrun with Hindity mescrey, woild Irish, with whom the Romany foky stand no chance. The fellows underwork me at tinkering, and the women outscream my wife at telling fortunes—moreover, they say the country is theirs and not intended for niggers like we, and as they are generally in vast numbers what can a poor little Roman family do but flee away before them? a pretty journey I have made into Wales. Had I not contrived to pass off a poggado bav engro—a broken-winded horse—at a fair, I at this moment should be without a tringoruschee piece in my pocket. I am now making the best of my way back to Brummagem, and if ever I come again to this Hindity country may Calcraft nash me.”
“I wonder you didn’t try to serve some of the Irish out,” said I.
“I served one out, brother; and my wife and childer helped to wipe off a little of the score. We had stopped on a nice green, near a village over the hills in Glamorganshire, when up comes a Hindity family, and bids us take ourselves off. Now it so happened that there was but one man and a woman and some childer, so I laughed, and told them to drive us off. Well, brother, without many words, there was a regular scrimmage. The Hindity mush came at me, the Hindity mushi at my juwa, and the Hindity chaves at my chai. It didn’t last long, brother. In less than three minutes I had hit the Hindity mush, who was a plaguey big fellow, but couldn’t fight, just under the point of the chin, and sent him to the ground with all his senses gone. My juwa had almost scratched an eye out of the Hindity mushi, and my chai had sent the Hindity childer scampering over the green. ‘Who has got to quit now?’ said I to the Hindity mush after he had got on his legs, looking like a man who has been cut down after hanging just a minute and a half. ‘Who has got notice to quit now, I wonder?’ Well, brother, he didn’t say anything, nor did any of them, but after a little time they all took themselves off, with a cart they had, to the south. Just as they got to the edge of the green, however, they turned round and gave a yell which made all our blood cold. I knew what it meant, and said, ‘This is no place for us.’ So we got everything together and came away, and, though the horses were tired, never stopped till we had got ten miles from the place; and well it was we acted as we did, for, had we stayed, I have no doubt that a whole Hindity clan would have been down upon us before morning and cut our throats.”
“Well,” said I, “farewell. I can’t stay any longer. As it is, I shall be late at Gutter Vawr.”
“Farewell, brother!” said Captain Bosvile; and, giving a cry, he cracked his whip and set his horses in motion.
“Won’t you give us sixpence to drink?” cried Mrs. Bosvile, with a rather, shrill voice.
“Hold your tongue, you she-dog,” said Captain Bosvile. “Is that the way in which you take leave of an old friend? Hold your tongue, and let the Ingrine gentleman jaw on his way.”
I proceeded on my way as fast as I could, for the day was now closing in. My progress, however, was not very great; for the road was steep, and was continually becoming more so. In about half-an-hour I came to a little village, consisting of three or four houses; one of them, at the door of which several carts were standing, bore the sign of a tavern.
“What is the name of this place?” said I to a man who was breaking stones on the road.
“Capel Gwynfa,” said he.
Rather surprised at the name, which signifies in English the Chapel of the place of bliss, I asked the man why it was called so.
“I don’t know,” said the man.
“Was there ever a chapel here?” said I.
“I don’t know, sir; there is none now.”
“I dare say there was in the old time,” said I to myself, as I went on, “in which some holy hermit prayed and told his beads, and occasionally received benighted strangers. What a poetical word that Gwynfa, place of bliss, is. Owen Pugh uses it in his translation of Paradise Lost to express Paradise, for he has rendered the words Paradise Lost by Coll Gwynfa—the loss of the place of bliss. I wonder whether the old scholar picked up the word here. Not unlikely. Strange fellow that Owen Pugh. Wish I had seen him. No hope of seeing him now, except in the heavenly Gwynfa. Wonder whether there is such a place. Tom Payne thinks there’s not. Strange fellow that Tom Payne. Norfolk man. Wish I had never read him.”
Presently I came to a little cottage with a toll-bar. Seeing a woman standing at the door, I inquired of her the name of the gate.
“Cowslip Gate, sir.”
“Has it any Welsh name?”
“None that I know of, sir.”
This place was at a considerable altitude, and commanded an extensive view to the south, west, and north. Heights upon heights rose behind it to the east. From here the road ran to the south for a little way nearly level, then turned abruptly to the east, and was more steep than ever. After the turn, I had a huge chalk cliff towering over me on the right, and a chalk precipice on my left. Night was now coming on fast, and, rather to my uneasiness, masses of mist began to pour down the sides of the mountain. I hurried on, the road making frequent turnings. Presently the mist swept down upon me, and was so thick that I could only see a few yards before me. I was now obliged to slacken my pace, and to advance with some degree of caution. I moved on in this way for some time, when suddenly I heard a noise, as if a number of carts were coming rapidly down the hill. I stopped, and stood with my back close against the high bank. The noise drew nearer, and in a minute I saw indistinctly through the mist, horses, carts, and forms of men passing. In one or two cases the wheels appeared to be within a few inches of my feet. I let the train go by, and then cried out in English, “Am I right for Gutter Vawr?”
“Hey?” said a voice, after a momentary interval.
“Am I right for Gutter Vawr?” I shouted yet louder.
“Yes, sure!” said a voice, probably the same.
Then instantly a much rougher voice cried, “Who the Devil are you?”
I made no answer, but went on, whilst the train continued its way rumbling down the mountain. At length I gained the top, where the road turned and led down a steep descent towards the south-west. It was now quite night, and the mist was of the thickest kind. I could just see that there was a frightful precipice on my left, so I kept to the right, hugging the side of the hill. As I descended I heard every now and then loud noises in the vale probably proceeding from stone quarries. I was drenched to the skin, nay, through the skin, by the mist, which I verily believe was more penetrating than that described by Ab Gwilym. When I had proceeded about a mile I saw blazes down below, resembling those of furnaces, and soon after came to the foot of the hill. It was here pouring with rain, but I did not put up my umbrella as it was impossible for me to be more drenched than I was. Crossing a bridge over a kind of torrent, I found myself amongst some houses. I entered one of them from which a blaze of light and a roar of voices proceeded, and, on inquiring of an old woman who confronted me in the passage, I found that I had reached my much needed haven of rest, the tavern of Gutter Vawr in the county of Glamorgan.
Chapter XCIX
Inn at Gutter Vawr—The Hurly-burly—Bara y Caws—Change of Manner—Welsh Mistrust—Wonders of Russia—The Emperor—The grand Ghost Story.
The old woman who confronted me in the passage of the inn turned out to be the landlady. On learning that I intended to pass the night at her house, she conducted me into a small room on the right-hand side of the passage, which proved to be the parlour. It was cold and comfortless, for there was no fire in the grate. She told me, however, that one should be lighted, and going out presently returned with a couple of buxom wenches, who I soon found were her daughters. The good lady had little or no English; the girls, however, had plenty, and of a good kind too. They soon lighted a fire and then the mother inquired if I wished for any supper.
“Certainly,” said I, “for I have not eaten anything since I left Llandovery. What can I have?”
“We have veal and bacon,” said she.
“That will do,” said I; “fry me some veal and bacon, and I shan’t complain. But pray tell me what prodigious noise is that which I hear on the other side of the passage?”
“It is only the miners and the carters in the kitchen making merry,” said one of the girls.
“Is there a good fire there?” said I.
“O yes,” said the girl, “we have always a good fire in the kitchen.”
“Well then,” said I, “I shall go there till supper is ready, for I am wet to the skin, and this fire casts very little heat.”
“You will find them a rough set in the kitchen,” said the girl.
“I don’t care if I do,” said I; “when people are rough I am civil, and I have always found that civility beats roughness in the long run.” Then going out I crossed the passage and entered the kitchen.
It was nearly filled with rough, unkempt fellows smoking, drinking, whistling, singing, shouting or jabbering, some in a standing, some in a sitting posture. My entrance seemed at once to bring everything to a dead stop; the smokers ceased to smoke, the hand that was conveying the glass or the mug to the mouth was arrested in air, the hurly-burly ceased and every eye was turned upon me with a strange inquiring stare. Without allowing myself to be disconcerted I advanced to the fire, spread out my hands before it for a minute, gave two or three deep ahs of comfort, and then turning round said: “Rather a damp night, gentlemen—fire cheering to one who has come the whole way from Llandovery—Taking a bit of a walk in Wales, to see the scenery and to observe the manners and customs of the inhabitants—Fine country, gentlemen, noble prospects, hill and dale—Fine people too—open-hearted and generous; no wonder! descendants of the Ancient Britons—Hope I don’t intrude—other room rather cold and smoking—If I do will retire at once—don’t wish to interrupt any gentlemen in their avocations or deliberations—scorn to do anything ungenteel or calculated to give offence—hope I know how to behave myself—ought to do so—learnt grammar at the High School at Edinburgh.”
“Offence, intrusion!” cried twenty voices. “God bless your honour! no intrusion and no offence at all—sit down—sit here—won’t you drink?”
“Please to sit here, sir,” said an old grimy-looking man, getting up from a seat in the chimney-corner—“this is no seat for me whilst you are here, it belongs to you—sit down in it,” and laying hold of me he compelled me to sit down in the chair of dignity, whilst half-a-dozen hands pushed mugs of beer towards my face; these, however, I declined to partake of on the very satisfactory ground that I had not taken supper, and that it was a bad thing to drink before eating, more especially after coming out of a mist.
“Have you any news to tell of the war, sir?” said a large rough fellow, who was smoking a pipe.
“The last news that I heard of the war,” said I, “was that the snow was two feet deep at Sebastopol.”
“I heard three,” said the man; “however, if there be but two it must be bad work for the poor soldiers. I suppose you think that we shall beat the Russians in the end.”
“No, I don’t,” said I; “the Russians are a young nation and we are an old; they are coming on and we are going off; every dog has its day.”
“That’s true,” said the man, “but I am sorry that you think we shall not beat the Russians, for the Russians are a bad set.”
“Can you speak Welsh?” said a darkish man with black bristly hair and a small inquisitive eye.
“O, I know two words in Welsh,” said I, “bara y caws.”
“That’s bread and cheese,” said the man, then turning to a neighbour of his he said in Welsh: “He knows nothing of Cumraeg, only two words; we may say anything we please; he can’t understand us. What a long nose he has!”
“Mind that he an’t nosing us,” said his neighbour. “I should be loth to wager that he doesn’t understand Welsh; and after all he didn’t say that he did not, but got off by saying he understood those two words.”
“No, he doesn’t understand Welsh,” said the other; “no Sais understands Welsh, and this is a Sais. Now with regard to that piece of job-work which you and I undertook.” And forthwith he and the other entered into a disquisition about the job-work.
The company soon got into its old train, drinking and smoking and making a most terrific hullabaloo. Nobody took any farther notice of me. I sat snug in the chimney-corner, trying to dry my wet things, and as the heat was very great partially succeeded. In about half-an-hour one of the girls came to tell me that my supper was ready, whereupon I got up and said: “Gentlemen, I thank you for your civility; I am now going to supper; perhaps before I turn in for the night I may look in upon you again.” Then without waiting for an answer I left the kitchen and went into the other room, where I found a large dish of veal cutlets and fried bacon awaiting me, and also a smoking bowl of potatoes. Ordering a jug of ale I sat down, and what with hunger and the goodness of the fare, for everything was first-rate, made one of the best suppers I ever made in my life.
Supper over, I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, over which I trifled for about half-an-hour and then betook myself again to the kitchen. Almost as soon as I entered, the company, who seemed to be discussing some point, and were not making much hurly-burly, became silent and looked at me in a suspicious and uneasy manner. I advanced towards the fire. The old man who had occupied the seat in the chimney-corner and had resigned it to me, had again taken possession of it. As I drew near to the fire he looked upon the ground, and seemed by no means disposed to vacate the place of honour; after a few moments, however, he got up and offered me the seat with a slight motion of his hand and without saying a word. I did not decline it, but sat down, and the old gentleman took a chair near. Universal silence now prevailed; sullen looks were cast at me; and I saw clearly enough that I was not welcome. Frankness was now my only resource. “What’s the matter, gentlemen?” said I; “you are silent and don’t greet me kindly; have I given you any cause of offence?” No one uttered a word in reply for nearly a minute, when the old man said slowly and deliberately: “Why, sir, the long and short of it is this: we have got it into our heads that you understand every word of our discourse; now, do you or do you not?”
“Understand every word of your discourse,” said I; “I wish I did; I would give five pounds to understand every word of your discourse.”
“That’s a clever attempt to get off, sir,” said the old man, “but it won’t exactly do. Tell us whether you know more Welsh than bara y caws; or to speak more plainly, whether you understand a good deal of what we say.”
“Well,” said I, “I do understand more Welsh than bara y caws—I do understand a considerable part of a Welsh conversation—moreover, I can read Welsh, and have the life of Tom O’r Nant at my fingers’ ends.”
“Well, sir, that is speaking plain, and I will tell you plainly that we don’t like to have strangers among us who understand our discourse, more especially if they be gentlefolks.”
“That’s strange,” said I; “a Welshman or foreigner, gentle or simple, may go into a public-house in England, and nobody cares a straw whether he understands the discourse of the company or not.”
“That may be the custom in England,” said the old man; “but it is not so in Wales.”
“What have you got to conceal?” said I. “I suppose you are honest men.”
“I hope we are, sir,” said the old man; “but I must tell you, once for all, that we don’t like strangers to listen to our discourse.”
“Come,” said I, “I will not listen to your discourse, but you shall listen to mine. I have a wonderful deal to say if I once begin; I have been everywhere.”
“Well, sir,” said the old man, “if you have anything to tell us about where you have been and what you have seen we shall be glad to hear you.”
“Have you ever been in Russia?” shouted a voice, that of the large rough fellow who asked me the question about the Russian war.
“O yes, I have been in Russia,” said I.
“Well, what kind of a country is it?”
“Very different from this,” said I, “which is a little country up in a corner, full of hills and mountains; that is an immense country, extending from the Baltic Sea to the confines of China, almost as flat as a pancake, there not being a hill to be seen for nearly two thousand miles.”
“A very poor country, isn’t it, always covered with ice and snow?”
“O no; it is one of the richest countries in the world, producing all kinds of grain, with noble rivers intersecting it, and in some parts covered with stately forests. In the winter, which is rather long, there is a good deal of ice and snow, it is true, but in the summer the weather is warmer than here.”
“And are there any towns and cities in Russia, sir, as there are in Britain?” said the old man, who had resigned his seat in the chimney-corner to me; “I suppose not, or, if there be, nothing equal to Hereford or Bristol, in both of which I have been.”
“O yes,” said I, “there are plenty of towns and cities. The two principal ones are Moscow and Saint Petersburg, both of which are capitals. Moscow is a fine old city, far up the country, and was the original seat of empire. In it there is a wonderful building called the Kremlin, situated on a hill. It is partly palace, partly temple, and partly fortress. In one of its halls are I don’t know how many crowns, taken from various kings, whom the Russians have conquered. But the most remarkable thing in the Kremlin is a huge bell in a cellar or cave, close by one of the churches; it is twelve feet high, and the sound it gives when struck with an iron bar, for there are no clappers to Russian bells, is so loud that the common Russians say it can be heard over the empire. The other city, Saint Petersburg, where the court generally reside, is a modern and very fine city; so fine indeed, that I have no hesitation in saying that neither Bristol nor Hereford is worthy to be named in the same day with it. Many of the streets are miles in length and straight as an arrow. The Nefsky Prospect, as it is called, a street which runs from the grand square, where stands the Emperor’s palace, to the monastery of Saint Alexander Nefsky, is nearly three miles in length and is full of noble shops and houses. The Neva, a river twice as broad and twice as deep as the Thames, and whose waters are clear as crystal, runs through the town, having on each side of it a superb quay, fenced with granite, which affords one of the most delightful walks imaginable. If I had my choice of all the cities of the world to live in, I would chose Saint Petersburg.”
“And did you ever see the Emperor?” said the rough fellow, whom I have more than once mentioned, “did you ever see the Emperor Nicholas?”
“O yes; I have seen him frequently.”
“Well, what kind of a man is he? we should like to know.”
“A man of colossal stature, with a fine, noble, but rather stern and severe aspect. I think I now see him, with his grey cloak, cocked hat, and white waving plumes, striding down the Nefsky Prospect, and towering by a whole head over other people.”
“Bravo! Did you ever see him at the head of his soldiers?”
“O yes! I have seen the Emperor review forty thousand of his chosen troops in the Champs de Mars, and a famous sight it was. There stood the great, proud man looking at his warriors as they manœuvred before him. Two-thirds of them were cavalry, and each horseman was mounted on a beautiful blood charger of Cossack or English breed, and arrayed in a superb uniform. The blaze, glitter and glory were too much for my eyes, and I was frequently obliged to turn them away. The scene upon the whole put me in mind of an immense field of tulips of various dyes, for the colours of the dresses, of the banners and the plumes, were as gorgeous and manifold as the hues of those queenly flowers.”
“Bravo!” said twenty voices; “the gentleman speaks like an areithiwr. Have you been in other countries besides Russia?”
“O yes! I have been in Turkey, the people of which are not Christians, but frequently put Christians to shame by their good faith and honesty. I have been in the land of the Maugrabins, or Moors—a people who live on a savoury dish, called couscousoo, and have the gloomiest faces and the most ferocious hearts under heaven. I have been in Italy, whose people, though the most clever in the world, are the most unhappy, owing to the tyranny of a being called the Pope, who, when I saw him, appeared to be under the influence of strong drink. I have been in Portugal, the people of which supply the whole world with wine, and drink only water themselves. I have been in Spain, a very fine country, the people of which are never so happy as when paying other folks’ reckonings. I have been—but the wind is blowing wildly without, and the rain pelting against the windows;—this is a capital night for a ghost story: shall I tell you a ghost story which I learnt in Spain?”
“Yes, sir, pray do; we all love ghost stories. Do tell us the ghost story of Spain.”
Thereupon I told the company Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is decidedly the best ghost story in the world.
Long and loud was the applause which followed the conclusion of the grand ghost story of the world, in the midst of which I got up, bade the company good night, and made my exit. Shortly afterwards I desired to be shown to my sleeping apartment. It was a very small room upstairs, in the back part of the house; and I make no doubt was the chamber of the two poor girls, the landlady’s daughters, as I saw various articles of female attire lying about. The spirit of knight-errantry within me was not, however, sufficiently strong to prevent me from taking possession of the female dormitory; so, forthwith divesting myself of every portion of my habiliments, which were steaming like a boiling tea-kettle, I got into bed between the blankets, and in a minute was fast in the arms of Morpheus.
Chapter C
Morning—A Cheerless Scene—The Carter—Ode to Glamorgan—Startling Halloo—One-sided Liberty—Clerical Profession—De Courcy—Love of the Drop—Independent Spirit—Another People.
I slept soundly through the night. At about eight o’clock on the following morning I got up and looked out of the window of my room, which fronted the north. A strange scene presented itself: a roaring brook was foaming along towards the west, just under the window. Immediately beyond it was a bank, not of green turf, grey rock, or brown mould, but of coal rubbish, coke and cinders; on the top of this bank was a fellow performing some dirty office or other, with a spade and barrow; beyond him, on the side of a hill, was a tramway, up which a horse was straining, drawing a load of something towards the north-west. Beyond the tramway was a grove of yellow-looking firs; beyond the grove a range of white houses with blue roofs, occupied, I supposed, by miners and their families; and beyond these I caught a sight of the mountain on the top of which I had been the night before, only a partial one, however, as large masses of mist were still hanging about it. The morning was moist and dripping, and nothing could look more cheerless and uncomfortable than the entire scene.
I put on my things, which were still not half dry, and went down into the little parlour, where I found an excellent fire awaiting me, and a table spread for breakfast. The breakfast was delicious, consisting of excellent tea, buttered toast and Glamorgan sausages, which I really think are not a whit inferior to those of Epping. After breakfast I went into the kitchen, which was now only occupied by two or three people. Seeing a large brush on a dresser, I took it up, and was about to brush my nether habiliments, which were terribly bespattered with half-dried mire. Before, however, I could begin, up started one of the men, a wild shock-headed fellow dressed like a carter, in rough blue frieze coat, yellow broad corduroy trowsers, grey woollen stockings and highlows, and snatching the brush out of my hand, fell to brushing me most vigorously, purring and blowing all the time in a most tremendous manner. I did not refuse his services, but let him go on, and to reward him, as I thought, spoke kindly to him, asking him various questions. “Are you a carter?” said I. No answer. “One of Twm O’r Nant’s people?” No answer. “Famous fellow that Twm O’r Nant, wasn’t he? Did you ever hear how he got the great tree in at Carmarthen Gate? What is wood per foot at present? Whom do you cart for? Or are you your own master? If so, how many horses do you keep?”
To not one of these questions, nor to a dozen others which I put, both in English and Welsh, did my friend with the brush return any verbal answer, though I could occasionally hear a kind of stifled giggle proceeding from him. Having at length thoroughly brushed not only my clothes, but my boots and my hat, which last article he took from my head, and placed on again very dexterously, after brushing it, he put the brush down on the dresser, and then advancing to me made me a bow, and waving his forefinger backwards and forwards before my face, he said, with a broad grin: “Nice gentleman—will do anything for him but answer questions, and let him hear my discourse. Love to listen to his pleasant stories of foreign lands, ghosts and tylwith teg; but before him deem it wise to be mum, quite mum. Know what he comes about. Wants to hear discourse of poor man, that he may learn from it poor man’s little ways and invirmities, and mark them down in one small, little book to serve for fun to Lord Palmerston and the other great gentlefolks in London. Nice man, civil man, I don’t deny; and clebber man too, for he knows Welsh, and has been everywhere—but fox—old fox—lives at Plas y Cadno.” {570}
Having been informed that there was a considerable iron foundry close by, I thought it would be worth my while to go and see it. I entered the premises, and was standing and looking round, when a man with the appearance of a respectable mechanic came up and offered to show me over the place. I gladly accepted his offer, and he showed me all about the iron-foundry. I saw a large steam-engine at full play, terrible furnaces, and immense heaps of burning, crackling cinders, and a fiery stream of molten metal rolling along. After seeing what there was to be seen, I offered a piece of silver to my kind conductor, which he at once refused. On my asking him, however, to go to the inn and have a friendly glass, he smiled, and said he had no objection. So we went to the inn, and had two friendly glasses of whiskey-and-water together, and also some discourse. I asked him if there were any English employed on the premises. “None,” said he, “nor Irish either; we are all Welsh.” Though he was a Welshman, his name was a very common English one.
After paying the reckoning, which only amounted to three and sixpence, I departed for Swansea, distant about thirteen miles. Gutter Vawr consists of one street, extending for some little way along the Swansea road, the foundry, and a number of huts and houses scattered here and there. The population is composed almost entirely of miners, the workers at the foundry, and their families. For the first two or three miles the country through which I passed did not at all prepossess me in favour of Glamorganshire: it consisted of low, sullen, peaty hills. Subsequently, however, it improved rapidly, becoming bold, wild, and pleasantly wooded. The aspect of the day improved, also, with the appearance of the country. When I first started the morning was wretched and drizzly, but in less than an hour it cleared up wonderfully, and the sun began to flash out. As I looked on the bright luminary I thought of Ab Gwilym’s ode to the sun and Glamorgan, and with breast heaving and with eyes full of tears, I began to repeat parts of it, or rather of a translation made in my happy boyish years:
“Each morn, benign of countenance, Upon Glamorgan’s pennon glance! Each afternoon in beauty clear Above my own dear bounds appear! Bright outline of a blessed clime, Again, though sunk, arise sublime— Upon my errand, swift repair, And unto green Glamorgan bear Good days and terms of courtesy From my dear country and from me! Move round—but need I thee command?— Its chalk-white halls, which cheerful stand— Pleasant thy own pavilions too— Its fields and orchards fair to view.
“O, pleasant is thy task and high In radiant warmth to roam the sky, To keep from ill that kindly ground, Its meads and farms, where mead is found, A land whose commons live content, Where each man’s lot is excellent. Where hosts to hail thee shall upstand, Where lads are bold and lasses bland, A land I oft from hill that’s high Have gazed upon with raptur’d eye; Where maids are trained in virtue’s school, Where duteous wives spin dainty wool; A country with each gift supplied, Confronting Cornwall’s cliffs of pride.”
Came to Llanguick, a hamlet situated near a tremendous gorge, the sides of which were covered with wood. Thence to the village of Tawy Bridge, at the bottom of a beautiful valley, through which runs the Tawy, which, after the Taf, is the most considerable river in Glamorganshire. Continuing my course, I passed by an enormous edifice which stood on my right hand. It had huge chimneys, which were casting forth smoke, and from within I heard the noise of a steam-engine and the roar of furnaces.
“What place is this?” said I to a boy.
“Gwaith haiarn, sir; ym perthyn i Mr. Pearson. Mr. Pearson’s iron works, sir.”
I proceeded, and in about half-an-hour saw a man walking before me in the same direction in which I was. He was going very briskly, but I soon came up to him. He was a small, well-made fellow, with reddish hair and ruddy, determined countenance, somewhat tanned. He wore a straw hat, checkered shirt, open at the neck, canvas trowsers, and blue jacket. On his feet were shoes remarkably thin, but no stockings, and in his hand he held a stout stick, with which, just before I overtook him, he struck a round stone which lay on the ground, sending it flying at least fifty yards before him on the road, and following it in its flight with a wild and somewhat startling halloo.
“Good day, my friend,” said I; “you seem to be able to use a stick.”
“And sure I ought to be, your honour, seeing as how my father taught me, who was the best fighting man with a stick that the Shanavests ever had. Many is the head of a Caravaut that he has broken with some such an Alpeen wattle as the one I am carrying with me here.”
“A good thing,” said I, “that there are no Old Waistcoats and Cravats at present, at least bloody factions bearing those names.”
“Your honour thinks so! Faith! I am clane of a contrary opinion. I wish the ould Shanavests and Caravauts were fighting still; and I among them. Faith! there was some life in Ireland in their days.”
“And plenty of death too,” said I. “How fortunate it is that the Irish have the English among them, to prevent their cutting each other’s throats.”
“The English prevent the Irish from cutting each other’s throats! Well! if they do, it is only that they may have the pleasure of cutting them themselves. The bloody tyrants! too long has their foot been upon the neck of poor old Ireland.”
“How do the English tyrannise over Ireland?”
“How do they tyrannise over her? Don’t they prevent her from having the free exercise of her Catholic religion, and make her help to support their own Protestant one?”
“Well, and don’t the Roman Catholics prevent the Protestants from having the free exercise of their religion, whenever they happen to be the most numerous, and don’t they make them help to support the Roman Catholic religion?”
“Of course they do, and quite right. Had I my will there shouldn’t be a place of Protestant worship left standing, or a Protestant churl allowed to go about with a head unbroken.”
“Then why do you blame the Protestants for keeping the Romans a little under?”
“Why do I blame them? A purty question! Why, an’t they wrong, and an’t we right?”
“But they say that they are right and you wrong.”
“They say! who minds what they say? Havn’t we the word of the blessed Pope that we are right?”
“And they say that they have the word of the blessed Gospel that you are wrong.”
“The Gospel! who cares for the Gospel? Surely you are not going to compare the Gospel with the Pope?”
“Well, they certainly are not to be named in the same day.”
“They are not? Then good luck to you! We are both of the same opinion. Ah, I thought your honour was a rale Catholic. Now, tell me from what kingdom of Ireland does your honour hail?”
“Why, I was partly educated in Munster.”
“In Munster! Hoorah! Here’s the hand of a countryman to your honour. Ah, it was asy to be seen from the learning which your honour shows, that your honour is from Munster. There’s no spot in Ireland like Munster for learning. What says the old song?
“‘Ulster for a soldier Connaught for a thief, Munster for learning, And Leinster for beef.’”
“Hoorah for learned Munster! and down with beggarly, thievish Connaught! I would that a Connaught man would come athwart me now, that I might break his thief’s head with my Alpeen.”
“You don’t seem to like the Connaught men,” said I.
“Like them! who can like them? a parcel of beggarly thievish blackguards. So your honour was edicated in Munster, I mane partly edicated. I suppose by your saying that you were partly edicated, that your honour was intended for the clerical profession, but being over fond of the drop was forced to lave college before your edication was quite completed, and so for want of a better profession took up with that of merchandise. Ah, the love of the drop at college has prevented many a clever young fellow from taking holy orders. Well, it’s a pity, but it can’t be helped. I am fond of a drop myself, and when we get to — shall be happy to offer your honour a glass of whiskey. I hope your honour and I shall splice the mainbrace together before we part.”
“I suppose,” said I, “by your talking of splicing the mainbrace that you are a sailor.”
“I am, your honour, and hail from the Cove of Cork in the kingdom of Munster.”
“I know it well,” said I. “It is the best sea-basin in the world. Well, how came you into these parts?”
“I’ll tell your honour; my ship is at Swansea, and having a relation working at the foundry behind us, I came to see him.”
“Are you in the royal service?”
“I am not, your honour; I was once in the royal service, but having a dispute with the boatswain at Spithead, I gave him a wipe, jumped overboard and swam ashore. After that I sailed for Cuba, got into the merchants’ service there and made several voyages to the Black Coast. At present I am in the service of the merchants of Cork.”
“I wonder that you are not now in the royal service,” said I, “since you are so fond of fighting. There is hot work going on at present up the Black Sea, and brave men, especially Irishmen, are in great request.”
“Yes, brave Irishmen are always in great request with England when she has a battle to fight. At other times they are left to lie in the mud with the chain round their necks. It has been so ever since the time of De Courcy, and I suppose always will be so, unless Irishmen all become of my mind, which is not likely. Were the Irish all of my mind, the English would find no Irish champion to fight their battles when the French or the Russians come to beard them.”
“By De Courcy,” said I, “you mean the man whom the King of England confined in the Tower of London after taking him from his barony in the county of Cork.”
“Of course, your honour, and whom he kept in the Tower till the King of France sent over a champion to insult and beard him, when the king was glad to take De Courcy out of the dungeon to fight the French champion, for divil a one of his own English fighting men dared take the Frenchman in hand.”
“A fine fellow that De Courcy,” said I.
“Rather too fond of the drop though, like your honour and myself, for after he had caused the French champion to flee back into France he lost the greater part of the reward which the King of England promised him solely by making too free with the strong drink. Does your honour remember that part of the story?”
“I think I do,” said I, “but I should be very glad to hear you relate it.”
“Then your honour shall. Right glad was the King of England when the French champion fled back to France, for no sooner did the dirty spalpeen hear that they were going to bring De Courcy against him, the fame of whose strength and courage filled the whole world, than he betook himself back to his own country and was never heard of more. Right glad, I say, was the King of England, and gave leave to De Courcy to return to Ireland, ‘And you shall have,’ said he, ‘of the barony which I took from you all that you can ride round on the first day of your return.’ So De Courcy betook himself to Ireland and to his barony, but he was anything but a lucky man, this De Courcy, for his friends and relations and tenantry, hearing of his coming, prepared a grand festival for him with all kinds of illigant viands and powerful liquors, and when he arrived there it was waiting for him, and down to it he sat, and ate and drank, and for joy of seeing himself once more amongst his friends and tenantry in the hall of his forefathers and for love of the drop, which he always had, he drank of the powerful liquors more than he ought, and the upshot was that he became drunk, agus do bhi an duine maith sin misgeadh do ceathar o glog; the good gentleman was drunk till four o’clock, and when he awoke he found that he had but two hours of day remaining to win back his brave barony. However, he did not lose heart, but mounted his horse and set off riding as fast as a man just partly recovered from intoxication could be expected to do, and he contrived to ride round four parishes, and only four, and these four parishes were all that he recovered of his brave barony, and all that he had to live upon till his dying day, and all that he had to leave to his descendants, so that De Courcy could scarcely be called a very lucky man, after all.”
Shortly after my friend the sailor had concluded his account of De Courcy we arrived in the vicinity of a small town or rather considerable village. It stood on the right-hand side of the road, fronting the east, having a high romantic hill behind it on the sides of which were woods, groves, and pleasant-looking white houses.
“What place is this?” said I to my companion.
“This is —, your honour; and here, if your honour will accept a glass of whiskey we will splice the mainbrace together.”
“Thank you,” said I; “but I am in haste to get to Swansea. Moreover, if I am over fond of the drop, as you say I am, the sooner I begin to practise abstinence the better.”
“Very true, your honour! Well, at any rate, when your honour gets to Swansea you will not be able to say that Pat Flannagan walked for miles with your honour along the road without offering your honour a glass of whiskey.”
“Nor shall Pat Flannagan be able to say the same thing of my honour. I have a shilling in my pocket at Pat Flannagan’s service, if he chooses to splice with it the mainbrace for himself and for me.”
“Thank your honour; but I have a shilling in my own pocket, and a dollar too, and a five-pound note besides; so I needn’t be beholden for drink money to anybody under the sun.”
“Well then, farewell! Here’s my hand!—Slan leat a Phatraic ui Flannagan!”
“Slan leat a dhuine-uasail!” said Patrick, giving me his hand; “and health, hope and happiness to ye.”
Thereupon he turned aside to —, and I continued my way to Swansea. Arrived at a place called Glandwr, about two miles from Swansea, I found that I was splashed from top to toe, for the roads were frightfully miry, and was sorry to perceive that my boots had given way at the soles, large pieces of which were sticking out. I must, however, do the poor things the justice to say that it was no wonder that they were in this dilapidated condition, for in those boots I had walked at least two hundred miles, over all kinds of paths, since I had got them soled at Llangollen. “Well,” said I to myself, “it won’t do to show myself at Swansea in this condition, more especially as I shall go to the best hotel; I must try and get myself made a little decent here.” Seeing a little inn on my right I entered it, and addressing myself to a neat, comfortable landlady, who was standing within the bar, I said—
“Please to let me have a glass of ale!—and hearkee; as I have been walking along the road, I should be glad of the services of the ‘boots.’”
“Very good, sir,” said the landlady with a curtsey.
Then showing me into a nice little sanded parlour, she brought me the glass of ale, and presently sent in a lad with a boot-jack to minister to me. O, what can’t a little money effect? For sixpence in that small nice inn I had a glass of ale, my boots cleaned and the excrescences cut off, my clothes wiped with a dwile, and then passed over with a brush, and was myself thanked over and over again. Starting again with all the spirited confidence of one who has just cast off his slough, I soon found myself in the suburbs of Swansea. As I passed under what appeared to be a railroad bridge I inquired in Welsh of an ancient-looking man, in coaly habiliments, if it was one. He answered in the same language that it was, then instantly added in English—
“You have taken your last farewell of Wales, sir; it’s no use speaking Welsh farther on.”
I passed some immense edifices, probably manufactories, and was soon convinced that, whether I was in Wales or not, I was no longer amongst Welsh. The people whom I met did not look like Welsh. They were taller and bulkier than the Cambrians, and were speaking a dissonant English jargon. The women had much the appearance of Dutch fisherwomen; some of them were carrying huge loads on their heads. I spoke in Welsh to two or three whom I overtook.
“No Welsh, sir!”
“Why don’t you speak Welsh?” said I.
“Because we never learnt it. We are not Welsh.”
“Who are you then?”
“English; some call us Flamings.”
“Ah, ah!” said I to myself, “I had forgot.”
Presently I entered the town, a large, bustling, dirty, gloomy place, and inquiring for the first hotel was directed to the “Mackworth Arms,” in Wine Street.
As soon as I was shown into the parlour I summoned the “boots,” and on his making his appearance I said in a stern voice: “My boots want soling; let them be done by to-morrow morning.”
“Can’t be, sir; it’s now Saturday afternoon, and the shoemaker couldn’t begin them to-night!”
“But you must make him!” said I; “and look here, I shall give him a shilling extra, and you an extra shilling for seeing after him.”
“Yes, sir; I’ll see after him—they shall be done, sir. Bring you your slippers instantly. Glad to see you again in Swansea, sir, looking so well.”
CI. Swansea—The Flemings—Towards England
Swansea is called by the Welsh Abertawé, which signifies the mouth of the Tawy. Aber, as I have more than once had occasion to observe, signifies the place where a river enters into the sea or joins another. It is a Gaelic as well as a Cumric word, being found in the Gaelic names Aberdeen and Lochaber, and there is good reason for supposing that the word harbour is derived from it. Swansea or Swansey is a compound word of Scandinavian origin, which may mean either a river abounding with swans, or the river of Swanr, the name of some northern adventurer who settled down at its mouth. The final ea or ey is the Norwegian aa, which signifies a running water; it is of frequent occurrence in the names of rivers in Norway, and is often found, similarly modified, in those of other countries where the adventurous Norwegians formed settlements.
Swansea first became a place of some importance shortly after the beginning of the twelfth century. In the year 1108 the greater part of Flanders having been submerged by the sea {579} an immense number of Flemings came over to England, and entreated of Henry the First, the king then occupying the throne, that he would allot to them lands in which they might settle. The king sent them to various parts of Wales which had been conquered by his barons or those of his predecessors: a considerable number occupied Swansea and the neighbourhood; but far the greater part went to Dyfed, generally but improperly called Pembroke, the south-eastern part of which, by far the most fertile, they entirely took possession of, leaving to the Welsh the rest, which is very mountainous and barren.
I have already said that the people of Swansea stand out in broad distinctness from the Cumry, differing from them in stature, language, dress, and manners, and wish to observe that the same thing may be said of the inhabitants of every part of Wales which the Flemings colonised in any considerable numbers.
I found the accommodation very good at the “Mackworth Arms;” I passed the Saturday evening very agreeably, and slept well throughout the night. The next morning to my great joy I found my boots, capitally repaired, awaiting me before my chamber door.
O the mighty effect of a little money! After breakfast I put them on, and as it was Sunday went out in order to go to church. The streets were thronged with people; a new mayor had just been elected, and his worship, attended by a number of halbert and javelin men, was going to church too. I followed the procession, which moved with great dignity and of course very slowly. The church had a high square tower and looked a very fine edifice on the outside and no less so within, for the nave was lofty with noble pillars on each side. I stood during the whole of the service as did many others, for the congregation was so great that it was impossible to accommodate all with seats. The ritual was performed in a very satisfactory manner and was followed by an excellent sermon. I am ashamed to say that I have forgot the text, but I remember a good deal of the discourse. The preacher said amongst other things that the Gospel was not preached in vain, and that he very much doubted whether a sermon was ever delivered which did not do some good. On the conclusion of the services I strolled about in order to see the town and what pertained to it. The town is of considerable size with some remarkable edifices, spacious and convenient quays, and a commodious harbour into which the river Tawy flowing from the north empties itself. The town and harbour are overhung on the side of the east by a lofty green mountain with a Welsh name, no doubt exceedingly appropriate, but which I regret to say has escaped my memory.
After having seen all that I wished I returned to my inn and discharged all my obligations. I then departed, framing my course eastward towards England, having traversed Wales nearly from north to south.
CII. Leave Swansea—The Pandemonium—Neath Abbey—Varied Scenery
It was about two o’clock of a dull and gloomy afternoon when I started from Abertawy or Swansea, intending to stop at Neath, some eight miles distant. As I passed again through the suburbs I was struck with their length and the evidences of enterprise which they exhibited—enterprise, however, evidently chiefly connected with iron and coal, for almost every object looked awfully grimy. Crossing a bridge I proceeded to the east up a broad and spacious valley, the eastern side of which was formed by russet-coloured hills, through a vista of which I could descry a range of tall blue mountains. As I proceeded I sometimes passed pleasant groves and hedgerows, sometimes huge works; in this valley there was a singular mixture of nature and art, of the voices of birds and the clanking of chains, of the mists of heaven and the smoke of furnaces.
I reached Llan—, a small village half-way between Swansea and Neath, and without stopping continued my course, walking very fast. I had surmounted a hill and had nearly descended that side of it which looked towards the east, having on my left, that is to the north, a wooded height, when an extraordinary scene presented itself to my eyes. Somewhat to the south rose immense stacks of chimneys surrounded by grimy diabolical-looking buildings, in the neighbourhood of which were huge heaps of cinders and black rubbish. From the chimneys, notwithstanding it was Sunday, smoke was proceeding in volumes, choking the atmosphere all around. From this pandemonium, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile to the southwest, upon a green meadow, stood, looking darkly grey, a ruin of vast size with window holes, towers, spires, and arches. Between it and the accursed pandemonium, lay a horrid filthy place, part of which was swamp and part pool: the pool black as soot, and the swamp of a disgusting leaden colour. Across this place of filth stretched a tramway leading seemingly from the abominable mansions to the ruin. So strange a scene I had never beheld in nature. Had it been on canvas, with the addition of a number of diabolical figures, proceeding along the tramway, it might have stood for Sabbath in Hell—devils proceeding to afternoon worship, and would have formed a picture worthy of the powerful but insane painter Jerome Bos.
After standing for a considerable time staring at the strange spectacle I proceeded. Presently meeting a lad, I asked him what was the name of the ruin.
“The Abbey,” he replied.
“Neath Abbey?” said I.
“Yes!”
Having often heard of this abbey, which in its day was one of the most famous in Wales, I determined to go and inspect it. It was with some difficulty that I found my way to it. It stood, as I have already observed, in a meadow, and was on almost every side surrounded by majestic hills. To give any clear description of this ruined pile would be impossible, the dilapidation is so great, dilapidation evidently less the effect of time than of awful violence, perhaps that of gunpowder. The southern is by far the most perfect portion of the building; there you see not only walls but roofs. Fronting you full south, is a mass of masonry with two immense arches, other arches behind them: entering, you find yourself beneath a vaulted roof, and passing on you come to an oblong square which may have been a church; an iron-barred window on your right enables you to look into a mighty vault, the roof of which is supported by beautiful pillars. Then but I forbear to say more respecting these remains for fear of stating what is incorrect, my stay amongst them having been exceedingly short.
The Abbey of Glen Neath was founded in the twelfth century by Richard Grenfield, one of the followers of Robert Fitzhamon, who subjugated Glamorgan. Neath Abbey was a very wealthy one, the founder having endowed it with extensive tracts of fertile land along the banks of the rivers Neath and Tawy. In it the unfortunate Edward of Carnarvon sought a refuge for a few days from the rage of his revolted barons, whilst his favourite the equally unfortunate Spencer endeavoured to find a covert amidst the thickets of the wood-covered hill to the north. When Richmond landed at Milford Haven to dispute the crown with Richard the Second, the then Abbot of Neath repaired to him and gave him his benediction, in requital for which the adventurer gave him his promise that in the event of his obtaining the crown he would found a college in Glen Neath, which promise, however, after he had won the crown, he forgot to perform. {583} The wily abbot, when he hastened to pay worship to what he justly conceived to be the rising sun, little dreamt that he was about to bless the future father of the terrible man doomed by Providence to plant the abomination of desolation in Neath Abbey and in all the other nests of monkery throughout the land.
Leaving the ruins I proceeded towards Neath. The scenery soon became very beautiful; not that I had left machinery altogether behind, for I presently came to a place where huge wheels were turning and there was smoke and blast, but there was much that was rural and beautiful to be seen, something like park scenery, and then there were the mountains near and in the distance. I reached Neath at about half-past four, and took up my quarters at an inn which had been recommended to me by my friend the boots at Swansea.
Chapter CIII
Town of Neath—Hounds and Huntsman—Spectral Chapel—The Glowing Mountain.
Neath is a place of some antiquity, for it can boast of the remains of a castle and is a corporate town. There is but little Welsh spoken in it. It is situated on the Neath, and exports vast quantities of coal and iron, of both of which there are rich mines in the neighbourhood. It derives its name from the river Nedd or Neth on which it stands. Nedd or Neth is the same word as Nith the name of a river in Scotland, and is in some degree connected with Nidda the name of one in Germany. Nedd in Welsh signifies a dingle, and the word in its various forms has always something to do with lowness or inferiority of position. Amongst its forms are Nether and Nieder. The term is well applied to the Glamorganshire river, which runs through dingles and under mountains.
The Neath has its source in the mountains of Brecon, and enters the sea some little way below the town of Neath.
On the Monday morning I resumed my journey, directing my course up the vale of Neath towards Merthyr Tydvil, distant about four-and-twenty miles. The weather was at first rainy, misty, and miserable, but improved by degrees. I passed through a village which I was told was called Llanagos; close to it were immense establishments of some kind. The scenery soon became exceedingly beautiful; hills covered with wood to the tops were on either side of the dale. I passed an avenue leading somewhere through groves, and was presently overtaken and passed by hounds and a respectable-looking old huntsman on a black horse; a minute afterwards I caught a glimpse of an old redbrick mansion nearly embosomed in groves, from which proceeded a mighty cawing. Probably it belonged to the proprietor of the dogs, and certainly looked a very fit mansion for a Glamorganshire squire, justice of the peace, and keeper of a pack of hounds.
I went on, the vale increasing in beauty; there was a considerable drawback, however: one of those detestable contrivances a railroad was on the farther side—along which trains were passing, rumbling and screaming.
I saw a bridge on my right hand with five or six low arches over the river, which was here full of shoals. Asked a woman the name of the bridge.
“Pont Fawr ei galw, sir.”
I was again amongst the real Welsh—this woman had no English.
I passed by several remarkable mountains, both on the south and northern side of the vale. Late in the afternoon I came to the eastern extremity of the vale and ascended a height. Shortly afterwards I reached Rhigos, a small village.
Entering a public-house I called for ale and sat down amidst some grimy fellows, who said nothing to me and to whom I said nothing—their discourse was in Welsh and English. Of their Welsh I understood but little, for it was a strange corrupt jargon. In about half-an-hour after leaving this place I came to the beginning of a vast moor. It was now growing rather dusk and I could see blazes here and there; occasionally I heard horrid sounds. Came to Irvan, an enormous mining-place with a spectral-looking chapel, doubtless a Methodist one. The street was crowded with rough savage-looking men. “Is this the way to Merthyr Tydvil?” said I to one.
“Yes!” bawled the fellow at the utmost stretch of his voice.
“Thank you!” said I, taking off my hat and passing on.
Forward I went, up hill and down dale. Night now set in. I passed a grove of trees and presently came to a collection of small houses at the bottom of a little hollow. Hearing a step near me I stopped and said in Welsh: “How far to Merthyr Tydvil?”
“Dim Cumrag, sir!” said a voice, seemingly that of a man.
“Good-night!” said I, and without staying to put the question in English, I pushed on up an ascent and was presently amongst trees. Heard for a long time the hooting of an owl or rather the frantic hollo. Appeared to pass by where the bird had its station. Toiled up an acclivity and when on the top stood still and looked around me. There was a glow on all sides in the heaven except in the north-east quarter. Striding on I saw a cottage on my left-hand, and standing at the door the figure of a woman. “How far to Merthyr?” said I in Welsh.
“Tair milltir—three miles, sir.”
Turning round a corner at the top of a hill I saw blazes here and there and what appeared to be a glowing mountain in the south-east. I went towards it down a descent which continued for a long, long way; so great was the light cast by the blazes and that wonderful glowing object that I could distinctly see the little stones upon the road. After walking about half-an-hour, always going downwards, I saw a house on my left hand and heard a noise of water opposite to it. It was a pistyll. I went to it, drank greedily, and then hurried on, more and more blazes and the glowing object looking more terrible than ever. It was now above me at some distance to the left, and I could see that it was an immense quantity of heated matter like lava, occupying the upper and middle parts of a hill and descending here and there almost to the bottom in a zigzag and tortuous manner. Between me and the hill of the burning object lay a deep ravine. After a time I came to a house, against the door of which a man was leaning.
“What is all that burning stuff above, my friend?”
“Dross from the iron forges, sir!”
I now perceived a valley below me full of lights, and descending reached houses and a tramway. I had blazes now all around me. I went through a filthy slough, over a bridge, and up a street, from which dirty lanes branched off on either side, passed throngs of savage-looking people talking clamorously, shrank from addressing any of them, and finally undirected found myself before the Castle Inn at Merthyr Tydvil.
Chapter CIV
Iron and Coal—The Martyred Princess—Cyfartha Fawr—Diabolical Structure.
Merthyr Tydvil is situated in a broad valley through which roll the waters of the Taf. It was till late an inconsiderable village, but is at present the greatest mining place in Britain, and may be called with much propriety the capital of the iron and coal.
It bears the name of Merthyr Tydvil, which signifies the Martyr Tydvil, because in the old time a Christian British princess was slain in the locality which it occupies. Tydvil was the daughter of Brychan Prince of Brecon, surnamed Brycheiniawg, or the Breconian, who flourished in the fifth century and was a contemporary of Hengist. He was a man full of Christian zeal and a great preacher of the Gospel, and gave his children, of which he had many both male and female by various wives, an education which he hoped would not only make them Christians, but enable them to preach the Gospel to their countrymen. They proved themselves worthy of his care, all of them without one exception becoming exemplary Christians, and useful preachers. In his latter days he retired to a hermitage in Glamorganshire near the Taf and passed his time in devotion, receiving occasionally visits from his children. Once, when he and several of them, amongst whom was Tydvil, were engaged in prayer a band of heathen Saxons rushed in upon them and slew Tydvil with three of her brothers. Ever since that time the place has borne the name of Martyr Tydvil. {587}
The Taf, which runs to the south of Merthyr, comes down from Breconshire, and enters the Bristol Channel at Cardiff, a place the name of which in English is the city on the Taf. It is one of the most beautiful of rivers, but is not navigable on account of its numerous shallows. The only service which it renders to commerce is feeding a canal which extends from Merthyr to Cardiff. It is surprising how similar many of the Welsh rivers are in name: Taf, Tawey, Towey, Teivi, and Duffy differ but very little in sound. Taf and Teivi have both the same meaning, namely a tendency to spread out. The other names, though probably expressive of the properties or peculiarities of the streams to which they respectively belong, I know not how to translate.
The morning of the fourteenth was very fine. After breakfast I went to see the Cyfartha Fawr iron works, generally considered to be the great wonder of the place. After some slight demur I obtained permission from the superintendent to inspect them. I was attended by an intelligent mechanic. What shall I say about the Cyfartha Fawr? I had best say but very little. I saw enormous furnaces. I saw streams of molten metal. I saw a long ductile piece of red-hot iron being operated upon. I saw millions of sparks flying about. I saw an immense wheel impelled round with frightful velocity by a steam engine of two hundred and forty horse power. I heard all kinds of dreadful sounds. The general effect was stunning. These works belong to the Crawshays, a family distinguished by a strange kind of eccentricity, but also by genius and enterprising spirit, and by such a strict feeling of honour that it is a common saying that the word of any one of them is as good as the bond of other people.
After seeing the Cyfartha I roamed about making general observations. The mountain of dross which had startled me on the preceding night with its terrific glare, and which stands to the north-west of the town, looked now nothing more than an immense dark heap of cinders. It is only when the shades of night have settled down that the fire within manifests itself, making the hill appear an immense glowing mass. All the hills around the town, some of which are very high, have a scorched and blackened look. An old Anglesea bard, rather given to bombast, wishing to extol the abundant cheer of his native isle, said: “The hills of Ireland are blackened by the smoke from the kitchens of Mona.” With much more propriety might a bard of the banks of the Taf who should wish to apologise for the rather smutty appearance of his native vale exclaim: “The hills around the Taf once so green are blackened by the smoke from the chimneys of Merthyr.” The town is large and populous. The inhabitants for the most part are Welsh, and Welsh is the language generally spoken, though all have some knowledge of English. The houses are in general low and mean, and built of rough grey stone. Merthyr, however, can show several remarkable edifices, though of a gloomy, horrid Satanic character. There is the hall of the Iron, with its arches, from whence proceeds incessantly a thundering noise of hammers. Then there is an edifice at the foot of a mountain, half way up the side of which is a blasted forest, and on the top an enormous crag. A truly wonderful edifice it is, such as Bos would have imagined had he wanted to paint the palace of Satan. There it stands; a house of reddish brick with a slate roof—four horrid black towers behind, two of them belching forth smoke and flame from their tops—holes like pigeon holes here and there—two immense white chimneys standing by themselves. What edifice can that be of such strange mad details? I ought to have put that question to some one in Tydvil, but did not, though I stood staring at the diabolical structure with my mouth open. It is of no use putting the question to myself here.
After strolling about for some two hours with my hands in my pockets, I returned to my inn, called for a glass of ale, paid my reckoning, flung my satchel over my shoulder, and departed.
Chapter CV
Start for Caerfili—Johanna Colgan—Alms-Giving—The Monstrous Female—The Evil Prayer—The Next Day—The Aifrionn—Unclean Spirits—Expectation—Wreaking Vengeance—A Decent Alms.
I left Merthyr about twelve o’clock for Caerfili. My course lay along the valley to the south-east. I passed a large village called Troed y Rhiw, or the foot of the slope, from its being at the foot of a lofty elevation, which stands on the left-hand side of the road, and was speeding onwards fast, with the Taf at some distance on my right, when I saw a strange-looking woman advancing towards me. She seemed between forty and fifty, was bare-footed and bare-headed, with grizzled hair hanging in elf locks, and was dressed in rags and tatters. When about ten yards from me, she pitched forward, gave three or four grotesque tumbles, heels over head, then standing bolt upright, about a yard before me, she raised her right arm, and shouted in a most discordant voice—“Give me an alms, for the glory of God.”
I stood still, quite confounded. Presently, however, recovering myself, I said:—“Really, I don’t think it would be for the glory of God to give you alms.”
“Ye don’t! Then, Biadh an taifronn—however, I’ll give ye a chance yet. Am I to get my alms or not?”
“Before I give you alms I must know something about you. Who are you?”
“Who am I? Who should I be but Johanna Colgan, a bedivilled woman from the county of Limerick?”
“And how did you become bedevilled?”
“Because a woman something like myself said an evil prayer over me for not giving her an alms, which prayer I have at my tongue’s end, and unless I get my alms will say over you. So for your own sake, honey, give me my alms, and let me go on my way.”
“O, I am not to be frightened by evil prayers! I shall give you nothing till I hear all about you.”
“If I tell ye all about me will ye give me an alms?”
“Well, I have no objection to give you something if you tell me your story.”
“Will ye give me a dacent alms?”
“O, you must leave the amount to my free will and pleasure. I shall give you what I think fit.”
“Well, so ye shall, honey; and I make no doubt ye will give me a dacent alms, for I like the look of ye, and knew ye to be an Irishman half-a-mile off. Only four years ago, instead of being a bedivilled woman, tumbling about the world, I was as quiet and respectable a widow as could be found in the county of Limerick. I had a nice little farm at an aisy rint, horses, cows, pigs, and servants, and, what was better than all, a couple of fine sons, who were a help and comfort to me. But my black day was not far off. I was a mighty charitable woman, and always willing to give to the bacahs and other beggars that came about. Every morning, before I opened my door, I got ready the alms which I intended to give away in the course of the day to those that should ask for them, and I made so good a preparation that, though plenty of cripples and other unfortunates wandering through the world came to me every day, part of the alms was sure to remain upon my hands every night when I closed my door. The alms which I gave away consisted of meal; and I had always a number of small measures of male standing ready on a board, one of which I used to empty into the poke of every bacah or other unfortunate who used to place himself at the side of my door and cry out ‘Ave Maria!’ or ‘In the name of God!’ Well, one morning I sat within my door spinning, with a little bit of a colleen beside me who waited upon me as servant. My measures of meal were all ready for the unfortunates who should come, filled with all the meal in the house; for there was no meal in the house save what was in those measures—divil a particle, the whole stock being exhausted; though by evening I expected plenty more, my two sons being gone to the ballybetagh, which was seven miles distant, for a fresh supply, and for other things. Well, I sat within my door, spinning, with my servant by my side to wait upon me, and my measures of male ready for the unfortunates who might come to ask for alms. There I sat, quite proud, and more happy than I had ever felt in my life before; and the unfortunates began to make their appearance. First came a bacah on crutches; then came a woman with a white swelling; then came an individual who had nothing at all the matter with him, and was only a poor unfortunate, wandering about the world; then came a far cake, {591} a dark man, who was led about by a gossoon; after him a simpley, and after the simpleton somebody else as much or more unfortunate. And as the afflicted people arrived and placed themselves by the side of the door and said ‘Ave Mary,’ or ‘In the name of God,’ or crossed their arms, or looked down upon the ground, each according to his practice, I got up and emptied my measure of male into his poke, or whatever he carried about with him for receiving the alms which might be given to him; and my measures of male began to be emptied fast, for it seemed that upon that day, when I happened to be particularly short of meal, all the unfortunates in the county of Limerick had conspired together to come to ask me for alms. At last every measure of meal was emptied, and there I sat in my house with nothing to give away provided an unfortunate should come. Says I to the colleen: ‘What shall I do provided any more come, for all the meal is gone and there will be no more before the boys come home at night from the ballybetagh.’ Says the colleen: ‘If any more come, can’t ye give them something else?’ Says I: ‘It has always been my practice to give in meal, and loth should I be to alter it; for if once I begin to give away other things, I may give away all I have.’ Says the colleen: ‘Let’s hope no one else will come: there have been thirteen of them already.’ Scarcely had she said these words, when a monstrous woman, half-naked, and with a long staff in her hand, on the top of which was a cross, made her appearance; and placing herself right before the door, cried out so that you might have heard her for a mile, ‘Give me an alms for the glory of God.’
“‘Good woman,’ says I to her, ‘you will be kind enough to excuse me: all the preparation I had made for alms has been given away, for I have relieved thirteen unfortunates this blessed morning—so may the Virgin help ye, good woman!’ ‘Give me an alms,’ said the Beanvore, with a louder voice than before, ‘or it will be worse for you.’ ‘You must excuse me, dear mistress,’ says I, ‘but I have no more meal in the house. Those thirteen measures which you see there empty were full this morning, for what was in them I have given away to unfortunates. So the Virgin and Child help you.’ ‘Do you choose to give me an alms?’ she shrieked, so that you might have heard her to Londonderry. ‘If ye have no male give me something else.’ ‘You must excuse me, good lady,’ said I: ‘it is my custom to give alms in meal, and in nothing else. I have none in the house now; but if ye come on the morrow ye shall have a triple measure. In the meanwhile may the Virgin, Child, and the Holy Trinity assist ye!’ Thereupon she looked at me fixedly for a moment, and then said, not in a loud voice, but in a low, half-whispered way, which was ten times more deadly—
“‘Biaidh an taifrionn gan sholas duit a bhean shalach!’
Then turning from the door she went away with long strides. Now, honey, can ye tell me the meaning of those words?”
“They mean,” said I, “unless I am much mistaken: ‘May the Mass never comfort ye, you dirty quean!’”
“Ochone! that’s the maning of them, sure enough. They are cramped words, but I guessed that was the meaning, or something of the kind. Well, after hearing the evil prayer, I sat for a minute or two quite stunned; at length recovering myself a bit I said to the colleen: ‘Get up, and run after the woman and tell her to come back and cross the prayer.’ I meant by crossing that she should call it back or do something that would take the venom out of it. Well, the colleen was rather loth to go, for she was a bit scared herself, but on my beseeching her, she got up and ran after the woman, and being rather swift of foot, at last, though with much difficulty, overtook her, and begged her to come back and cross the prayer, but the divil of a woman would do no such thing, and when the colleen persisted she told her that if she didn’t go back, she would say an evil prayer over her too. So the colleen left her, and came back crying and frightened. All the rest of the day I remained sitting on the stool speechless, thinking of the prayer which the woman had said, and wishing I had given her everything I had in the world, rather than she should have said it. At night came home the boys, and found their mother sitting on the stool, like one stupefied. ‘What’s the matter with you, mother?’ they said. ‘Get up and help us to unpack. We have brought home plenty of things on the car, and amongst others a whole boll of meal.’ ‘You might as well have left it behind you,’ said I; ‘this morning a single measure of male would have been to me of all the assistance in the world, but I quistion now if I shall ever want meal again.’ They asked me what had happened to me, and after some time I told them how a monstrous woman had been to me, and had said an evil prayer over me, because having no meal in the house I had not given her an alms. ‘Come, mother,’ said they, ‘get up and help us to unload! never mind the prayer of the monstrous woman—it is all nonsense.’ Well, I got up and helped them to unload, and cooked them a bit and sat down with them, and tried to be merry, but felt that I was no longer the woman that I was. The next day I didn’t seem to care what became of me, or how matters went on, and though there was now plenty of meal in the house, not a measure did I fill with it to give away in the shape of alms; and when the bacahs, and the liprous women, and the dark men, and the other unfortunates placed themselves at the side of the door, and gave me to understand that they wanted alms, each in his or her particular manner, divil an alms did I give them, but let them stand and took no heed of them, so that at last they took themselves off grumbling and cursing. And little did I care for their grumblings and cursings. Two days before I wouldn’t have had an unfortunate grumble at me, or curse me, for all the riches below the sun; but now their grumblings and curses didn’t give me the slightest uneasiness, for I had an evil prayer spoken against me in the Shanna Gailey by the monstrous woman, and I knew that I was blighted in this world and the next. In a little time I ceased to pay any heed to the farming business, or to the affairs of the house, so that my sons had no comfort in their home. And I took to drink and induced my eldest son to take to drink too—my youngest son, however, did not take to drink, but conducted himself well, and toiled and laboured like a horse, and often begged me and his brother to consider what we were about, and not to go on in a way which would bring us all to ruin, but I paid no regard to what he said, and his brother followed my example, so that at last seeing things were getting worse every day, and that we should soon be turned out of house and home, for no rint was paid, every penny that could be got being consumed in waste, he bade us farewell and went and listed for a sodger. But if matters were bad enough before he went away, they became much worse after; for now when the unfortunates came to the door for alms, instead of letting them stand in pace till they were tired, and took themselves off, I would mock them and point at them, and twit them with their sores and other misfortunes, and not unfrequently I would fling scalding water over them, which would send them howling and honing away, till at last there was not an unfortunate but feared to come within a mile of my door. Moreover, I began to misconduct myself at chapel, more especially at the Aifrionn or Mass, for no sooner was the bell rung, and the holy corpus raised, than I would shout and hoorah, and go tumbling and toppling along the floor before the holy body, as I just now tumbled along the road before you, so that the people were scandalised, and would take me by the shoulders and turn me out of doors, and began to talk of ducking me in the bog. The priest of the parish, however, took my part, saying that I ought not to be persecuted, for that I was not accountable for what I did, being a possessed person, and under the influence of divils. ‘These, however,’ said he, ‘I’ll soon cast out from her, and then the woman will be a holy cratur, much better than she ever was before.’ A very learned man was Father Hogan, especially in casting out divils, and a portly good-looking man too, only he had a large rubicon nose, which people said he got by making over free with the cratur in sacret. I had often looked at the nose, when the divil was upon me, and felt an inclination to seize hold of it, jist to see how it felt. Well, he had me to his house several times, and there he put holy cloths upon me, and tied holy images to me, and read to me out of holy books, and sprinkled holy water over me, and put questions to me, and at last was so plased with the answers I gave him, that he prached a sermon about me in the chapel, in which he said that he had cast six of my divils out of me, and should cast out the seventh, which was the last, by the next Sabbath, and then should present me to the folks in the chapel as pure a vessel as the blessed Mary herself—and that I was destined to accomplish great things, and to be a mighty instrument in the hands of the Holy Church, for that he intended to write a book about me describing the miracle he had performed in casting the seven divils out of me, which he should get printed at the printing-press of the blessed Columba, and should send me through all Ireland to sell the copies, the profits of which would go towards the support of the holy society for casting out unclane spirits, to which he himself belonged. Well, the people showed that they were plased by a loud shout, and went away longing for the next Sunday when I was to be presented to them without a divil in me. Five times the next week did I go to the priest’s house, to be read to, and be sprinkled, and have cloths put upon me, in order that the work of casting out the last divil, which it seems was stronger than all the rest, might be made smooth and aisy, and on the Saturday I came to have the last divil cast out, and found his riverince in full canonicals, seated in his aisy chair. ‘Daughter,’ said he when he saw me, ‘the work is nearly over. Now kneel down before me, and I will make the sign of the cross over your forehead, and then you will feel the last and strongest of the divils, which have so long possessed ye, go out of ye through your eyes, as I expect you will say to the people assembled in the chapel to-morrow.’ So I put myself on my knees before his reverence, who after muttering something to himself, either in Latin or Shanna Gailey—I believe it was Latin, said, ‘Look me in the face, daughter!’ Well, I looked his reverence in the face, and there I saw his nose looking so large, red, and inviting that I could not resist the temptation, and before his reverence could make the sign of the cross, which doubtless would have driven the divil out of me, I made a spring at it, and seizing hold of it with fore-finger and thumb, pulled hard at it. Hot and inctious did it feel. O, the yell that his reverence gave! However, I did not let go my hold, but kept pulling at the nose, till at last to avoid the torment his reverence came tumbling down upon me, causing me by his weight to fall back upon the floor. At the yell which he gave, and at the noise of the fall, in came rushing his reverence’s housekeeper and stable-boy, who seeing us down on the floor, his reverence upon me and my hand holding his reverence’s nose, for I felt loth to let it go, they remained in astonishment and suspense. When his reverence, however, begged them, for the Virgin’s sake, to separate him from the divil of a woman, they ran forward, and having with some difficulty freed his reverence’s nose from my hand, they helped him up. The first thing that his reverence did, on being placed on his legs, was to make for a horsewhip, which stood in one corner of the room, but I guessing how he meant to use it, sprang up from the floor, and before he could make a cut at me, ran out of the room, and hasted home. The next day, when all the people for twenty miles round met in the chapel, in the expectation of seeing me presented to them a purified and holy female, and hearing from my mouth the account of the miracle which his reverence had performed, his reverence made his appearance in the pulpit with a dale of gould-bater’s leaf on his nose, and from the pulpit he told the people how I had used him, showing them the gould-bater’s leaf on his feature as testimony of the truth of his words, finishing by saying that if at first there were seven devils there were now seven times seven within me. Well, when the people heard the story, and saw his nose with the bater’s leaf upon it, they at first began to laugh, but when he appealed to their consciences, and asked them if such was fitting tratement for a praist, they said it was not, and that if he would only but curse me, they would soon do him justice upon me. His reverence then cursed by book, bell, and candle, and the people, setting off from the chapel, came in a crowd to the house where I lived, to wrake vengeance upon me. Overtaking my son by the way, who was coming home in a state of intoxication, they bate him within an inch of his life, and left him senseless on the ground, and no doubt would have served me much worse, only seeing them coming, and guessing what they came about, though I was a bit intoxicated myself, I escaped by the back of the house out into the bog, where I hid myself amidst a copse of hazels. The people coming to the house, and not finding me there, broke and destroyed every bit of furniture, and would have pulled the house down, or set fire to it, had not an individual among them cried out that doing so would be of no use, for that the house did not belong to me, and that destroying it would merely be an injury to the next tenant. So the people, after breaking my furniture and ill-trating two or three dumb beasts, which happened not to have been made away with, went away, and in the dead of night I returned to the house, where I found my son, who had just crawled home covered with blood and bruises. We hadn’t, however, a home long, for the agents of the landlord came to seize for rent, took all they could find, and turned us out upon the wide world. Myself and son wandered together for an hour or two, then, having a quarrel with each other, we parted, he going one way and I another. Some little time after I heard that he was transported. As for myself, I thought I might as well take a leaf out of the woman’s book, who had been the ruin of me. So I went about bidding people give me alms for the glory of God, and threatening those who gave me nothing that the mass should never comfort them. It’s a dreadful curse that, honey; and I would advise people to avoid it even though they give away all they have. If you have no comfort in the mass, you will have comfort in nothing else. Look at me: I have no comfort in the mass, for as soon as the priest’s bell rings I shouts and hoorahs, and performs tumblings before the blessed corpus, getting myself kicked out of chapel, and as little comfort as I have in the mass have I in other things, which should be a comfort to me. I have two sons who ought to be the greatest comfort to me, but are they so? We’ll see—one is transported, and of course is no comfort to me at all. The other is a sodger. Is he a comfort to me? not a bit. A month ago when I was travelling through the black north, tumbling and toppling about, and threatening people with my prayer, unless they gave me alms, a woman, who knew me, told me that he was with his regiment at Cardiff, here in Wales, whereupon I determined to go and see him, and crossing the water got into England, from whence I walked to Cardiff asking alms of the English in the common English way, and of the Irish, and ye are the first Irish I have met, in the way in which I asked them of you. But when I got to Cardiff did I see my son? I did not, for the day before he had sailed with his regiment to a place ten thousand miles away, so I shall never see his face again nor derive comfort from him. Oh, if there’s no comfort from the mass there’s no comfort from anything else, and he who has the evil prayer in the Shanna Gailey breathed upon him, will have no comfort from the mass. Now, honey, ye have heard the story of Johanna Colgan, the bedivilled woman. Give her now a dacent alms and let her go!”
“Would you consider sixpence a decent alms?”
“I would. If you give me sixpence, I will not say my prayer over ye.”
“Would you give me a blessing?”
“I would not. A bedivilled woman has no blessing to give.”
“Surely if you are able to ask people to give you alms for the glory of God, you are able to give a blessing.”
“Bodderation! are ye going to give me sixpence?”
“No! here’s a shilling for you! Take it and go in peace.”
“There’s no pace for me,” said Johanna Colgan, taking the money. “What did the monstrous female say to me? Biadh an taifrionn gan sholas duit a bhean shalach.’ {599} This is my pace—hoorah! hoorah!” then giving two or three grotesque topples she hurried away in the direction of Merthyr Tydvil.
Chapter CVI
Pen y Glas—Salt of the Earth—The Quakers’ Yard—The Rhugylgroen.
As I proceeded on my way the scenery to the south on the farther side of the river became surprisingly beautiful. On that side noble mountains met the view, green fields and majestic woods, the latter brown it is true, for their leaves were gone, but not the less majestic for being brown. Here and there were white farm-houses: one of them, which I was told was called Pen y Glas, was a truly lovely little place. It stood on the side of a green hill with a noble forest above it, and put me wonderfully in mind of the hunting lodge, which Ifor Hael allotted as a retreat to Ab Gwilym and Morfydd, when they fled to him from Cardigan to avoid the rage of the Bow Bach, and whose charming appearance made him say to his love:
“More bliss for us our fate propounds On Taf’s green banks than Teivy’s bounds.”
On I wandered. After some time the valley assumed the form of an immense basin, enormous mountains composed its sides. In the middle rose hills of some altitude, but completely overcrowned by the mountains around. These hills exhibited pleasant inclosures, and were beautifully dotted with white farm-houses. Down below meandered the Taf, its reaches shining with a silver-like splendour. The whole together formed an exquisite picture, in which there was much sublimity, much still, quiet life, and not a little of fantastic fairy loveliness.
The sun was hastening towards the west as I passed a little cascade on the left, the waters of which, after running under the road, tumbled down a gulley into the river. Shortly afterwards meeting a man I asked him how far it was to Caerfili.
“When you come to the Quakers’ Yard, which is a little way further on, you will be seven miles from Caerfili.”
“What is the Quakers’ Yard?”
“A place where the people called Quakers bury their dead.”
“Is there a village near it?”
“There is, and the village is called by the same name.”
“Are there any Quakers in it?”
“Not one, nor in the neighbourhood, but there are some, I believe, in Cardiff.”
“Why do they bury their dead there?”
“You should ask them, not me. I know nothing about them, and don’t want; they are a bad set of people.”
“Did they ever do you any harm?”
“Can’t say they did. Indeed I never saw one in the whole of my life.”
“Then why do you call them bad?”
“Because everybody says they are.”
“Not everybody. I don’t; I have always found them the salt of the earth.”
“Then it is salt that has lost its savour. But perhaps you are one of them?”
“No, I belong to the Church of England.”
“O you do. Then good night to you. I am a Methodist. I thought at first that you were one of our ministers, and had hoped to hear from you something profitable and conducive to salvation, but—”
“Well, so you shall. Never speak ill of people of whom you know nothing. If that isn’t a saying conducive to salvation I know not what is. Good evening to you.”
I soon reached the village. Singularly enough, the people of the very first house, at which I inquired about the Quakers’ Yard, were entrusted with the care of it. On my expressing a wish to see it a young woman took down a key, and said that if I would follow her she would show it me. The Quakers’ burying-place is situated on a little peninsula or tongue of land, having a brook on its eastern and northern sides, and on its western the Taf. It is a little oblong yard, with low walls, partly overhung with ivy. The entrance is a porch to the south. The Quakers are no friends to tombstones, and the only visible evidence that this was a place of burial was a single flagstone, with a half-obliterated inscription, which with some difficulty I deciphered, and was as follows:—
To the Memory of Thomas Edmunds Who died April the ninth 1802 aged 60 years And of Mary Edmunds Who died January the fourth 1810 aged 70.
The beams of the descending sun gilded the Quakers’ burial-ground as I trod its precincts. A lovely resting-place looked that little oblong yard on the peninsula, by the confluence of the waters, and quite in keeping with the character of the quiet Christian people who sleep within it. The Quakers have for some time past been a decaying sect, but they have done good work in their day, and when they are extinct they are not destined to be soon forgotten. Soon forgotten! How should a sect ever be forgotten, to which have belonged three such men as George Fox, William Penn and Joseph Gurney?
Shortly after I left the Quakers’ Yard the sun went down and twilight settled upon the earth. Pursuing my course I reached some woodlands, and on inquiring of a man, whom I saw standing at the door of a cottage, the name of the district, was told that it was called Ystrad Manach—the Monks’ Strath or valley. This name it probably acquired from having belonged in times of old to some monkish establishment. The moon now arose, and the night was delightful. As I was wandering along I heard again the same wild noise which I had heard the night before, on the other side of Merthyr Tydvil. The cry of the owl afar off in the woodlands. O that strange bird! O that strange cry! The Welsh as I have said on a former occasion call the owl Dylluan. Amongst the cowydds of Ab Gwilym there is one to the dylluan. It is full of abuse against the bird, with whom the poet is very angry for having with its cry frightened Morfydd back, who was coming to the wood to keep an assignation with him, but not a little of this abuse is wonderfully expressive and truthful. He calls the owl a grey thief—the haunter of the ivy bush—the chick of the oak, a blinking-eyed witch, greedy of mice, with a visage like the bald forehead of a big ram, or the dirty face of an old abbess, which bears no little resemblance to the chine of an ape. Of its cry he says that it is as great a torment as an agonising recollection, a cold shrill laugh from the midst of a kettle of ice; the rattling of sea-pebbles in an old sheep-skin, on which account many call the owl the hag of the Rhugylgroen. The Rhugylgroen, it will be as well to observe, is a dry sheep-skin containing a number of pebbles, and is used as a rattle for frightening crows. The likening the visage of the owl to the dirty face of an old abbess is capital, and the likening the cry to the noise of the Rhugylgroen is anything but unfortunate. For, after all, what does the voice of the owl so much resemble as a diabolical rattle! I’m sure I don’t know. Reader, do you?
I reached Caerfili at about seven o’clock, and went to the “Boar’s Head,” near the ruins of a stupendous castle, on which the beams of the moon were falling.
CVII. Caerfili Castle—Sir Charles—The Waiter—Inkerman
I slept well during the night. In the morning after breakfast I went to see the castle, over which I was conducted by a woman who was intrusted with its care. It stands on the eastern side of the little town, and is a truly enormous structure, which brought to my recollection a saying of our great Johnson, to be found in the account of his journey to the Western Islands, namely “that for all the castles which he had seen beyond the Tweed the ruins yet remaining of some one of those which the English built in Wales would find materials.” The original founder was one John De Bryse, a powerful Norman, who married the daughter of Llewellyn Ap Jorwerth, the son-in-law of King John, and the most warlike of all the Welsh princes, whose exploits, and particularly a victory which he obtained over his father-in-law, with whom he was always at war, have been immortalised by the great war-bard, Dafydd Benfras. It was one of the strongholds which belonged to the Spencers, and served for a short time as a retreat to the unfortunate Edward the Second. It was ruined by Cromwell, the grand foe of the baronial castles of Britain, but not in so thorough and sweeping a manner as to leave it a mere heap of stones. There is a noble entrance porch fronting the west—a spacious courtyard, a grand banqueting-room, a corridor of vast length, several lofty towers, a chapel, a sally-port, a guard-room, and a strange underground vaulted place called the mint, in which Caerfili’s barons once coined money, and in which the furnaces still exist which were used for melting metal. The name Caerfili is said to signify the Castle of Haste, and to have been bestowed on the pile because it was built in a hurry. Caerfili, however, was never built in a hurry, as the remains show. Moreover the Welsh word for haste is not fil but ffrwst. Fil means a scudding or darting through the air, which can have nothing to do with the building of a castle. Caerfili signifies Philip’s City, and was called so after one Philip, a saint. It no more means the castle of haste than Tintagel in Cornwall signifies the castle of guile, as the learned have said it does, for Tintagel simply means the house in the gill of the hill, a term admirably descriptive of the situation of the building.
I started from Caerfili at eleven for Newport, distant about seventeen miles. Passing through a toll-gate I ascended an acclivity, from the top of which I obtained a full view of the castle, looking stern, dark, and majestic. Descending the hill I came to a bridge over a river called the Rhymni or Rumney, much celebrated in Welsh and English song—thence to Pentref Bettws, or the village of the bead-house, doubtless so called from its having contained in old times a house in which pilgrims might tell their beads.
The scenery soon became very beautiful—its beauty, however, was to a certain extent marred by a horrid black object, a huge coal work, the chimneys of which were belching forth smoke of the densest description. “Whom does that work belong to?” said I to a man nearly as black as a chimney sweep.
“Who does it belong to? Why, to Sir Charles.”
“Do you mean Sir Charles Morgan?”
“I don’t know. I only know that it belongs to Sir Charles, the kindest heart and richest man in Wales and in England too.”
Passing some cottages I heard a group of children speaking English. Asked an intelligent-looking girl if she could speak Welsh.
“Yes,” said she, “I can speak it, but not very well. There is not much Welsh spoken by the children hereabout. The old folks hold more to it.”
I saw again the Rhymni river, and crossed it by a bridge; the river here was filthy and turbid owing of course to its having received the foul drainings of the neighbouring coal works—shortly afterwards I emerged from the coom or valley of the Rhymni and entered upon a fertile and tolerably level district. Passed by Llanawst and Machen. The day which had been very fine now became dark and gloomy. Suddenly, as I was descending a slope, a brilliant party consisting of four young ladies in riding habits, a youthful cavalier, and a servant in splendid livery—all on noble horses, swept past me at full gallop down the hill. Almost immediately afterwards seeing a road-mender who was standing holding his cap in his hand—which he had no doubt just reverentially doffed—I said in Welsh: “Who are those ladies?”
“Merched Sir Charles—the daughters of Sir Charles,” he replied.
“And is the gentleman their brother?”
“No! The brother is in the Crim—fighting with the Roosiaid. I don’t know who yon gentleman be.”
“Where does Sir Charles live?”
“Down in the Dyfryn, not far from Basallaig.”
“If I were to go and see him,” I said, “do you think he would give me a cup of ale?”
“I dare say he would; he has given me one many a time.”
I soon reached Basallaig, a pleasant village standing in a valley and nearly surrounded by the groves of Sir Charles Morgan. Seeing a decent public-house I said to myself, “I think I shall step in and have my ale here, and not go running after Sir Charles, whom perhaps after all I shouldn’t find at home.” So I went in and called for a pint of ale. Over my ale I trifled for about half-an-hour, then paying my groat I got up and set off for Newport in the midst of a thick mist which had suddenly come on and which speedily wetted me nearly to the skin.
I reached Newport at about half-past four and put up at a large and handsome inn called the King’s Head. During dinner the waiter unasked related to me his history. He was a short thick fellow of about forty, with a very disturbed and frightened expression of countenance. He said that he was a native of Brummagem, and had lived very happily at an inn there as waiter, but at length had allowed himself to be spirited away to an establishment high up in Wales amidst the scenery. That very few visitors came to the establishment, which was in a place so awfully lonesome that he soon became hipped and was more than once half in a mind to fling himself into a river which ran before the door and moaned dismally. That at last he thought his best plan would be to decamp, and accordingly took French leave early one morning. That after many frights and much fatigue he had found himself at Newport and taken service at the King’s Head, but did not feel comfortable and was frequently visited at night by dreadful dreams. That he should take the first opportunity of getting to Brummagem, though he was afraid that he should not be able to get into his former place owing to his ungrateful behaviour. He then uttered a rather eloquent eulogium on the beauties of the black capital, and wound up all by saying that he would rather be a brazier’s dog at Brummagem than head waiter at the best establishment in Wales.
After dinner I took up a newspaper and found in it an account of the battle of Inkerman, which appeared to have been fought on the fifth of November, the very day on which I had ascended Plinlymmon. I was sorry to find that my countrymen had suffered dreadfully, and would have been utterly destroyed but for the opportune arrival of the French. “In my childhood,” said I, “the Russians used to help us against the French; now the French help us against the Russians. Who knows but before I die I may see the Russians helping the French against us?”
Chapter CVIII
Town of Newport—The Usk—Note of Recognition—An Old Acquaintance—Connamara Quean—The Wake—The Wild Irish—The Tramping Life—Business and Prayer—Methodists—Good Counsel.
Newport is a large town in Monmouthshire, and had once walls and a castle. It is called in Welsh Cas Newydd ar Wysg, or the New Castle upon the Usk. It stands some miles below Caerlleon ar Wysg, and was probably built when that place, at one time one of the most considerable towns in Britain, began to fall into decay. The Wysg or Usk has its source among some wild hills in the south-west of Breconshire, and, after absorbing several smaller streams, amongst which is the Hondu, at the mouth of which Brecon stands, which on that account is called in Welsh Aber Hondu, and traversing the whole of Monmouthshire, enters the Bristol Channel near Newport, to which place vessels of considerable burden can ascend. Wysg or Usk is an ancient British word, signifying water, and is the same as the Irish word uisge or whiskey, for whiskey, though generally serving to denote a spirituous liquor, in great vogue amongst the Irish, means simply water. The proper term for the spirit is uisquebaugh, literally acqua vitæ, but the compound being abbreviated by the English, who have always been notorious for their habit of clipping words, one of the strongest of spirits is now generally denominated by a word which is properly expressive of the simple element water.
Monmouthshire is at present considered an English county, though certainly with little reason, for it not only stands on the western side of the Wye, but the names of almost all its parishes are Welsh, and many thousands of its population still speak the Welsh language. It is called in Welsh Sir, or Shire, Fynwy, and takes its name from the town Mynwy or Monmouth, which receives its own appellation from the river Mynwy or Minno on which it stands. There is a river of much the same name, not in Macedon, but in the Peninsula, namely the Minho, which probably got its denomination from that race cognate to the Cumry, the Gael, who were the first colonisers of the Peninsula, and whose generic name yet stares us in the face and salutes our ears in the words Galicia and Portugal.
I left Newport at about ten o’clock on the 16th, the roads were very wet, there having been a deluge of rain during the night. The morning was a regular November one, dull and gloomy. Desirous of knowing whereabouts in these parts the Welsh language ceased I interrogated several people whom I met. First spoke to Esther Williams. She told me she came from Pennow some miles farther on, that she could speak Welsh, and that indeed all the people could for at least eight miles to the east of Newport. This latter assertion of hers was, however, anything but corroborated by a young woman, with a pitcher on her head, whom I shortly afterwards met, for she informed me that she could speak no Welsh, and that for one who could speak it, from where I was to the place where it ceased altogether, there were ten who could not. I believe the real fact is that about half the people for seven or eight miles to the east of Newport speak Welsh, more or less, as about half those whom I met and addressed in Welsh answered me in that tongue.
Passed through Penow or Penhow, a small village. The scenery in the neighbourhood of this place is highly interesting. To the north-west at some distance is Mynydd Turvey, a sharp-pointed blue mountain. To the south-east, on the right, much nearer, are two beautiful green hills, the lowest prettily wooded, and having on its top a fair white mansion called Penhow Castle, which belongs to a family of the name of Cave. Thence to Llanvaches, a pretty little village. When I was about the middle of this place I heard an odd sound something like a note of recognition, which attracted my attention to an object very near to me, from which it seemed to proceed, and which was coming from the direction in which I was going. It was the figure seemingly of a female, wrapped in a coarse blue cloak, the feet bare and the legs bare also nearly up to the knee, both terribly splashed with the slush of the road. The head was surmounted by a kind of hood which just permitted me to see coarse red hair, a broad face, grey eyes, a snubbed nose, blubber lips and great white teeth—the eyes were staring intently at me. I stopped and stared too, and at last thought I recognised the features of the uncouth girl I had seen on the green near Chester with the Irish tinker Tourlough and his wife.
“Dear me!” said I, “did I not see you near Chester last summer?”
“To be sure ye did; and ye were going to pass me without a word of notice or kindness had I not given ye a bit of a hail.”
“Well,” said I, “I beg your pardon. How is it all wid ye?”
“Quite well. How is it wid yere hanner?”
“Tolerably. Where do you come from?”
“From Chepstow, yere hanner.”
“And where are you going to?”
“To Newport, yere hanner.”
“And I come from Newport, and am going to Chepstow. Where’s Tourlough and his wife?”
“At Cardiff, yere hanner; I shall join them again to-morrow.”
“Have you been long away from them?”
“About a week, yere hanner.”
“And what have you been doing?”
“Selling my needles, yere hanner.”
“Oh! you sell needles. Well, I am glad to have met you. Let me see. There’s a nice little inn on the right: won’t you come in and have some refreshment?”
“Thank yere hanner; I have no objection to take a glass wid an old friend.”
“Well, then, come in; you must be tired, and I shall be glad to have some conversation with you.”
We went into the inn—a little tidy place. On my calling a respectable-looking old man made his appearance behind a bar. After serving my companion with a glass of peppermint, which she said she preferred to anything else, and me with a glass of ale, both of which I paid for, he retired, and we sat down on two old chairs beneath a window in front of the bar.
“Well,” said I, “I suppose you have Irish: here’s slainte—”
“Slainte yuit a shaoi,” said the girl, tasting her peppermint.
“Well, how do you like it?”
“It’s very nice indeed.”
“That’s more than I can say of the ale, which, like all the ale in these parts, is bitter. Well, what part of Ireland do you come from?”
“From no part at all. I never was in Ireland in my life. I am from Scotland Road, Manchester.”
“Why, I thought you were Irish!”
“And so I am; and all the more from being born where I was. There’s not such a place for Irish in all the world as Scotland Road.”
“Were your father and mother from Ireland?”
“My mother was from Ireland; my father was Irish of Scotland Road, where they met and married.”
“And what did they do after they married?”
“Why, they worked hard, and did their best to get a livelihood for themselves and children, of which they had several besides myself, who was the eldest. My father was a bricklayer, and my mother sold apples and oranges and other fruits, according to the season, and also whiskey, which she made herself, as she well knew how; for my mother was not only a Connacht woman, but an out-and-out Connamara quean, and when only thirteen had wrought with the lads who used to make the raal cratur on the islands between Ochterard and Bally na hinch. As soon as I was able, I helped my mother in making and disposing of the whiskey and in selling the fruit. As for the other children, they all died when young, of favers, of which there is always plenty in Scotland Road. About four years ago—that is, when I was just fifteen—there was a great quarrel among the workmen about wages. Some wanted more than their masters were willing to give; others were willing to take what was offered them. Those who were dissatisfied were called bricks; those who were not were called dungs. My father was a brick; and, being a good man with his fists, was looked upon as a very proper person to fight a principal man amongst the dungs. They fought in the fields near Salford for a pound a side. My father had it all his own way for the first three rounds, but in the fourth, receiving a blow under the ear from the dung, he dropped, and never got up again, dying suddenly. A grand wake my father had, for which my mother furnished usquebaugh galore; and comfortably and decently it passed over till about three o’clock in the morning, when, a dispute happening to arise—not on the matter of wages, for there was not a dung amongst the Irish of Scotland Road—but as to whether the O’Keefs or O’Kellys were kings of Ireland a thousand years ago, a general fight took place, which brought in the police, who, being soon dreadfully baten, as we all turned upon them, went and fetched the military, with whose help they took and locked up several of the party, amongst whom were my mother and myself, till the next morning, when we were taken before the magistrates, who, after a slight scolding, set us at liberty, one of them saying that such disturbances formed part of the Irish funeral service; whereupon we returned to the house, and the rest of the party joining us, we carried my father’s body to the churchyard, where we buried it very dacently, with many tears and groanings.”
“And how did your mother and you get on after your father was buried?”
“As well as we could, yere hanner; we sold fruit and now and then a drop of whiskey which we made; but this state of things did not last long, for one day mother seeing the dung who had killed my father she flung a large flint stone and knocked out his right eye, for doing which she was taken up and tried and sentenced to a year’s imprisonment, chiefly it was thought because she had been heard to say that she would do the dung a mischief the first time she met him. She, however, did not suffer all her sentence, for before she had been in prison three months she caught a disorder which carried her off. I went on selling fruit by myself whilst she was in trouble, and for some time after her death, but very lonely and melancholy. At last my uncle Tourlough, or as the English would call him, Charles, chancing to come to Scotland Road along with his family, I was glad to accept an invitation to join them which he gave me, and with them I have been ever since, travelling about England and Wales and Scotland, helping my aunt with the children and driving much the same trade which she has driven for twenty years past, which is not an unprofitable one.”
“Would you have any objection to tell me all you do?”
“Why I sells needles, as I said before, and sometimes I buys things of servants, and sometimes I tells fortunes.”
“Do you ever do anything in the way of striopachas?”
“O, no! I never do anything in that line; I would be burnt first. I wonder you should dream of such a thing.”
“Why surely it is not worse than buying things of servants, who no doubt steal them from their employers, or telling fortunes, which is dealing with the devil.”
“Not worse? Yes a thousand times worse; there is nothing so very particular in doing them things, but striopachas—O dear!”
“It’s a dreadful thing I admit, but the other things are quite as bad; you should do none of them.”
“I’ll take good care that I never do one, and that is striopachas; them other things I know are not quite right, and I hope soon to have done wid them; any day I can shake them off and look people in the face, but were I once to do striopachas I could never hold up my head.”
“How comes it that you have such a horror of striopachas?”
“I got it from my mother and she got it from hers. All Irish women have a dread of striopachas. It’s the only thing that frights them; I manes the wild Irish, for as for the quality women I have heard they are no bit better than the English. Come, yere hanner, let’s talk of something else.”
“You were saying now that you were thinking of leaving off fortune-telling and buying things of servants. Do you mean to depend upon your needles alone?”
“No; I am thinking of leaving off tramping altogether and going to the Tir na Siar.”
“Isn’t that America?”
“It is, yere hanner; the land of the west is America.”
“A long way for a lone girl.”
“I should not be alone, yere hanner; I should be wid my uncle Tourlough and his wife.”
“Are they going to America?”
“They are, yere hanner; they intends leaving off business and going to America next spring.”
“It will cost money.”
“It will, yere hanner; but they have got money, and so have I.”
“Is it because business is slack that you are thinking of going to America?”
“O no, yere hanner; we wish to go there in order to get rid of old ways and habits, amongst which are fortune-telling and buying things of sarvants, which yere hanner was jist now checking me wid.”
“And can’t you get rid of them here?”
“We cannot, yere hanner. If we stay here we must go on tramping, and it is well known that doing them things is part of tramping.”
“And what would you do in America?”
“O we could do plenty of things in America—most likely we should buy a piece of land and settle down.”
“How came you to see the wickedness of the tramping life?”
“By hearing a great many sermons and preachings, and having often had the Bible read to us by holy women who came to our tent.”
“Of what religion do you call yourselves now?”
“I don’t know, yere hanner; we are clane unsettled about religion. We were once Catholics and carried Saint Colman of Cloyne about wid us in a box; but after hearing a sermon at a church about images, we went home, took the saint out of his box and cast him into a river.”
“O it will never do to belong to the Popish religion, a religion which upholds idol-worship and persecutes the Bible—you should belong to the Church of England.”
“Well, perhaps we should, yere hanner, if its ministers were not such proud violent men. O, you little know how they look down upon all poor people, especially on us tramps. Once my poor aunt, Tourlough’s wife, who has always had stronger convictions than any of us, followed one of them home after he had been preaching, and begged him to give her God, and was told by him that she was a thief, and if she didn’t take herself out of the house he would kick her out.”
“Perhaps, after all,” said I, “you had better join the Methodists—I should say that their ways would suit you better than those of any other denomination of Christians.”
“Yere hanner knows nothing about them, otherwise ye wouldn’t talk in that manner. Their ways would never do for people who want to have done with lying and staling, and have always kept themselves clane from striopachas. Their word is not worth a rotten straw, yere hanner, and in every transaction which they have with people they try to cheat and overreach—ask my uncle Tourlough, who has had many dealings with them. But what is far worse, they do that which the wildest calleen t’other side of Ougteraarde would be burnt rather than do. Who can tell ye more on that point than I, yere hanner? I have been at their chapels at nights and have listened to their screaming prayers, and have seen what’s been going on outside the chapels after their services, as they call them, were over—I never saw the like going on outside Father Toban’s chapel, yere hanner! Yere hanner’s hanner asked me if I ever did anything in the way of striopachas—now I tell ye that I was never asked to do anything in that line but by one of them folks—a great man amongst them he was, both in the way of business and prayer, for he was a commercial traveller during six days of the week and a preacher on the seventh—and such a preacher. Well, one Sunday night after he had preached a sermon an hour and a half long, which had put half-a-dozen women into what they call static fits, he overtook me in a dark street and wanted me to do striopachas with him—he didn’t say striopachas, yer hanner, for he had no Irish—but he said something in English which was the same thing.”
“And what did you do?”
“Why I asked him what he meant by making fun of a poor ugly girl—for no one knows better than myself, yere hanner, that I am very ugly—whereupon he told me that he was not making fun of me, for it had long been the chief wish of his heart to commit striopachas with a wild Irish Papist, and that he believed if he searched the world he should find none wilder than myself.”
“And what did you reply?”
“Why I said to him, yere hanner, that I would tell the congregation, at which he laughed and said that he wished I would, for that the congregation would say they didn’t believe me, though at heart they would, and would like him all the better for it.”
“Well, and what did you say then?”
“Nothing at all, yere hanner; but I spat in his face and went home and told my uncle Tourlough, who forthwith took out a knife and began to sharp it on a whetstone, and I make no doubt would have gone and stuck the fellow like a pig, had not my poor aunt begged him not on her knees. After that we had nothing more to do with the Methodists as far as religion went.”
“Did this affair occur in England or Wales?”
“In the heart of England, yere hanner; we have never been to the Welsh chapels, for we know little of the language.”
“Well, I am glad it didn’t happen in Wales; I have rather a high opinion of the Welsh Methodists. The worthiest creature I ever knew was a Welsh Methodist. And now I must leave you and make the best of my way to Chepstow.”
“Can’t yere hanner give me God before ye go?”
“I can give you half-a-crown to help you on your way to America.”
“I want no half-crowns, yere hanner; but if ye would give me God I’d bless ye.”
“What do you mean by giving you God?”
“Putting Him in my heart by some good counsel which will guide me through life.”
“The only good counsel I can give you is to keep the commandments; one of them it seems you have always kept. Follow the rest and you can’t go very wrong.”
“I wish I knew them better than I do, yere hanner.”
“Can’t you read?”
“O no, yere hanner, I can’t read, neither can Tourlough nor his wife.”
“Well, learn to read as soon as possible. When you have got to America and settled down you will have time enough to learn to read.”
“Shall we be better, yere hanner, after we have learnt to read?”
“Let’s hope you will.”
“One of the things, yere hanner, that have made us stumble is that some of the holy women, who have come to our tent and read the Bible to us, have afterwards asked my aunt and me to tell them their fortunes.”
“If they have the more shame for them, for they can have no excuse. Well, whether you learn to read or not still eschew striopachas, don’t steal, don’t deceive, and worship God in spirit, not in image. That’s the best counsel I can give you.”
“And very good counsel it is, yere hanner, and I will try to follow it, and now, yere hanner, let us go our two ways.”
We placed our glasses upon the bar and went out. In the middle of the road we shook hands and parted, she going towards Newport and I towards Chepstow. After walking a few yards I turned round and looked after her. There she was in the damp lowering afternoon wending her way slowly through mud and puddle, her upper form huddled in the rough frieze mantle, and her coarse legs bare to the top of the calves. “Surely,” said I to myself, “there never was an object less promising in appearance. Who would think that there could be all the good sense and proper feeling in that uncouth girl which there really is?”
CIX. Arrival at Chepstow—Stirring Lyric—Conclusion
I passed through Caer Went, once an important Roman station, and for a long time after the departure of the Romans a celebrated British city, now a poor desolate place consisting of a few old-fashioned houses and a strange-looking dilapidated church. No Welsh is spoken at Caer Went, nor to the east of it, nor indeed for two or three miles before you reach it from the west.
The country between it and Chepstow, from which it is distant about four miles, is delightfully green, but somewhat tame.
Chepstow stands on the lower part of a hill, near to where the beautiful Wye joins the noble Severn. The British name of the place is Aber Wye or the disemboguement of the Wye. The Saxons gave it the name of Chepstow, which in their language signifies a place where a market is held, because even in the time of the Britons it was the site of a great cheap or market. After the Norman Conquest it became the property of De Clare, one of William’s followers, who built near it an enormous castle, which enjoyed considerable celebrity during several centuries from having been the birthplace of Strongbow, the conqueror of Ireland, but which is at present chiefly illustrious from the mention which is made of it in one of the most stirring lyrics of modern times, a piece by Walter Scott, called the “Norman Horseshoe,” commemorative of an expedition made by a De Clare of Chepstow with the view of insulting with the print of his courser’s shoe the green meads of Glamorgan, and which commences thus:—
“Red glows the forge”—
I went to the principal inn, where I engaged a private room and ordered the best dinner which the people could provide. Then leaving my satchel behind me I went to the castle, amongst the ruins of which I groped and wandered for nearly an hour, occasionally repeating verses of the “Norman Horseshoe.” I then went to the Wye and drank of the waters at its mouth, even as sometime before I had drunk of the waters at its source. Then returning to my inn I got my dinner, after which I called for a bottle of port, and placing my feet against the sides of the grate I passed my time drinking wine and singing Welsh songs till ten o’clock at night, when I paid my reckoning, amounting to something considerable. Then shouldering my satchel I proceeded to the railroad station, where I purchased a first-class ticket, and ensconcing myself in a comfortable carriage was soon on the way to London, where I arrived at about four o’clock in the morning, having had during the whole of my journey a most uproarious set of neighbours a few carriages behind me, namely some hundred and fifty of Napier’s tars returning from their expedition to the Baltic.
* * * * *
THE END
* * * * *
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
Footnotes
{0} “The old land of my father is dear unto me.”
{169} One or two of the characters and incidents in this Saga are mentioned in the Romany Rye. London, 1857, vol. i. p. 240; vol. i. p. 150.
A partial translation of the Saga, made by myself, has been many years in existence. It forms part of a mountain of unpublished translations from the Northern languages. In my younger days no London publisher, or indeed magazine editor, would look at anything from the Norse, Danish, etc.
{172a} All these three names are very common in Norfolk, the population of which is of Norse origin. Skarphethin is at present pronounced Sharpin, Helgi Heely. Skarphethin, interpreted, is a keen pirate.
{172b} Eryri likewise signifies an excrescence or scrofulous eruption. It is possible that many will be disposed to maintain that in the case of Snowdon the word is intended to express a rugged excrescence or eruption on the surface of the earth.
{177} It will not be amiss to observe that the original term is gwyddfa; but gwyddfa being a feminine noun or compound commencing with g, which is a mutable consonant, loses the initial letter before y the definite article—you say Gwyddfa a tumulus, but not y gwyddfa the tumulus.
{349} Essay on the Origin of the English Stage, by Bishop Percy. London, 1793.
{371} The above account is chiefly taken from the curious Welsh book called “Drych y prif Oesoedd.”
{397} Spirits.
{398} Eel.
{400} For an account of this worm, which has various denominations, see article Fasciola Hepatica in any encyclopædia.
{402} As the umbrella is rather a hackneyed subject two or three things will of course be found in the above eulogium on an umbrella which have been said by other folks on that subject; the writer, however, flatters himself that in his eulogium on an umbrella two or three things will also be found which have never been said by any one else about an umbrella.
{506} Bitter root.
{524} Amongst others a kind of novel called The Adventures of Twm Shon Catty, a Wild Wag of Wales. It possesses considerable literary merit, the language being pure, and many of the descriptions graphic. By far the greater part of it, however, would serve for the life of any young Welsh peasant, quite as well as for that of Twm Shone Catti. Its grand fault is endeavouring to invest Twm Shone with a character of honesty, and to make his exploits appear rather those of a wild young waggish fellow than of a robber. This was committing a great mistake. When people take up the lives of bad characters the more rogueries and villanies they find, the better are they pleased, and they are very much disappointed and consider themselves defrauded by any attempt to apologise for the actions of the heroes. If the thieves should chance to have reformed, the respectable readers wish to hear nothing of their reformation till just at the close of the book, when they are very happy to have done with them for ever.
{527} Skazka O Klimkie. Moscow, 1829.
{529} Hanes Crefydd Yn Nghymru.
{538} The good gentlewoman was probably thinking of the celebrated king Brian Boromhe slain at the battle of Clontarf.
{570} Fox’s Court—perhaps London.
{579} Drych y Prif Oesoedd, p. 100.
{583} Y Greal, p. 279.
{587} Hanes Crefydd Yn NGhymru.
{591} Fear caoch: vir cæcus.
{599} Curses of this description, or evil prayers as they are called, are very common in the Irish language, and are frequently turned to terrible account by that most singular class or sect the Irish mendicants. Several cases have occurred corresponding in many respects with the one detailed above.