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Title: Wild Wales
       Its People, Language and Scenery


Author: George Borrow



Release Date: December 26, 2008  [eBook #648]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILD WALES***


Transcribed from the 1907 John Murray edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org.  Second proof by Jane Gamie.





                                WILD WALES


                           ITS PEOPLE, LANGUAGE
                               AND SCENERY

                             BY GEORGE BORROW

    "Their Lord they shall praise,
    Their language they shall keep,
    Their land they shall lose,
    Except Wild Wales."

                                        TALIESIN: _Destiny of the Britons_

                                * * * * *

                                  LONDON
                      JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
                                   1907

FIRST EDITION                                               1862
SECOND EDITION                                              1865
THIRD EDITION                                               1888
FOURTH EDITION                                              1896
FIFTH (DEFINITIVE) EDITION           6/-           _March_, 1901
_Reprinted_                      Thin Paper         _July_, 1905
_Reprinted_                          6/-           _Sept._, 1907
_Reprinted_                       2/6 net.         _Sept._, 1907

NOTE


This edition of _Wild Wales_ has been carefully collated with the first
edition, in order to ensure that the spelling of proper names shall be
precisely as Borrow left it, and the running headings on the right-hand
pages as nearly as possible those which Borrow himself wrote.

_January_ 1901.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


_All the Plates in this volumes are from drawings by_ Mr. A. S. HARTRICK
{0}

Above Capel Curig on the road to Bangor                 _Frontispiece_
(_Photogravure_)
Llangollen and Dinas Bran                            _to face page_ 32
The Wilds of Snowdown                                              200
In Anglessey.  Redwharf Bay (Treath Coch), and                     212
the Country of Gronwy Owen
The Wondrous Valley of Gelert                                      312
Cascade on the Moor between Festiniog and Balla                    328
Balla Lake in the Fifties, showing the Aran                        346
Mountain and Cader Idris.  (_Drawn from an old
print_)
Chirk (Castell y Waen)                                             366
Twilight after a Storm.  Dinas Mawddwy                             494
Eastern Street, Machynlleth, showing part of                       512
Owen Glendower's Parliament House
The Devil's Bridge                                                 558
The Remains of Strata Florida Abbey from the                       596
Churchyard
"Pump Saint"                                                       632

Map of Wales showing Borrow's Route                   _to face page_ 1

INTRODUCTORY


Wales is a country interesting in many respects, and deserving of more
attention than it has hitherto met with.  Though not very extensive, it
is one of the most picturesque countries in the world, a country in which
Nature displays herself in her wildest, boldest, and occasionally
loveliest forms.  The inhabitants, who speak an ancient and peculiar
language, do not call this region Wales, nor themselves Welsh.  They call
themselves Cymry or Cumry, and their country Cymru, or the land of the
Cumry.  Wales or Wallia, however, is the true, proper, and without doubt
original name, as it relates not to any particular race, which at present
inhabits it, or may have sojourned in it at any long bygone period, but
to the country itself.  Wales signifies a land of mountains, of vales, of
dingles, chasms, and springs.  It is connected with the Cumbric bal, a
protuberance, a springing forth; with the Celtic beul or beal, a mouth;
with the old English welle, a fountain; with the original name of Italy,
still called by the Germans Welschland; with Balkan and Vulcan, both of
which signify a casting out, an eruption; with Welint or Wayland, the
name of the Anglo-Saxon god of the forge; with the Chaldee val, a forest,
and the German wald; with the English bluff, and the Sanscrit
palava--startling assertions, no doubt, at least to some; which are,
however, quite true, and which at some future time will be universally
acknowledged so to be.

But it is not for its scenery alone that Wales is deserving of being
visited; scenery soon palls unless it is associated with remarkable
events, and the names of remarkable men.  Perhaps there is no country in
the whole world which has been the scene of events more stirring and
remarkable than those recorded in the history of Wales.  What other
country has been the scene of a struggle so deadly, so embittered, and
protracted as that between the Cumro and the Saxon?--A struggle which did
not terminate at Caernarvon, when Edward Longshanks foisted his young son
upon the Welsh chieftains as Prince of Wales; but was kept up till the
battle of Bosworth Field, when a prince of Cumric blood won the crown of
fair Britain, verifying the olden word which had cheered the hearts of
the Ancient Britons for at least a thousand years, even in times of the
darkest distress and gloom:--

          "But after long pain
          Repose we shall obtain,
    When sway barbaric has purg'd us clean;
          And Britons shall regain
          Their crown and their domain,
    And the foreign oppressor be no more seen."

Of remarkable men Wales has assuredly produced its full share.  First, to
speak of men of action:--there was Madoc, the son of Owain Gwynedd, who
discovered America, centuries before Columbus was born; then there was
"the irregular and wild Glendower," who turned rebel at the age of sixty,
was crowned King of Wales at Machynlleth, and for fourteen years
contrived to hold his own against the whole power of England; then there
was Ryce Ap Thomas, the best soldier of his time, whose hands placed the
British crown on the brow of Henry the Seventh, and whom bluff Henry the
Eighth delighted to call Father Preece; then there was--who?--why Harry
Morgan, who led those tremendous fellows the Buccaneers across the
Isthmus of Darien to the sack and burning of Panama.

What, a buccaneer in the list?  Ay! and why not?  Morgan was a scourge,
it is true, but he was a scourge of God on the cruel Spaniards of the New
World, the merciless task-masters and butchers of the Indian race: on
which account God favoured and prospered him, permitting him to attain
the noble age of ninety, and to die peacefully and tranquilly at Jamaica,
whilst smoking his pipe in his shady arbour, with his smiling plantation
of sugar-canes full in view.  How unlike the fate of Harry Morgan to that
of Lolonois, a being as daring and enterprising as the Welshman, but a
monster without ruth or discrimination, terrible to friend and foe, who
perished by the hands, not of the Spaniards, but of the Indians, who tore
him limb from limb, burning his members, yet quivering, in the
fire--which very Indians Morgan contrived to make his own firm friends,
and whose difficult language he spoke with the same facility as English,
Spanish, and his own South Welsh.

For men of genius Wales during a long period was particularly
celebrated.--Who has not heard of the Welsh Bards? though it is true
that, beyond the borders of Wales, only a very few are acquainted with
their songs, owing to the language, by no means an easy one, in which
they were composed.  Honour to them all! everlasting glory to the three
greatest--Taliesin, Ab Gwilym and Gronwy Owen: the first a professed
Christian, but in reality a Druid, whose poems fling great light on the
doctrines of the primitive priesthood of Europe, which correspond
remarkably with the philosophy of the Hindus, before the time of Brahma:
the second the grand poet of Nature, the contemporary of Chaucer, but
worth half a dozen of the accomplished word-master, the ingenious
versifier of Norman and Italian tales: the third a learned and
irreproachable minister of the Church of England, and one of the greatest
poets of the last century, who after several narrow escapes from
starvation both in England and Wales, died master of a paltry school at
New Brunswick, in North America, sometime about the year 1780.

But Wales has something besides its wonderful scenery, its eventful
history, and its illustrious men of yore to interest the visitor.  Wales
has a population, and a remarkable one.  There are countries, besides
Wales, abounding with noble scenery, rich in eventful histories, and
which are not sparingly dotted with the birthplaces of heroes and poets,
in which at the present day there is either no population at all, or one
of a character which is anything but attractive.  Of a country in the
first predicament, the Scottish Highlands afford an example: What a
country is that Highland region!  What scenery! and what associations!
If Wales has its Snowdon and Cader Idris, the Highlands have their Hill
of the Water Dogs, and that of the Swarthy Swine: If Wales has a history,
so have the Highlands--not indeed so remarkable as that of Wales, but
eventful enough: If Wales has had its heroes, its Glendower and Father
Pryce, the Highlands have had their Evan Cameron and Ranald of Moydart;
If Wales has had its romantic characters, its Griffith Ap Nicholas and
Harry Morgan, the Highlands have had Rob Roy and that strange fellow
Donald Macleod, the man of the broadsword, the leader of the Freacadan
Dhu, who at Fontenoy caused, the Lord only knows, how many Frenchmen's
heads to fly off their shoulders, who lived to the age of one hundred and
seven, and at seventy-one performed gallant service on the Heights of
Abraham: wrapped in whose plaid the dying Wolfe was carried from the hill
of victory.--If Wales has been a land of song, have not the Highlands
also?--If Wales can boast of Ab Gwilym and Gronwy, the Highlands can
boast of Ossian and MacIntyre.  In many respects the two regions are
equals or nearly so;--In one respect, however, a matter of the present
day, and a very important matter too, they are anything but equals: Wales
has a population--but where is that of the Highlands?--Plenty of noble
scene; Plenty of delightful associations, historical, poetical, and
romantic--but, but, where is the population?

The population of Wales has not departed across the Atlantic, like that
of the Highlands; it remains at home, and a remarkable population it
is--very different from the present inhabitants of several beautiful
lands of olden fame, who have strangely degenerated from their
forefathers.  Wales has not only a population, but a highly interesting
one--hardy and frugal, yet kind and hospitable--a bit crazed, it is true,
on the subject of religion, but still retaining plenty of old Celtic
peculiarities, and still speaking Diolch i Duw!--the language of
Glendower and the Bards.

The present is a book about Wales and Welsh matters.  He who does me the
honour of perusing it will be conducted to many a spot not only
remarkable for picturesqueness, but for having been the scene of some
extraordinary event, or the birth-place or residence of a hero or a man
of genius; he will likewise be not unfrequently introduced to the genuine
Welsh, and made acquainted with what they have to say about Cumro and
Saxon, buying and selling, fattening hogs and poultry, Methodism and
baptism, and the poor, persecuted Church of England.

An account of the language of Wales will be found in the last chapter.
It has many features and words in common with the Sanscrit, and many
which seem peculiar to itself, or rather to the family of languages,
generally called the Celtic, to which it belongs.  Though not an original
tongue, for indeed no original tongue, or anything approximating to one,
at present exists, it is certainly of immense antiquity, indeed almost
entitled in that respect to dispute the palm with the grand tongue of
India, on which in some respects it flings nearly as much elucidation as
it itself receives in others.  Amongst the words quoted in the chapter
alluded to I wish particularly to direct the reader's attention to gwr, a
man, and gwres, heat; to which may be added gwreichionen, a spark.  Does
not the striking similarity between these words warrant the supposition
that the ancient Cumry entertained the idea that man and fire were one
and the same, even like the ancient Hindus, who believed that man sprang
from fire, and whose word vira, {1} which signifies a strong man, a hero,
signifies also fire?

There are of course faults and inaccuracies in the work; but I have
reason to believe that they are neither numerous nor important: I may
have occasionally given a wrong name to a hill or a brook; or may have
overstated or understated, by a furlong, the distance between one hamlet
and another; or even committed the blunder of saying that Mr Jones Ap
Jenkins lived in this or that homestead, whereas in reality Mr Jenkins Ap
Jones honoured it with his residence: I may be chargeable with such
inaccuracies; in which case I beg to express due sorrow for them, and at
the same time a hope that I have afforded information about matters
relating to Wales which more than atones for them.  It would be as well
if those who exhibit eagerness to expose the faults of a book would
occasionally have the candour to say a word or two about its merits; such
a wish, however, is not likely to be gratified, unless indeed they wisely
take a hint from the following lines, translated from a cywydd of the
last of the great poets of Wales:

    "All can perceive a fault, where there is one--
    A dirty scamp will find one, where there's none." {2}

              [Picture: Map of Wales showing Borrow's route]




CHAPTER I


Proposed Excursion--Knowledge of Welsh--Singular Groom--Harmonious
Distich--Welsh Pronunciation--Dafydd Ab Gwilym.

In the summer of the year 1854 myself, wife, and daughter determined upon
going into Wales, to pass a few months there.  We are country people of a
corner of East Anglia, and, at the time of which I am speaking, had been
residing so long on our own little estate, that we had become tired of
the objects around us, and conceived that we should be all the better for
changing the scene for a short period.  We were undetermined for some
time with respect to where we should go.  I proposed Wales from the
first, but my wife and daughter, who have always had rather a hankering
after what is fashionable, said they thought it would be more advisable
to go to Harrowgate, or Leamington.  On my observing that those were
terrible places for expense, they replied that, though the price of corn
had of late been shamefully low, we had a spare hundred pounds or two in
our pockets, and could afford to pay for a little insight into
fashionable life.  I told them that there was nothing I so much hated as
fashionable life, but that, as I was anything but a selfish person, I
would endeavour to stifle my abhorrence of it for a time, and attend them
either to Leamington or Harrowgate.  By this speech I obtained my wish,
even as I knew I should, for my wife and daughter instantly observed,
that, after all, they thought we had better go into Wales, which, though
not so fashionable as either Leamington or Harrowgate, was a very nice
picturesque country, where, they had no doubt, they should get on very
well, more especially as I was acquainted with the Welsh language.

It was my knowledge of Welsh, such as it was, that made me desirous that
we should go to Wales, where there was a chance that I might turn it to
some little account.  In my boyhood I had been something of a
philologist; had picked up some Latin and Greek at school; some Irish in
Ireland, where I had been with my father, who was in the army; and
subsequently whilst an articled clerk to the first solicitor in East
Anglia--indeed I may say the prince of all English solicitors--for he was
a gentleman, had learnt some Welsh, partly from books and partly from a
Welsh groom, whose acquaintance I made.  A queer groom he was, and well
deserving of having his portrait drawn.  He might be about forty-seven
years of age, and about five feet eight inches in height; his body was
spare and wiry; his chest rather broad, and his arms remarkably long; his
legs were of the kind generally known as spindle-shanks, but vigorous
withal, for they carried his body with great agility; neck he had none,
at least that I ever observed; and his head was anything but high, not
measuring, I should think, more than four inches from the bottom of the
chin to the top of the forehead; his cheek-bones were high, his eyes grey
and deeply sunken in his face, with an expression in them, partly sullen,
and partly irascible; his complexion was indescribable; the little hair
which he had, which was almost entirely on the sides and the back part of
his head, was of an iron-grey hue.  He wore a leather hat on ordinary
days, low at the crown, and with the side eaves turned up.  A dirty
pepper and salt coat, a waistcoat which had once been red, but which had
lost its pristine colour, and looked brown; dirty yellow leather
breeches, grey worsted stockings, and high-lows.  Surely I was right when
I said he was a very different groom to those of the present day, whether
Welsh or English?  What say you, Sir Watkin?  What say you, my Lord of
Exeter?  He looked after the horses, and occasionally assisted in the
house of a person who lived at the end of an alley, in which the office
of the gentleman to whom I was articled was situated, and having to pass
by the door of the office half-a-dozen times in the day, he did not fail
to attract the notice of the clerks, who, sometimes individually,
sometimes by twos, sometimes by threes, or even more, not unfrequently
stood at the door, bareheaded--mis-spending the time which was not
legally their own.  Sundry observations, none of them very flattering,
did the clerks and, amongst them, myself, make upon the groom, as he
passed and repassed, some of them direct, others somewhat oblique.  To
these he made no reply save by looks, which had in them something
dangerous and menacing, and clenching without raising his fists, which
looked singularly hard and horny.  At length a whisper ran about the
alley that the groom was a Welshman; this whisper much increased the
malice of my brother clerks against him, who were now whenever he passed
the door, and they happened to be there by twos or threes, in the habit
of saying something, as if by accident, against Wales and Welshmen, and,
individually or together, were in the habit of shouting out "Taffy," when
he was at some distance from them, and his back was turned, or regaling
his ears with the harmonious and well-known distich of "Taffy was a
Welshman, Taffy was a thief: Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of
beef."  It had, however, a very different effect upon me.  I was trying
to learn Welsh, and the idea occurring to me that the groom might be able
to assist me in my pursuit, I instantly lost all desire to torment him,
and determined to do my best to scrape acquaintance with him, and
persuade him to give me what assistance he could in Welsh.  I succeeded;
how I will not trouble the reader with describing: he and I became great
friends, and he taught me what Welsh he could.  In return for his
instructions I persuaded my brother clerks to leave off holloing after
him, and to do nothing further to hurt his feelings, which had been very
deeply wounded, so much so, that after the first two or three lessons he
told me in confidence that on the morning of the very day I first began
to conciliate him he had come to the resolution of doing one of two
things, namely, either to hang himself from the balk of the hayloft, or
to give his master warning, both of which things he told me he should
have been very unwilling to do, more particularly as he had a wife and
family.  He gave me lessons on Sunday afternoons, at my father's house,
where he made his appearance very respectably dressed, in a beaver hat,
blue surtout, whitish waistcoat, black trowsers and Wellingtons, all with
a somewhat ancient look--the Wellingtons I remember were slightly pieced
at the sides--but all upon the whole very respectable.  I wished at first
to persuade him to give me lessons in the office, but could not succeed:
"No, no, lad;" said he, "catch me going in there: I would just as soon
venture into a nest of porcupines."  To translate from books I had
already, to a certain degree, taught myself, and at his first visit I
discovered, and he himself acknowledged, that at book Welsh I was
stronger than himself, but I learnt Welsh pronunciation from him, and to
discourse a little in the Welsh tongue.  "Had you much difficulty in
acquiring the sound of the ll?" I think I hear the reader inquire.  None
whatever: the double l of the Welsh is by no means the terrible guttural
which English people generally suppose it to be, being in reality a
pretty liquid, exactly resembling in sound the Spanish ll, the sound of
which I had mastered before commencing Welsh, and which is equivalent to
the English lh; so being able to pronounce llano I had of course no
difficulty in pronouncing Lluyd, which by-the-bye was the name of the
groom.

I remember that I found the pronunciation of the Welsh far less difficult
than I had found the grammar, the most remarkable feature of which is the
mutation, under certain circumstances, of particular consonants, when
forming the initials of words.  This feature I had observed in the Irish,
which I had then only learnt by ear.

But to return to the groom.  He was really a remarkable character, and
taught me two or three things besides Welsh pronunciation; and to
discourse a little in Cumraeg.  He had been a soldier in his youth, and
had served under Moore and Wellington in the Peninsular campaigns, and
from him I learnt the details of many a bloody field and bloodier storm,
of the sufferings of poor British soldiers, and the tyranny of haughty
British officers; more especially of the two commanders just mentioned,
the first of whom he swore was shot by his own soldiers, and the second
more frequently shot at by British than French.  But it is not deemed a
matter of good taste to write about such low people as grooms, I shall
therefore dismiss him with no observation further than that after he had
visited me on Sunday afternoons for about a year he departed for his own
country with his wife, who was an Englishwoman, and his children, in
consequence of having been left a small freehold there by a distant
relation, and that I neither saw nor heard of him again.

But though I had lost my oral instructor I had still my silent ones,
namely, the Welsh books, and of these I made such use that before the
expiration of my clerkship I was able to read not only Welsh prose, but,
what was infinitely more difficult, Welsh poetry in any of the
four-and-twenty measures, and was well versed in the compositions of
various of the old Welsh bards, especially those of Dafydd ab Gwilym,
whom, since the time when I first became acquainted with his works, I
have always considered as the greatest poetical genius that has appeared
in Europe since the revival of literature.

After this exordium I think I may proceed to narrate the journey of
myself and family into Wales.  As perhaps, however, it will be thought
that, though I have said quite enough about myself and a certain groom, I
have not said quite enough about my wife and daughter, I will add a
little more about them.  Of my wife I will merely say that she is a
perfect paragon of wives--can make puddings and sweets and treacle
posset, and is the best woman of business in Eastern Anglia--of my
step-daughter--for such she is, though I generally call her daughter, and
with good reason, seeing that she has always shown herself a daughter to
me--that she has all kinds of good qualities, and several
accomplishments, knowing something of conchology, more of botany, drawing
capitally in the Dutch style, and playing remarkably well on the
guitar--not the trumpery German thing so-called--but the real Spanish
guitar.




CHAPTER II


The Starting--Peterborough Cathedral--Anglo-Saxon Names--Kaempe
Viser--Steam--Norman Barons--Chester Ale--Sion Tudor--Pretty Welsh
Tongue.

So our little family, consisting of myself, my wife Mary, and my daughter
Henrietta, for daughter I shall persist in calling her, started for Wales
in the afternoon of the 27th July, 1854.  We flew through part of Norfolk
and Cambridgeshire in a train which we left at Ely, and getting into
another, which did not fly quite so fast as the one we had quieted,
reached the Peterborough station at about six o'clock of a delightful
evening.  We proceeded no farther on our journey that day, in order that
we might have an opportunity of seeing the cathedral.

Sallying arm in arm from the Station Hotel, where we had determined to
take up our quarters for the night, we crossed a bridge over the deep
quiet Nen, on the southern bank of which stands the station, and soon
arrived at the cathedral--unfortunately we were too late to procure
admission into the interior, and had to content ourselves with walking
round it and surveying its outside.

It is named after, and occupies the site, or part of the site of an
immense monastery, founded by the Mercian King Peda, in the year 665, and
destroyed by fire in the year 1116, which monastery, though originally
termed Medeshamsted, or the homestead on the meads, was subsequently
termed Peterborough, from the circumstance of its having been reared by
the old Saxon monarch for the love of God and the honour of Saint Peter,
as the Saxon Chronicle says, a book which I went through carefully in my
younger days, when I studied Saxon, for, as I have already told the
reader, I was in those days a bit of a philologist.  Like the first, the
second edifice was originally a monastery, and continued so till the time
of the Reformation; both were abodes of learning; for if the Saxon
Chronicle was commenced in the monkish cells of the first, it was
completed in those of the second.  What is at present called Peterborough
Cathedral is a noble venerable pile, equal upon the whole in external
appearance to the cathedrals of Toledo, Burgos and Leon, all of which I
have seen.  Nothing in architecture can be conceived more beautiful than
the principal entrance, which fronts the west, and which, at the time we
saw it, was gilded with the rays of the setting sun.

After having strolled about the edifice surveying it until we were weary,
we returned to our inn, and after taking an excellent supper retired to
rest.

At ten o'clock next morning we left the capital of the meads.  With
dragon speed, and dragon noise, fire, smoke, and fury, the train dashed
along its road through beautiful meadows, garnished here and there with
pollard sallows; over pretty streams, whose waters stole along
imperceptibly; by venerable old churches, which I vowed I would take the
first opportunity of visiting: stopping now and then to recruit its
energies at places, whose old Anglo-Saxon names stared me in the eyes
from station boards, as specimens of which, let me only dot down Willy
Thorpe, Ringsted, and Yrthling Boro.  Quite forgetting everything Welsh,
I was enthusiastically Saxon the whole way from Medeshamsted to
Blissworth, so thoroughly Saxon was the country, with its rich meads, its
old churches and its names.  After leaving Blissworth, a thoroughly Saxon
place by-the-bye, as its name shows, signifying the stronghold or
possession of Bligh or Blee, I became less Saxon; the country was rather
less Saxon, and I caught occasionally the word "by" on a board, the
Danish for a town; which "by" waked in me a considerable portion of
Danish enthusiasm, of which I have plenty, and with reason, having
translated the glorious Kaempe Viser over the desk of my ancient master,
the gentleman solicitor of East Anglia.  At length we drew near the great
workshop of England, called by some, Brummagem or Bromwicham, by others
Birmingham, and I fell into a philological reverie, wondering which was
the right name.  Before, however, we came to the station, I decided that
both names were right enough, but that Bromwicham was the original name;
signifying the home on the broomie moor, which name it lost in polite
parlance for Birmingham, or the home of the son of Biarmer, when a
certain man of Danish blood, called Biarming, or the son of Biarmer, got
possession of it, whether by force, fraud, or marriage--the latter,
by-the-bye, is by far the best way of getting possession of an
estate--this deponent neither knoweth nor careth.  At Birmingham station
I became a modern Englishman, enthusiastically proud of modern England's
science and energy; that station alone is enough to make one proud of
being a modern Englishman.  Oh, what an idea does that station, with its
thousand trains dashing off in all directions, or arriving from all
quarters, give of modern English science and energy.  My modern English
pride accompanied me all the way to Tipton; for all along the route there
were wonderful evidences of English skill and enterprise; in chimneys
high as cathedral spires, vomiting forth smoke, furnaces emitting flame
and lava, and in the sound of gigantic hammers, wielded by steam, the
Englishman's slave.  After passing Tipton, at which place one leaves the
great working district behind; I became for a considerable time a
yawning, listless Englishman, without pride, enthusiasm, or feeling of
any kind, from which state I was suddenly roused by the sight of ruined
edifices on the tops of hills.  They were remains of castles built by
Norman Barons.  Here, perhaps, the reader will expect from me a burst of
Norman enthusiasm: if so he will be mistaken; I have no Norman
enthusiasm, and hate and abominate the name of Norman, for I have always
associated that name with the deflowering of helpless Englishwomen, the
plundering of English homesteads, and the tearing out of poor
Englishmen's eyes.  The sight of those edifices, now in ruins, but which
were once the strongholds of plunder, violence, and lust, made me almost
ashamed of being an Englishman, for they brought to my mind the
indignities to which poor English blood has been subjected.  I sat silent
and melancholy, till looking from the window I caught sight of a long
line of hills, which I guessed to be the Welsh hills, as indeed they
proved, which sight causing me to remember that I was bound for Wales,
the land of the bard, made me cast all gloomy thoughts aside and glow
with all the Welsh enthusiasm with which I glowed when I first started in
the direction of Wales.

On arriving at Chester, at which place we intended to spend two or three
days, we put up at an old-fashioned inn in Northgate Street, to which we
had been recommended; my wife and daughter ordered tea and its
accompaniments, and I ordered ale, and that which always should accompany
it, cheese.  "The ale I shall find bad," said I; Chester ale had a
villainous character in the time of old Sion Tudor, who made a first-rate
englyn upon it, and it has scarcely improved since; "but I shall have a
treat in the cheese, Cheshire cheese has always been reckoned excellent,
and now that I am in the capital of the cheese country, of course I shall
have some of the very prime."  Well, the tea, loaf and butter made their
appearance, and with them my cheese and ale.  To my horror the cheese had
much the appearance of soap of the commonest kind, which indeed I found
it much resembled in taste, on putting a small portion into my mouth.
"Ah," said I, after I had opened the window and ejected the
half-masticated morsel into the street, "those who wish to regale on good
Cheshire cheese must not come to Chester, no more than those who wish to
drink first-rate coffee must go to Mocha.  I'll now see whether the ale
is drinkable;" so I took a little of the ale into my mouth, and instantly
going to the window, spirted it out after the cheese.  "Of a surety,"
said I, "Chester ale must be of much the same quality as it was in the
time of Sion Tudor, who spoke of it to the following effect:--

    "Chester ale, Chester ale!  I could ne'er get it down,
       'Tis made of ground-ivy, of dirt, and of bran,
    'Tis as thick as a river below a huge town!
       'Tis not lap for a dog, far less drink for a man.'

Well! if I have been deceived in the cheese, I have at any rate not been
deceived in the ale, which I expected to find execrable.  Patience! I
shall not fall into a passion, more especially as there are things I can
fall back upon.  Wife! I will trouble you for a cup of tea.  Henrietta!
have the kindness to cut me a slice of bread and butter."

Upon the whole we found ourselves very comfortable in the old-fashioned
inn, which was kept by a nice old-fashioned gentlewoman, with the
assistance of three servants, namely, a "boots" and two strapping
chambermaids, one of which was a Welsh girl, with whom I soon scraped
acquaintance, not, I assure the reader, for the sake of the pretty Welsh
eyes which she carried in her head, but for the sake of the pretty Welsh
tongue which she carried in her mouth, from which I confess occasionally
proceeded sounds which, however pretty, I was quite unable to understand.




CHAPTER III


Chester--The Rows--Lewis Glyn Cothi--Tragedy of Mold--Native of
Antigua--Slavery and the Americans--The Tents--Saturday Night.

On the morning after our arrival we went out together, and walked up and
down several streets; my wife and daughter, however, soon leaving me to
go into a shop, I strolled about by myself.  Chester is an ancient town
with walls and gates, a prison called a castle, built on the site of an
ancient keep, an unpretending-looking red sandstone cathedral, two or
three handsome churches, several good streets, and certain curious places
called rows.  The Chester row is a broad arched stone gallery running
parallel with the street within the facades of the houses; it is partly
open on the side of the street, and just one story above it.  Within the
rows, of which there are three or four, are shops, every shop being on
that side which is farthest from the street.  All the best shops in
Chester are to be found in the rows.  These rows, to which you ascend by
stairs up narrow passages, were originally built for the security of the
wares of the principal merchants against the Welsh.  Should the
mountaineers break into the town, as they frequently did, they might
rifle some of the common shops, where their booty would be slight, but
those which contained the more costly articles would be beyond their
reach; for at the first alarm the doors of the passages, up which the
stairs led, would be closed, and all access to the upper streets cut off,
from the open arches of which missiles of all kinds, kept ready for such
occasions, could be discharged upon the intruders, who would be soon glad
to beat a retreat.  These rows and the walls are certainly the most
remarkable memorials of old times which Chester has to boast of.

Upon the walls it is possible to make the whole compass of the city,
there being a good but narrow walk upon them.  The northern wall abuts
upon a frightful ravine, at the bottom of which is a canal.  From the
western one there is a noble view of the Welsh hills.

As I stood gazing upon the hills from the wall a ragged man came up and
asked for charity.

"Can you tell me the name of that tall hill?" said I, pointing in the
direction of the south-west.  "That hill, sir," said the beggar, "is
called Moel Vamagh; I ought to know something about it as I was born at
its foot."  "Moel," said I, "a bald hill; Vamagh, maternal or motherly.
Moel Vamagh, the Mother Moel."  "Just so, sir," said the beggar; "I see
you are a Welshman, like myself, though I suppose you come from the
South--Moel Vamagh is the Mother Moel, and is called so because it is the
highest of all the Moels."  "Did you ever hear of a place called Mold?"
said I.  "Oh, yes, your honour," said the beggar; "many a time; and
many's the time I have been there."  "In which direction does it lie?"
said I.  "Towards Moel Vamagh, your honour," said the beggar, "which is a
few miles beyond it; you can't see it from here, but look towards Moel
Vamagh and you will see over it."  "Thank you," said I, and gave
something to the beggar, who departed, after first taking off his hat.
Long and fixedly did I gaze in the direction of Mold.  The reason which
induced me to do so was the knowledge of an appalling tragedy transacted
there in the old time, in which there is every reason to suppose a
certain Welsh bard, called Lewis Glyn Cothi, had a share.

This man, who was a native of South Wales, flourished during the wars of
the Roses.  Besides being a poetical he was something of a military
genius, and had a command of foot in the army of the Lancastrian Jasper
Earl of Pembroke, the son of Owen Tudor, and half-brother of Henry the
Sixth.  After the battle of Mortimer's Cross, in which the Earl's forces
were defeated, the warrior bard found his way to Chester, where he
married the widow of a citizen and opened a shop, without asking the
permission of the mayor, who with the officers of justice came and seized
all his goods, which, according to his own account, filled nine sacks,
and then drove him out of the town.  The bard in a great fury indited an
awdl, in which he invites Reinallt ap Grufydd ap Bleddyn, a kind of
predatory chieftain, who resided a little way off in Flintshire, to come
and set the town on fire, and slaughter the inhabitants, in revenge for
the wrongs he had suffered, and then proceeds to vent all kinds of
imprecations against the mayor and people of Chester, wishing, amongst
other things, that they might soon hear that the Dee had become too
shallow to bear their ships--that a certain cutaneous disorder might
attack the wrists of great and small, old and young, laity and
clergy--that grass might grow in their streets--that Ilar and Cyveilach,
Welsh saints, might slay them--that dogs might snarl at them--and that
the king of heaven, with the saints Brynach and Non, might afflict them
with blindness--which piece, however ineffectual in inducing God and the
saints to visit the Chester people with the curses with which the furious
bard wished them to be afflicted, seems to have produced somewhat of its
intended effect on the chieftain, who shortly afterwards, on learning
that the mayor and many of the Chester people were present at the fair of
Mold, near which place he resided, set upon them at the head of his
forces, and after a desperate combat, in which many lives were lost, took
the mayor prisoner, and drove those of his people who survived into a
tower, which he set on fire and burnt, with all the unhappy wretches
which it contained, completing the horrors of the day by hanging the
unfortunate mayor.

Conversant as I was with all this strange history, is it wonderful that I
looked with great interest from the wall of Chester in the direction of
Mold?

Once did I make the compass of the city upon the walls, and was beginning
to do the same a second time, when I stumbled against a black, who, with
his arms leaning upon the wall, was spitting over it, in the direction of
the river.  I apologised, and contrived to enter into conversation with
him.  He was tolerably well dressed, had a hairy cap on his head, was
about forty years of age, and brutishly ugly, his features scarcely
resembling those of a human being.  He told me he was a native of
Antigua, a blacksmith by trade, and had been a slave.  I asked him if he
could speak any language besides English, and received for answer that
besides English, he could speak Spanish and French.  Forthwith I spoke to
him in Spanish, but he did not understand me.  I then asked him to speak
to me in Spanish, but he could not.  "Surely you can tell me the word for
water in Spanish," said I; he, however, was not able.  "How is it," said
I, "that, pretending to be acquainted with Spanish, you do not even know
the word for water?"  He said he could not tell, but supposed that he had
forgotten the Spanish language, adding however, that he could speak
French perfectly.  I spoke to him in French--he did not understand me: I
told him to speak to me in French, but he did not.  I then asked him the
word for bread in French, but he could not tell me.  I made no
observations on his ignorance, but inquired how he liked being a slave?
He said not at all; that it was very bad to be a slave, as a slave was
forced to work.  I asked him if he did not work now that he was free?  He
said very seldom; that he did not like work, and that it did not agree
with him.  I asked how he came into England, and he said that wishing to
see England, he had come over with a gentleman as his servant, but that
as soon as he got there, he had left his master, as he did not like work.
I asked him how he contrived to live in England without working?  He said
that any black might live in England without working; that all he had to
do was to attend religious meetings, and speak against slavery and the
Americans.  I asked him if he had done so.  He said he had, and that the
religious people were very kind to him, and gave him money, and that a
religious lady was going to marry him.  I asked him if he knew anything
about the Americans?  He said he did, and that they were very bad people,
who kept slaves and flogged them.  "And quite right too," said I, "if
they are lazy rascals like yourself, who want to eat without working.
What a pretty set of knaves or fools must they be, who encourage a fellow
like you to speak against negro slavery, of the necessity for which you
yourself are a living instance, and against a people of whom you know as
much as of French or Spanish."  Then leaving the black, who made no other
answer to what I said, than by spitting with considerable force in the
direction of the river, I continued making my second compass of the city
upon the wall.

Having walked round the city for the second time, I returned to the inn.
In the evening I went out again, passed over the bridge, and then turned
to the right in the direction of the hills.  Near the river, on my right,
on a kind of green, I observed two or three tents resembling those of
gypsies.  Some ragged children were playing near them, who, however, had
nothing of the appearance of the children of the Egyptian race, their
locks being not dark, but either of a flaxen or red hue, and their
features not delicate and regular, but coarse and uncouth, and their
complexions not olive, but rather inclining to be fair.  I did not go up
to them, but continued my course till I arrived near a large factory.  I
then turned and retraced my steps into the town.  It was Saturday night,
and the streets were crowded with people, many of whom must have been
Welsh, as I heard the Cambrian language spoken on every side.




CHAPTER IV


Sunday Morning--Tares and Wheat--Teetotalism--Hearsay--Irish Family--What
Profession?--Sabbath Evening--Priest or Minister--Give us God.

On the Sunday morning, as we sat at breakfast, we heard the noise of
singing in the street; running to the window, we saw a number of people,
bareheaded, from whose mouths the singing or psalmody proceeded.  These,
on inquiry, we were informed, were Methodists, going about to raise
recruits for a grand camp-meeting, which was to be held a little way out
of the town.  We finished our breakfast, and at eleven attended divine
service at the Cathedral.  The interior of this holy edifice was smooth
and neat, strangely contrasting with its exterior, which was rough and
weather-beaten.  We had decent places found us by a civil verger, who
probably took us for what we were--decent country people.  We heard much
fine chanting by the choir, and an admirable sermon, preached by a
venerable prebend, on "Tares and Wheat."  The congregation was numerous
and attentive.  After service we returned to our inn, and at two o'clock
dined.  During dinner our conversation ran almost entirely on the sermon,
which we all agreed was one of the best sermons we had ever heard, and
most singularly adapted to country people like ourselves, being on "Wheat
and Tares."  When dinner was over my wife and daughter repaired to the
neighbouring church, and I went in quest of the camp-meeting, having a
mighty desire to know what kind of a thing Methodism at Chester was.

I found about two thousand people gathered together in a field near the
railroad station; a waggon stood under some green elms at one end of the
field, in which were ten or a dozen men with the look of Methodist
preachers; one of these was holding forth to the multitude when I
arrived, but he presently sat down, I having, as I suppose, only come in
time to hear the fag-end of his sermon.  Another succeeded him, who,
after speaking for about half an hour, was succeeded by another.  All the
discourses were vulgar and fanatical, and in some instances
unintelligible at least to my ears.  There was plenty of vociferation,
but not one single burst of eloquence.  Some of the assembly appeared to
take considerable interest in what was said, and every now and then
showed they did by devout hums and groans; but the generality evidently
took little or none, staring about listlessly, or talking to one another.
Sometimes, when anything particularly low escaped from the mouth of the
speaker, I heard exclamations of "how low! well, I think I could preach
better than that," and the like.  At length a man of about fifty,
pock-broken and somewhat bald, began to speak: unlike the others who
screamed, shouted, and seemed in earnest, he spoke in a dry, waggish
style, which had all the coarseness and nothing of the cleverness of that
of old Rowland Hill, whom I once heard.  After a great many jokes, some
of them very poor, and others exceedingly thread-bare, on the folly of
those who sell themselves to the Devil for a little temporary enjoyment,
he introduced the subject of drunkenness, or rather drinking fermented
liquors, which he seemed to consider the same thing; and many a sorry
joke on the folly of drinking them did he crack, which some half-dozen
amidst the concourse applauded.  At length he said:--

"After all, brethren, such drinking is no joking matter, for it is the
root of all evil.  Now, brethren, if you would all get to heaven, and
cheat the enemy of your souls, never go into a public-house to drink, and
never fetch any drink from a public-house.  Let nothing pass your lips,
in the shape of drink, stronger than water or tea.  Brethren, if you
would cheat the Devil, take the pledge and become teetotalers.  I am a
teetotaller myself, thank God--though once I was a regular lushington."

Here ensued a burst of laughter in which I joined, though not at the
wretched joke, but at the absurdity of the argument; for, according to
that argument, I thought my old friends the Spaniards and Portuguese must
be the most moral people in the world, being almost all water-drinkers.
As the speaker was proceeding with his nonsense, I heard some one say
behind me--"a pretty fellow that, to speak against drinking and
public-houses: he pretends to be reformed, but he is still as fond of the
lush as ever.  It was only the other day I saw him reeling out of a
gin-shop."

Now that speech I did not like, for I saw at once that it could not be
true, so I turned quickly round and said--"Old chap, I can scarcely
credit that!"

The man, whom I addressed, a rough-and-ready-looking fellow of the lower
class, seemed half disposed to return me a savage answer; but an
Englishman of the lower class, though you call his word in question, is
never savage with you, provided you call him old chap, and he considers
you by your dress to be his superior in station.  Now I, who had called
the word of this man in question, had called him old chap, and was
considerably better dressed than himself; so, after a little hesitation,
he became quite gentle, and something more, for he said in a
half-apologetic tone--"Well, sir, I did not exactly see him myself, but a
particular friend of mine heer'd a man say, that he heer'd another man
say, that he was told that a man heer'd that that fellow--"

"Come, come!" said I, "a man must not be convicted on evidence like that;
no man has more contempt for the doctrine which that man endeavours to
inculcate than myself, for I consider it to have been got up partly for
fanatical, partly for political purposes; but I will never believe that
he was lately seen coming out of a gin-shop; he is too wise, or rather
too cunning, for that."

I stayed listening to these people till evening was at hand.  I then left
them, and without returning to the inn strolled over the bridge to the
green, where the tents stood.  I went up to them: two women sat at the
entrance of one; a man stood by them, and the children, whom I had before
seen, were gambolling near at hand.  One of the women was about forty,
the other some twenty years younger; both were ugly.  The younger was a
rude, stupid-looking creature, with red cheeks and redder hair, but there
was a dash of intelligence and likewise of wildness in the countenance of
the elder female, whose complexion and hair were rather dark.  The man
was about the same age as the elder woman; he had rather a sharp look,
and was dressed in hat, white frock-coat, corduroy breeches, long
stockings and shoes.  I gave them the seal of the evening.

"Good evening to your haner," said the man--"Good evening to you, sir,"
said the woman; whilst the younger mumbled something, probably to the
same effect, but which I did not catch.

"Fine weather," said I.

"Very, sir," said the elder female.  "Won't you please to sit down?" and
reaching back into the tent, she pulled out a stool which she placed near
me.

I sat down on the stool.  "You are not from these parts?" said I,
addressing myself to the man.

"We are not, your haner," said the man; "we are from Ireland."

"And this lady," said I, motioning with my head to the elder female, "is,
I suppose, your wife."

"She is, your haner, and the children which your haner sees are my
children."

"And who is this young lady?" said I, motioning to the uncouth-looking
girl.

"The young lady, as your haner is pleased to call her, is a daughter of a
sister of mine who is now dead, along with her husband.  We have her with
us, your haner, because if we did not she would be alone in the world."

"And what trade or profession do you follow?" said I.

"We do a bit in the tinkering line, your haner."

"Do you find tinkering a very profitable profession?" said I.

"Not very, your haner; but we contrive to get a crust and a drink by it."

"That's more than I ever could," said I.

"Has your haner then ever followed tinkering?" said the man.

"Yes," said I, "but I soon left off."

"And became a minister," said the elder female, "Well, your honour is not
the first indifferent tinker that's turned out a shining minister."

"Why do you think me a minister?"

"Because your honour has the very look and voice of one.  Oh, it was kind
in your honour to come to us here in the Sabbath evening, in order that
you might bring us God."

"What do you mean by bringing you God?" said I.

"Talking to us about good things, sir, and instructing us out of the Holy
Book."

"I am no minister," said I.

"Then you are a priest; I am sure you are either a minister or a priest;
and now that I look on you, sir, I think you look more like a priest than
a minister.  Yes, I see you are a priest.  Oh, your Reverence, give us
God!  Pull out the crucifix from your bosom, and let us kiss the face of
God!"

"Of what religion are you?" said I.

"Catholics, your Reverence, Catholics are we all."

"I am no priest."

"Then you are a minister; I am sure you are either a priest or a
minister.  Oh sir, pull out the Holy Book, and instruct us from it this
blessed Sabbath evening.  Give us God, sir, give us God!"

"And would you, who are Catholics, listen to the voice of a minister?"

"That would we, sir; at least I would.  If you are a minister, and a good
minister, I would as soon listen to your words as those of Father Toban
himself."

"And who is Father Toban?"

"A powerful priest in these parts, sir, who has more than once eased me
of my sins, and given me God upon the cross.  Oh, a powerful and
comfortable priest is Father Toban."

"And what would he say if he were to know that you asked for God from a
minister?"

"I do not know, and do not much care; if I get God, I do not care whether
I get Him from a minister or a priest; both have Him, no doubt, only give
Him in different ways.  Oh sir, do give us God; we need Him sir, for we
are sinful people; we call ourselves tinkers, but many is the sinful
thing--"

"Bi-do-hosd;" said the man: Irish words tantamount to "Be silent!"

"I will not be hushed," said the woman, speaking English.  "The man is a
good man, and he will do us no harm.  We are tinkers, sir; but we do many
things besides tinkering, many sinful things, especially in Wales,
whither we are soon going again.  Oh, I want to be eased of some of my
sins before I go into Wales again, and so do you, Tourlough, for you know
how you are sometimes haunted by devils at night in those dreary Welsh
hills.  Oh sir, give us comfort in some shape or other, either as priest
or minister; give us God!  Give us God!"

"I am neither priest nor minister," said, I, "and can only say: Lord have
mercy upon you!"  Then getting up I flung the children some money and
departed.

"We do not want your money, sir," screamed the woman after me; "we have
plenty of money.  Give us God!  Give us God!"

"Yes, your haner," said the man, "give us God! we do not want money;" and
the uncouth girl said something, which sounded much like Give us God! but
I hastened across the meadow, which was now quite dusky, and was
presently in the inn with my wife and daughter.




CHAPTER V


Welsh Book Stall--Wit and Poetry--Welsh of Chester--Beautiful
Morning--Noble Fellow--The Coiling Serpent--Wrexham Church--Welsh or
English?--Codiad yr Ehedydd.

On the afternoon of Monday I sent my family off by the train to
Llangollen, which place we had determined to make our head-quarters
during our stay in Wales.  I intended to follow them next day, not in
train, but on foot, as by walking I should be better able to see the
country, between Chester and Llangollen, than by making the journey by
the flying vehicle.  As I returned to the inn from the train I took
refuge from a shower in one of the rows or covered streets, to which, as
I have already said, one ascends by flights of steps; stopping at a
book-stall I took up a book which chanced to be a Welsh one.  The
proprietor, a short red-faced man, observing me reading the book, asked
me if I could understand it.  I told him that I could.

"If so," said he, "let me hear you translate the two lines on the
title-page."

"Are you a Welshman?" said I.

"I am!" he replied.

"Good!" said I, and I translated into English the two lines which were a
couplet by Edmund Price, an old archdeacon of Merion, celebrated in his
day for wit and poetry.

The man then asked me from what part of Wales I came, and when I told him
that I was an Englishman was evidently offended, either because he did
not believe me, or, as I more incline to think, did not approve of an
Englishman's understanding Welsh.

The book was the life of the Rev. Richards, and was published at
Caerlleon, or the city of the legion, the appropriate ancient British
name for the place now called Chester, a legion having been kept
stationed there during the occupation of Britain by the Romans.

I returned to the inn and dined, and then yearning for society, descended
into the kitchen and had some conversation with the Welsh maid.  She told
me that there were a great many Welsh in Chester from all parts of Wales,
but chiefly from Denbighshire and Flintshire, which latter was her own
country.  That a great many children were born in Chester of Welsh
parents, and brought up in the fear of God and love of the Welsh tongue.
That there were some who had never been in Wales, who spoke as good Welsh
as herself, or better.  That the Welsh of Chester were of various
religious persuasions; that some were Baptists, some Independents, but
that the greater part were Calvinistic-Methodists; that she herself was a
Calvinistic-Methodist; that the different persuasions had their different
chapels, in which God was prayed to in Welsh; that there were very few
Welsh in Chester who belonged to the Church of England, and that the
Welsh in general do not like Church of England worship, as I should soon
find if I went into Wales.

Late in the evening I directed my steps across the bridge to the green,
where I had discoursed with the Irish itinerants.  I wished to have some
more conversation with them respecting their way of life, and, likewise,
as they had so strongly desired it, to give them a little Christian
comfort, for my conscience reproached me for my abrupt departure on the
preceding evening.  On arriving at the green, however, I found them gone,
and no traces of them but the mark of their fire and a little dirty
straw.  I returned, disappointed and vexed, to my inn.

Early the next morning I departed from Chester for Llangollen, distant
about twenty miles; I passed over the noble bridge and proceeded along a
broad and excellent road, leading in a direction almost due south through
pleasant meadows.  I felt very happy--and no wonder; the morning was
beautiful, the birds sang merrily, and a sweet smell proceeded from the
new-cut hay in the fields, and I was bound for Wales.  I passed over the
river Allan and through two villages called, as I was told, Pulford and
Marford, and ascended a hill; from the top of this hill the view is very
fine.  To the east are the high lands of Cheshire, to the west the bold
hills of Wales, and below, on all sides a fair variety of wood and water,
green meads and arable fields.

"You may well look around, Measter," said a waggoner, who, coming from
the direction in which I was bound, stopped to breathe his team on the
top of the hill; "you may well look around--there isn't such a place to
see the country from, far and near, as where we stand.  Many come to this
place to look about them."

I looked at the man, and thought I had never seen a more powerful-looking
fellow; he was about six feet two inches high, immensely broad in the
shoulders, and could hardly have weighed less than sixteen stone.  I gave
him the seal of the morning, and asked whether he was Welsh or English.

"English, Measter, English; born t'other side of Beeston, pure Cheshire,
Measter."

"I suppose," said I, "there are few Welshmen such big fellows as
yourself."

"No, Measter," said the fellow, with a grin, "there are few Welshmen so
big as I, or yourself either; they are small men mostly, Measter, them
Welshers, very small men--and yet the fellows can use their hands.  I am
a bit of a fighter, Measter, at least I was before my wife made me join
the Methodist connection, and I once fit with a Welshman at Wrexham, he
came from the hills, and was a real Welshman, and shorter than myself by
a whole head and shoulder, but he stood up against me, and gave me more
than play for my money, till I gripped him, flung him down and myself
upon him, and then of course t'was all over with him."

"You are a noble fellow," said I, "and a credit to Cheshire.  Will you
have sixpence to drink?"

"Thank you, Measter, I shall stop at Pulford, and shall be glad to drink
your health in a jug of ale."

I gave him sixpence, and descended the hill on one side, while he, with
his team, descended it on the other.

"A genuine Saxon," said I; "I daresay just like many of those who, under
Hengist, subdued the plains of Lloegr and Britain.  Taliesin called the
Saxon race the Coiling Serpent.  He had better have called it the Big
Bull.  He was a noble poet, however: what wonderful lines, upon the
whole, are those in his prophecy, in which he speaks of the Saxons and
Britons, and of the result of their struggle--

       "A serpent which coils,
       And with fury boils,
    From Germany coming with arm'd wings spread,
       Shall subdue and shall enthrall
       The broad Britain all,
    From the Lochlin ocean to Severn's bed.

       "And British men
       Shall be captives then
    To strangers from Saxonia's strand;
       They shall praise their God, and hold
       Their language as of old,
    But except wild Wales they shall lose their land."

I arrived at Wrexham, and having taken a very hearty breakfast at the
principal inn, for I felt rather hungry after a morning's walk of ten
miles, I walked about the town.  The town is reckoned a Welsh town, but
its appearance is not Welsh--its inhabitants have neither the look nor
language of Welshmen, and its name shows that it was founded by some
Saxon adventurer, Wrexham being a Saxon compound, signifying the home or
habitation of Rex or Rag, and identical, or nearly so, with the Wroxham
of East Anglia.  It is a stirring bustling place, of much traffic, and of
several thousand inhabitants.  Its most remarkable object is its church,
which stands at the south-western side.  To this church, after wandering
for some time about the streets, I repaired.  The tower is quadrangular,
and is at least one hundred feet high; it has on its summit four little
turrets, one at each corner, between each of which are three spirelets,
the middlemost of the three the highest.  The nave of the church is to
the east; it is of two stories, both crenulated at the top.  I wished to
see the interior of the church, but found the gate locked.  Observing a
group of idlers close at hand with their backs against a wall, I went up
to them, and, addressing myself to one, inquired whether I could see the
church.  "Oh yes, sir," said the man; "the clerk who has the key lives
close at hand; one of us shall go and fetch him--by-the-bye, I may as
well go myself."  He moved slowly away.  He was a large bulky man of
about the middle age, and his companions were about the same age and size
as himself.  I asked them if they were Welsh.  "Yes, sir," said one, "I
suppose we are, for they call us Welsh."  I asked if any of them could
speak Welsh.  "No, sir," said the man, "all the Welsh that any of us
know, or indeed wish to know, is 'Cwrw da.'"  Here there was a general
laugh.  Cwrw da signifies good ale.  I at first thought that the words
might be intended as a hint for a treat, but was soon convinced of the
contrary.  There was no greedy expectation in his eyes, nor, indeed, in
those of his companions, though they all looked as if they were fond of
good ale.  I inquired whether much Welsh was spoken in the town, and was
told very little.  When the man returned with the clerk I thanked him.
He told me I was welcome, and then went and leaned with his back against
the wall.  He and his mates were probably a set of boon companions
enjoying the air after a night's bout at drinking.  I was subsequently
told that all the people of Wrexham are fond of good ale.  The clerk
unlocked the church door, and conducted me in.  The interior was modern,
but in no respects remarkable.  The clerk informed me that there was a
Welsh service every Sunday afternoon in the church, but that few people
attended, and those few were almost entirely from the country.  He said
that neither he nor the clergyman were natives of Wrexham.  He showed me
the Welsh Church Bible, and at my request read a few verses from the
sacred volume.  He seemed a highly intelligent man.  I gave him
something, which appeared to be more than he expected, and departed,
after inquiring of him the road to Llangollen.

I crossed a bridge, for there is a bridge and a stream too at Wrexham.
The road at first bore due west, but speedily took a southerly direction.
I moved rapidly over an undulating country; a region of hills, or rather
of mountains lay on my right hand.  At the entrance of a small village a
poor, sickly-looking woman asked me for charity.

"Are you Welsh or English?" said I.

"Welsh," she replied; "but I speak both languages, as do all the people
here."

I gave her a halfpenny; she wished me luck, and I proceeded.  I passed
some huge black buildings which a man told me were collieries, and
several carts laden with coal, and soon came to Rhiwabon--a large village
about half way between Wrexham and Llangollen.  I observed in this place
nothing remarkable, but an ancient church.  My way from hence lay nearly
west.  I ascended a hill, from the top of which I looked down into a
smoky valley.  I descended, passing by a great many collieries, in which
I observed grimy men working amidst smoke and flame.  At the bottom of
the hill near a bridge I turned round.  A ridge to the east particularly
struck my attention; it was covered with dusky edifices, from which
proceeded thundering sounds, and puffs of smoke.  A woman passed me going
towards Rhiwabon; I pointed to the ridge and asked its name; I spoke
English.  The woman shook her head and replied "Dim Saesneg."

"This is as it should be," said I to myself; "I now feel I am in Wales."
I repeated the question in Welsh.

"Cefn Bach," she replied--which signifies the little ridge.

"Diolch iti," I replied, and proceeded on my way.

I was now in a wild valley--enormous hills were on my right.  The road
was good, and above it, in the side of a steep bank, was a causeway
intended for foot passengers.  It was overhung with hazel bushes.  I
walked along it to its termination which was at Llangollen.  I found my
wife and daughter at the principal inn.  They had already taken a house.
We dined together at the inn; during the dinner we had music, for a Welsh
harper stationed in the passage played upon his instrument "Codiad yr
ehedydd."  "Of a surety," said I, "I am in Wales!"




CHAPTER VI


Llangollen--Wyn Ab Nudd--The Dee--Dinas Bran.

The northern side of the vale of Llangollen is formed by certain enormous
rocks called the Eglwysig rocks, which extend from east to west, a
distance of about two miles.  The southern side is formed by the Berwyn
hills.  The valley is intersected by the River Dee, the origin of which
is a deep lake near Bala, about twenty miles to the west.  Between the
Dee and the Eglwysig rises a lofty hill, on the top of which are the
ruins of Dinas Bran, which bear no slight resemblance to a crown.  The
upper part of the hill is bare with the exception of what is covered by
the ruins; on the lower part there are inclosures and trees, with, here
and there, a grove or farm-house.  On the other side of the valley, to
the east of Llangollen, is a hill called Pen y Coed, beautifully covered
with trees of various kinds; it stands between the river and the Berwyn,
even as the hill of Dinas Bran stands between the river and the Eglwysig
rocks--it does not, however, confront Dinas Bran, which stands more to
the west.

Llangollen is a small town or large village of white houses with slate
roofs, it contains about two thousand inhabitants, and is situated
principally on the southern side of the Dee.  At its western end it has
an ancient bridge and a modest unpretending church nearly in its centre,
in the chancel of which rest the mortal remains of an old bard called
Gryffydd Hiraethog.  From some of the houses on the southern side there
is a noble view--Dinas Bran and its mighty hill forming the principal
objects.  The view from the northern part of the town, which is indeed
little more than a suburb, is not quite so grand, but is nevertheless
highly interesting.  The eastern entrance of the vale of Llangollen is
much wider than the western, which is overhung by bulky hills.  There are
many pleasant villas on both sides of the river, some of which stand a
considerable way up the hill; of the villas the most noted is Plas Newydd
at the foot of the Berwyn, built by two Irish ladies of high rank, who
resided in it for nearly half a century, and were celebrated throughout
Europe by the name of the Ladies of Llangollen.

The view of the hill of Dinas Bran, from the southern side of Llangollen,
would be much more complete were it not for a bulky excrescence, towards
its base, which prevents the gazer from obtaining a complete view.  The
name of Llangollen signifies the church of Collen, and the vale and
village take their name from the church, which was originally dedicated
to Saint Collen, though some, especially the neighbouring peasantry,
suppose that Llangollen is a compound of Llan, a church, and Collen, a
hazel-wood, and that the church was called the church of the hazel-wood
from the number of hazels in the neighbourhood.  Collen, according to a
legendary life, which exists of him in Welsh, was a Briton by birth, and
of illustrious ancestry.  He served for some time abroad as a soldier
against Julian the Apostate, and slew a Pagan champion who challenged the
best man amongst the Christians.  Returning to his own country he devoted
himself to religion, and became Abbot of Glastonbury, but subsequently
retired to a cave on the side of a mountain, where he lived a life of
great austerity.  Once as he was lying in his cell he heard two men out
abroad discoursing about Wyn Ab Nudd, and saying that he was king of the
Tylwyth or Teg Fairies, and lord of Unknown, whereupon Collen thrusting
his head out of his cave told them to hold their tongues, for that Wyn Ab
Nudd and his host were merely devils.  At dead of night he heard a
knocking at the door, and on his asking who was there, a voice said: "I
am a messenger from Wyn Ab Nudd, king of Unknown, and I am come to summon
thee to appear before my master to-morrow, at mid-day, on the top of the
hill."

Collen did not go--the next night there was the same knocking and the
same message.  Still Collen did not go.  The third night the messenger
came again and repeated his summons, adding that if he did not go it
would be the worse for him.  The next day Collen made some holy water,
put it into a pitcher and repaired to the top of the hill, where he saw a
wonderfully fine castle, attendants in magnificent liveries, youths and
damsels dancing with nimble feet, and a man of honourable presence before
the gate, who told him that the king was expecting him to dinner.  Collen
followed the man into the castle, and beheld the king on a throne of
gold, and a table magnificently spread before him.  The king welcomed
Collen, and begged him to taste of the dainties on the table, adding that
he hoped that in future he would reside with him.  "I will not eat of the
leaves of the forest," said Collen.

"Did you ever see men better dressed?" said the king, "than my attendants
here in red and blue?"

"Their dress is good enough," said Collen, "considering what kind of
dress it is."

"What kind of dress is it?" said the king.

Collen replied: "The red on the one side denotes burning, and the blue on
the other side denotes freezing."  Then drawing forth his sprinkler, he
flung the holy water in the faces of the king and his people, whereupon
the whole vision disappeared, so that there was neither castle nor
attendants, nor youth nor damsel, nor musician with his music, nor
banquet, nor anything to be seen save the green bushes.

The valley of the Dee, of which the Llangollen district forms part, is
called in the British tongue Glyndyfrdwy--that is, the valley of the Dwy
or Dee.  The celebrated Welsh chieftain, generally known as Owen
Glendower, was surnamed after this valley, the whole of which belonged to
him, and in which he had two or three places of strength, though his
general abode was a castle in Sycharth, a valley to the south-east of the
Berwyn, and distant about twelve miles from Llangollen.

Connected with the Dee there is a wonderful Druidical legend to the
following effect.  The Dee springs from two fountains, high up in
Merionethshire, called Dwy Fawr and Dwy Fach, or the great and little
Dwy, whose waters pass through those of the lake of Bala without mingling
with them, and come out at its northern extremity.  These fountains had
their names from two individuals, Dwy Fawr and Dwy Fach, who escaped from
the Deluge, when all the rest of the human race were drowned, and the
passing of the waters of the two fountains through the lake, without
being confounded with its flood, is emblematic of the salvation of the
two individuals from the Deluge, of which the lake is a type.

Dinas Bran, which crowns the top of the mighty hill on the northern side
of the valley, is a ruined stronghold of unknown antiquity.  The name is
generally supposed to signify Crow Castle, bran being the British word
for crow, and flocks of crows being frequently seen hovering over it.  It
may, however, mean the castle of Bran or Brennus, or the castle above the
Bran, a brook which flows at its foot.

Dinas Bran was a place quite impregnable in the old time, and served as a
retreat to Gruffydd, son of Madawg from the rage of his countrymen, who
were incensed against him because, having married Emma, the daughter of
James Lord Audley, he had, at the instigation of his wife and
father-in-law, sided with Edward the First against his own native
sovereign.  But though it could shield him from his foes, it could not
preserve him from remorse and the stings of conscience, of which he
speedily died.

At present the place consists only of a few ruined walls, and probably
consisted of little more two or three hundred years ago: Roger Cyffyn a
Welsh bard, who flourished at the beginning of the seventeenth century,
wrote an englyn upon it, of which the following is a translation:--

    "Gone, gone are thy gates, Dinas Bran on the height!
       Thy warders are blood-crows and ravens, I trow;
    Now no one will wend from the field of the fight
       To the fortress on high, save the raven and crow."




CHAPTER VII


Poor Black Cat--Dissenters--Persecution--What Impudence!

The house or cottage, for it was called a cottage though it consisted of
two stories, in which my wife had procured lodgings for us, was situated
in the Northern suburb.  Its front was towards a large perllan or
orchard, which sloped down gently to the banks of the Dee; its back was
towards the road leading from Wrexham, behind which was a high bank, on
the top of which was a canal called in Welsh the Camlas, whose
commencement was up the valley about two miles west.  A little way up the
road, towards Wrexham, was the vicarage and a little way down was a
flannel factory, beyond which was a small inn, with pleasure grounds,
kept by an individual who had once been a gentleman's servant.  The
mistress of the house was a highly respectable widow, who, with a servant
maid was to wait upon us.  It was as agreeable a place in all respects as
people like ourselves could desire.

As I and my family sat at tea in our parlour, an hour or two after we had
taken possession of our lodgings, the door of the room and that of the
entrance to the house being open, on account of the fineness of the
weather, a poor black cat entered hastily, sat down on the carpet by the
table, looked up towards us, and mewed piteously.  I never had seen so
wretched a looking creature.  It was dreadfully attenuated, being little
more than skin and bone, and was sorely afflicted with an eruptive
malady.  And here I may as well relate the history of this cat previous
to our arrival which I subsequently learned by bits and snatches.  It had
belonged to a previous vicar of Llangollen, and had been left behind at
his departure.  His successor brought with him dogs and cats, who,
conceiving that the late vicar's cat had no business at the vicarage,
drove it forth to seek another home, which, however, it could not find.
Almost all the people of the suburb were dissenters, as indeed were the
generality of the people of Llangollen, and knowing the cat to be a
church cat, not only would not harbour it, but did all they could to make
it miserable; whilst the few who were not dissenters, would not receive
it into their houses, either because they had cats of their own, or dogs,
or did not want a cat, so that the cat had no home and was dreadfully
persecuted by nine-tenths of the suburb.  Oh, there never was a cat so
persecuted as that poor Church of England animal, and solely on account
of the opinions which it was supposed to have imbibed in the house of its
late master, for I never could learn that the dissenters of the suburb,
nor indeed of Llangollen in general, were in the habit of persecuting
other cats; the cat was a Church of England cat, and that was enough:
stone it, hang it, drown it! were the cries of almost everybody.  If the
workmen of the flannel factory, all of whom were Calvinistic-Methodists,
chanced to get a glimpse of it in the road from the windows of the
building, they would sally forth in a body, and with sticks, stones, or
for want of other weapons, with clots of horse dung, of which there was
always plenty on the road, would chase it up the high bank or perhaps
over the Camlas; the inhabitants of a small street between our house and
the factory leading from the road to the river, all of whom were
dissenters, if they saw it moving about the perllan, into which their
back windows looked, would shriek and hoot at it, and fling anything of
no value, which came easily to hand, at the head or body of the
ecclesiastical cat.  The good woman of the house, who though a very
excellent person, was a bitter dissenter, whenever she saw it upon her
ground or heard it was there, would make after it, frequently attended by
her maid Margaret, and her young son, a boy about nine years of age, both
of whom hated the cat, and were always ready to attack it, either alone
or in company, and no wonder, the maid being not only a dissenter, but a
class teacher, and the boy not only a dissenter, but intended for the
dissenting ministry.  Where it got its food, and food it sometimes must
have got, for even a cat, an animal known to have nine lives, cannot live
without food, was only known to itself, as was the place where it lay,
for even a cat must lie down sometimes; though a labouring man who
occasionally dug in the garden told me he believed that in the springtime
it ate freshets, and the woman of the house once said that she believed
it sometimes slept in the hedge, which hedge, by-the-bye, divided our
perllan from the vicarage grounds, which were very extensive.  Well might
the cat after having led this kind of life for better than two years look
mere skin and bone when it made its appearance in our apartment, and have
an eruptive malady, and also a bronchitic cough, for I remember it had
both.  How it came to make its appearance there is a mystery, for it had
never entered the house before, even when there were lodgers; that it
should not visit the woman, who was its declared enemy, was natural
enough, but why if it did not visit her other lodgers, did it visit us?
Did instinct keep it aloof from them?  Did instinct draw it towards us?
We gave it some bread-and-butter, and a little tea with milk and sugar.
It ate and drank and soon began to purr.  The good woman of the house was
horrified when on coming in to remove the things she saw the church cat
on her carpet.  "What impudence!" she exclaimed, and made towards it, but
on our telling her that we did not expect that it should be disturbed,
she let it alone.  A very remarkable circumstance was, that though the
cat had hitherto been in the habit of flying, not only from her face, but
the very echo of her voice, it now looked her in the face with perfect
composure, as much as to say, "I don't fear you, for I know that I am now
safe and with my own people."  It stayed with us two hours and then went
away.  The next morning it returned.  To be short, though it went away
every night, it became our own cat, and one of our family.  I gave it
something which cured it of its eruption, and through good treatment it
soon lost its other ailments and began to look sleek and bonny.




CHAPTER VIII


The Mowers--Deep Welsh--Extensive View--Old Celtic Hatred--Fish
Preserving--Smollet's Morgan.

Next morning I set out to ascend Dinas Bran, a number of children, almost
entirely girls, followed me.  I asked them why they came after me.  "In
the hope that you will give us something," said one in very good English.
I told them that I should give them nothing, but they still followed me.
A little way up the hill I saw some men cutting hay.  I made an
observation to one of them respecting the fineness of the weather; he
answered civilly, and rested on his scythe, whilst the others pursued
their work.  I asked him whether he was a farming man; he told me that he
was not; that he generally worked at the flannel manufactory, but that
for some days past he had not been employed there, work being slack, and
had on that account joined the mowers in order to earn a few shillings.
I asked him how it was he knew how to handle a scythe, not being bred up
a farming man; he smiled, and said that, somehow or other, he had learnt
to do so.

"You speak very good English," said I, "have you much Welsh?"

"Plenty," said he; "I am a real Welshman."

"Can you read Welsh?" said I.

"Oh, yes!" he replied.

"What books have you read?" said I.

"I have read the Bible, sir, and one or two other books."

"Did you ever read the Bardd Cwsg?" said I.

He looked at me with some surprise.  "No," said he, after a moment or
two, "I have never read it.  I have seen it, but it was far too deep
Welsh for me."

"I have read it," said I.

"Are you a Welshman?" said he.

"No," said I; "I am an Englishman."

"And how is it," said he, "that you can read Welsh without being a
Welshman?"

"I learned to do so," said I, "even as you learned to mow, without being
bred up to farming work."

"Ah!" said he, "but it is easier to learn to mow than to read the Bardd
Cwsg."

"I don't think that," said I; "I have taken up a scythe a hundred times
but I cannot mow."

"Will your honour take mine now, and try again?" said he.

"No," said I, "for if I take your scythe in hand I must give you a
shilling, you know, by mowers' law."

He gave a broad grin, and I proceeded up the hill.  When he rejoined his
companions he said something to them in Welsh, at which they all laughed.
I reached the top of the hill, the children still attending me.

The view over the vale is very beautiful; but on no side, except in the
direction of the west, is it very extensive; Dinas Bran being on all
other sides overtopped by other hills: in that direction, indeed, the
view is extensive enough, reaching on a fine day even to the Wyddfa or
peak of Snowdon, a distance of sixty miles, at least as some say, who
perhaps ought to add to very good eyes, which mine are not.  The day that
I made my first ascent of Dinas Bran was very clear, but I do not think I
saw the Wyddfa then from the top of Dinas Bran.  It is true I might see
it without knowing it, being utterly unacquainted with it, except by
name; but I repeat I do not think I saw it, and I am quite sure that I
did not see it from the top of Dinas Bran on a subsequent ascent, on a
day equally clear, when if I had seen the Wyddfa I must have recognised
it, having been at its top.  As I stood gazing around, the children
danced about upon the grass, and sang a song.  The song was English.  I
descended the hill; they followed me to its foot, and then left me.  The
children of the lower class of Llangollen are great pests to visitors.
The best way to get rid of them is to give them nothing: I followed that
plan, and was not long troubled with them.

Arrived at the foot of the hill, I walked along the bank of the canal to
the west.  Presently I came to a barge lying by the bank; the boatman was
in it.  I entered into conversation with him.  He told me that the canal
and its branches extended over a great part of England.  That the boats
carried slates--that he had frequently gone as far as Paddington by the
canal--that he was generally three weeks on the journey--that the boatmen
and their families lived in the little cabins aft--that the boatmen were
all Welsh--that they could read English, but little or no Welsh--that
English was a much more easy language to read than Welsh--that they
passed by many towns, among others Northampton, and that he liked no
place so much as Llangollen.  I proceeded till I came to a place where
some people were putting huge slates into a canal boat.  It was near a
bridge which crossed the Dee, which was on the left.  I stopped and
entered into conversation with one, who appeared to be the principal man.
He told me amongst other things that he was a blacksmith from the
neighbourhood of Rhiwabon, and that the flags were intended for the
flooring of his premises.  In the boat was an old bareheaded, bare-armed
fellow, who presently joined in the conversation in very broken English.
He told me that his name was Joseph Hughes, and that he was a real
Welshman and was proud of being so; he expressed a great dislike for the
English, who he said were in the habit of making fun of him and
ridiculing his language; he said that all the fools that he had known
were Englishmen.  I told him that all Englishmen were not fools; "but the
greater part are," said he.  "Look how they work," said I.  "Yes," said
he, "some of them are good at breaking stones for the road, but not more
than one in a hundred."  "There seems to be something of the old Celtic
hatred to the Saxon in this old fellow," said I to myself, as I walked
away.

I proceeded till I came to the head of the canal, where the navigation
first commences.  It is close to a weir over which the Dee falls.  Here
there is a little floodgate, through which water rushes from an oblong
pond or reservoir, fed by water from a corner of the upper part of the
weir.  On the left, or south-west side, is a mound of earth fenced with
stones which is the commencement of the bank of the canal.  The pond or
reservoir above the floodgate is separated from the weir by a stone wall
on the left, or south-west side.  This pond has two floodgates, the one
already mentioned, which opens into the canal, and another, on the other
side of the stone mound, opening to the lower part of the weir.
Whenever, as a man told me who was standing near, it is necessary to lay
the bed of the canal dry, in the immediate neighbourhood for the purpose
of making repairs, the floodgate to the canal is closed, and the one to
the lower part of the weir is opened, and then the water from the pond
flows into the Dee, whilst a sluice, near the first lock, lets out the
water of the canal into the river.  The head of the canal is situated in
a very beautiful spot.  To the left or south is a lofty hill covered with
wood.  To the right is a beautiful slope or lawn on the top of which is a
pretty villa, to which you can get by a little wooden bridge over the
floodgate of the canal, and indeed forming part of it.  Few things are so
beautiful in their origin as this canal, which, be it known, with its
locks and its aqueducts, the grandest of which last is the stupendous
erection near Stockport, which by-the-bye filled my mind when a boy with
wonder, constitutes the grand work of England, and yields to nothing in
the world of the kind, with the exception of the great canal of China.

Retracing my steps some way I got upon the river's bank and then again
proceeded in the direction of the west.  I soon came to a cottage nearly
opposite a bridge, which led over the river, not the bridge which I have
already mentioned, but one much smaller, and considerably higher up the
valley.  The cottage had several dusky outbuildings attached to it, and a
paling before it.  Leaning over the paling in his shirt-sleeves was a
dark-faced, short, thickset man, who saluted me in English.  I returned
his salutation, stopped, and was soon in conversation with him.  I
praised the beauty of the river and its banks: he said that both were
beautiful and delightful in summer, but not at all in winter, for then
the trees and bushes on the banks were stripped of their leaves, and the
river was a frightful torrent.  He asked me if I had been to see the
place called the Robber's Leap, as strangers generally went to see it.  I
inquired where it was.

"Yonder," said he, pointing to some distance down the river.

"Why is it called the Robber's Leap?" said I.

"It is called the Robber's Leap, or Llam y Lleidyr," said he, "because a
thief pursued by justice once leaped across the river there and escaped.
It was an awful leap, and he well deserved to escape after taking it."  I
told him that I should go and look at it on some future opportunity, and
then asked if there were many fish in the river.  He said there were
plenty of salmon and trout, and that owing to the river being tolerably
high, a good many had been caught during the last few days.  I asked him
who enjoyed the right of fishing in the river.  He said that in these
parts the fishing belonged to two or three proprietors, who either
preserved the fishing for themselves, as they best could by means of
keepers, or let it out to other people; and that many individuals came
not only from England, but from France and Germany and even Russia for
the purpose of fishing, and that the keepers of the proprietors from whom
they purchased permission to fish, went with them, to show them the best
places, and to teach them how to fish.  He added that there was a report
that the river would shortly be rhydd or free and open to any one.  I
said that it would be a bad thing to fling the river open, as in that
event the fish would be killed at all times and seasons, and eventually
all destroyed.  He replied that he questioned whether more fish would be
taken then than now, and that I must not imagine that the fish were much
protected by what was called preserving; that the people to whom the
lands in the neighbourhood belonged, and those who paid for fishing did
not catch a hundredth part of the fish which were caught in the river:
that the proprietors went with their keepers, and perhaps caught two or
three stone of fish, or that strangers went with the keepers, whom they
paid for teaching them how to fish, and perhaps caught half-a-dozen fish,
and that shortly after the keepers would return and catch on their own
account sixty stone of fish from the very spot where the proprietors or
strangers had great difficulty in catching two or three stone or the
half-dozen fish, or the poachers would go and catch a yet greater
quantity.  He added that gentry did not understand how to catch fish, and
that to attempt to preserve was nonsense.  I told him that if the river
was flung open everybody would fish; he said that I was much mistaken,
that hundreds who were now poachers, would then keep at home, mind their
proper trades, and never use line or spear; that folks always longed to
do what they were forbidden, and that Shimei would never have crossed the
brook provided he had not been told he should be hanged if he did.  That
he himself had permission to fish in the river whenever he pleased, but
never availed himself of it, though in his young time, when he had no
leave, he had been an arrant poacher.

The manners and way of speaking of this old personage put me very much in
mind of those of Morgan, described by Smollett in his immortal novel of
"Roderick Random."  I had more discourse with him: I asked him in what
line of business he was, he told me that he sold coals.  From his
complexion, and the hue of his shirt, I had already concluded that he was
in some grimy trade.  I then inquired of what religion he was, and
received for answer that he was a Baptist.  I thought that both himself
and part of his apparel would look all the better for a good immersion.
We talked of the war then raging--he said it was between the false
prophet and the Dragon.  I asked him who the Dragon was--he said the
Turk.  I told him that the Pope was far worse than either the Turk or the
Russian, that his religion was the vilest idolatry, and that he would let
no one alone.  That it was the Pope who drove his fellow religionists the
Anabaptists out of the Netherlands.  He asked me how long ago that was.
Between two and three hundred years I replied.  He asked me the meaning
of the word Anabaptist; I told him; whereupon he expressed great
admiration for my understanding, and said that he hoped he should see me
again.

I inquired of him to what place the bridge led; he told me that if I
passed over it, and ascended a high bank beyond, I should find myself on
the road from Llangollen to Corwen and that if I wanted to go to
Llangollen I must turn to the left.  I thanked him, and passing over the
bridge, and ascending the bank, found myself upon a broad road.  I turned
to the left, and walking briskly in about half an hour reached our
cottage in the northern suburb, where I found my family and dinner
awaiting me.




CHAPTER IX


The Dinner--English Foibles--Pengwern--The
Yew-Tree--Carn-Lleidyr--Applications of a Term.

For dinner we had salmon and leg of mutton; the salmon from the Dee, the
leg from the neighbouring Berwyn.  The salmon was good enough, but I had
eaten better; and here it will not be amiss to say, that the best salmon
in the world is caught in the Suir, a river that flows past the beautiful
town of Clonmel in Ireland.  As for the leg of mutton it was truly
wonderful; nothing so good had I ever tasted in the shape of a leg of
mutton.  The leg of mutton of Wales beats the leg of mutton of any other
country, and I had never tasted a Welsh leg of mutton before.  Certainly
I shall never forget that first Welsh leg of mutton which I tasted, rich
but delicate, replete with juices derived from the aromatic herbs of the
noble Berwyn, cooked to a turn, and weighing just four pounds.

    "O its savoury smell was great,
    Such as well might tempt, I trow,
    One that's dead to lift his brow."

Let any one who wishes to eat leg of mutton in perfection go to Wales,
but mind you to eat leg of mutton only.  Welsh leg of mutton is
superlative; but with the exception of the leg, the mutton of Wales is
decidedly inferior to that of many other parts of Britain.

Here, perhaps, as I have told the reader what we ate for dinner, it will
be as well to tell him what we drank at dinner.  Let him know then, that
with our salmon we drank water, and with our mutton ale, even ale of
Llangollen; but not the best ale of Llangollen; it was very fair; but I
subsequently drank far better Llangollen ale than that which I drank at
our first dinner in our cottage at Llangollen.

In the evening I went across the bridge and strolled along in a
south-east direction.  Just as I had cleared the suburb a man joined me
from a cottage, on the top of a high bank, whom I recognised as the mower
with whom I had held discourse in the morning.  He saluted me and asked
me if I were taking a walk, I told him I was, whereupon he said that if I
were not too proud to wish to be seen walking with a poor man like
himself, he should wish to join me.  I told him I should be glad of his
company, and that I was not ashamed to be seen walking with any person,
however poor, who conducted himself with propriety.  He replied that I
must be very different from my countrymen in general, who were ashamed to
be seen walking with any people, who were not, at least, as well-dressed
as themselves.  I said that my country-folk in general had a great many
admirable qualities, but at the same time a great many foibles, foremost
amongst which last was a crazy admiration for what they called gentility,
which made them sycophantic to their superiors in station, and extremely
insolent to those whom they considered below them.  He said that I had
spoken his very thoughts, and then asked me whether I wished to be taken
the most agreeable walk near Llangollen.

On my replying by all means, he led me along the road to the south-east.
A pleasant road it proved: on our right at some distance was the mighty
Berwyn; close on our left the hill called Pen y Coed.  I asked him what
was beyond the Berwyn?

"A very wild country, indeed," he replied, "consisting of wood, rock, and
river; in fact, an anialwch."

He then asked if I knew the meaning of anialwch.

"A wilderness," I replied, "you will find the word in the Welsh Bible."

"Very true, sir," said he, "it was there I met it, but I did not know the
meaning of it, till it was explained to me by one of our teachers."

On my inquiring of what religion he was, he told me he was a
Calvinistic-Methodist.

We passed an ancient building which stood on our right.  I turned round
to look at it.  Its back was to the road: at its eastern end was a fine
arched window like the oriel window of a church.

"That building," said my companion, "is called Pengwern Hall.  It was
once a convent of nuns; a little time ago a farm-house, but is now used
as a barn, and a place of stowage.  Till lately it belonged to the Mostyn
family, but they disposed of it, with the farm on which it stood,
together with several other farms, to certain people from Liverpool, who
now live yonder," pointing to a house a little way farther on.  I still
looked at the edifice.

"You seem to admire the old building," said my companion.

"I was not admiring it," said I; "I was thinking of the difference
between its present and former state.  Formerly it was a place devoted to
gorgeous idolatry and obscene lust; now it is a quiet old barn in which
hay and straw are placed, and broken tumbrels stowed away: surely the
hand of God is visible here?"

"It is so, sir," said the man in a respectful tone, "and so it is in
another place in this neighbourhood.  About three miles from here, in the
north-west part of the valley, is an old edifice.  It is now a
farm-house, but was once a splendid abbey, and was called--"

"The abbey of the vale of the cross," said I, "I have read a deal about
it.  Iolo Goch, the bard of your celebrated hero, Owen Glendower, was
buried somewhere in its precincts."

We went on: my companion took me over a stile behind the house which he
had pointed out, and along a path through hazel coppices.  After a little
time I inquired whether there were any Papists in Llangollen.

"No," said he, "there is not one of that family at Llangollen, but I
believe there are some in Flintshire, at a place called Holywell, where
there is a pool or fountain, the waters of which it is said they
worship."

"And so they do," said I, "true to the old Indian superstition, of which
their religion is nothing but a modification.  The Indians and sepoys
worship stocks and stones, and the river Ganges, and our Papists worship
stocks and stones, holy wells and fountains."

He put some questions to me about the origin of nuns and friars.  I told
him they originated in India, and made him laugh heartily by showing him
the original identity of nuns and nautch-girls, begging priests and
begging Brahmins.  We passed by a small house with an enormous yew-tree
before it; I asked him who lived there.

"No one," he replied, "it is to let.  It was originally a cottage, but
the proprietors have furbished it up a little, and call it Yew-tree
Villa."

"I suppose they would let it cheap," said I.

"By no means," he replied, "they ask eighty pounds a year for it."

"What could have induced them to set such a rent upon it?" I demanded.

"The yew-tree, sir, which is said to be the largest in Wales.  They hope
that some of the grand gentry will take the house for the romance of the
yew-tree, but somehow or other nobody has taken it, though it has been to
let for three seasons."

We soon came to a road leading east and west.

"This way," said he, pointing in the direction of the west, "leads back
to Llangollen, the other to Offa's Dyke and England."

We turned to the west.  He inquired if I had ever heard before of Offa's
Dyke.

"Oh yes," said I, "it was built by an old Saxon king called Offa, against
the incursions of the Welsh."

"There was a time," said my companion, "when it was customary for the
English to cut off the ears of every Welshman who was found to the east
of the dyke, and for the Welsh to hang every Englishman whom they found
to the west of it.  Let us be thankful that we are now more humane to
each other.  We are now on the north side of Pen y Coed.  Do you know the
meaning of Pen y Coed, sir?"

"Pen y Coed," said I, "means the head of the wood.  I suppose that in the
old time the mountain looked over some extensive forest, even as the
nunnery of Pengwern looked originally over an alder-swamp, for Pengwern
means the head of the alder-swamp."

"So it does, sir, I shouldn't wonder if you could tell me the real
meaning of a word, about which I have thought a good deal, and about
which I was puzzling my head last night as I lay in bed."

"What may it be?" said I.

"Carn-lleidyr," he replied: "now, sir, do you know the meaning of that
word?"

"I think I do," said I.

"What may it be, sir?"

"First let me hear what you conceive its meaning to be," said I.

"Why, sir, I should say that Carn-lleidyr is an out-and-out thief--one
worse than a thief of the common sort.  Now, if I steal a matrass I am a
lleidyr, that is a thief of the common sort; but if I carry it to a
person, and he buys it, knowing it to be stolen, I conceive he is a far
worse thief than I; in fact, a carn-lleidyr."

"The word is a double word," said I, "compounded of carn and lleidyr.
The original meaning of carn is a heap of stones, and carn-lleidyr means
properly a thief without house or home, and with no place on which to
rest his head, save the carn or heap of stones on the bleak top of the
mountain.  For a long time the word was only applied to a thief of that
description, who, being without house and home, was more desperate than
other thieves, and as savage and brutish as the wolves and foxes with
whom he occasionally shared his pillow, the carn.  In course of time,
however, the original meaning was lost or disregarded, and the term
carn-lleidyr was applied to any particularly dishonest person.  At
present there can be no impropriety in calling a person who receives a
matrass, knowing it to be stolen, a carn-lleidyr, seeing that he is worse
than the thief who stole it, or in calling a knavish attorney a
carn-lleidyr, seeing that he does far more harm than a common
pick-pocket; or in calling the Pope so, seeing that he gets huge sums of
money out of people by pretending to be able to admit their souls to
heaven, or to hurl them to the other place, knowing all the time that he
has no such power; perhaps, indeed, at the present day the term
carn-lleidyr is more applicable to the Pope than to any one else, for he
is certainly the arch thief of the world.  So much for Carn-lleidyr.  But
I must here tell you that the term carn may be applied to any who is
particularly bad or disagreeable in any respect, and now I remember, has
been applied for centuries both in prose and poetry.  One Lewis Glyn
Cothi, a poet, who lived more than three hundred years ago, uses the word
carn in the sense of arrant or exceedingly bad, for in his abusive ode to
the town of Chester, he says that the women of London itself were never
more carn strumpets than those of Chester, by which he means that there
were never more arrant harlots in the world than those of the cheese
capital.  And the last of your great poets, Gronwy Owen, who flourished
about the middle of the last century, complains in a letter to a friend,
whilst living in a village of Lancashire, that he was amongst Carn
Saeson.  He found all English disagreeable enough, but those of
Lancashire particularly so--savage, brutish louts, out-and-out John
Bulls, and therefore he called them Carn Saeson."

"Thank you, sir," said my companion; "I now thoroughly understand the
meaning of carn.  Whenever I go to Chester, and a dressed-up madam
jostles against me, I shall call her carn-butein.  The Pope of Rome I
shall in future term carn-lleidyr y byd, or the arch thief of the world.
And whenever I see a stupid, brutal Englishman swaggering about
Llangollen, and looking down upon us poor Welsh, I shall say to myself
Get home, you carn Sais!  Well, sir, we are now near Llangollen; I must
turn to the left.  You go straight forward.  I never had such an
agreeable walk in my life.  May I ask your name?"

I told him my name, and asked him for his.

"Edward Jones," he replied.




CHAPTER X


The Berwyn--Mountain Cottage--The Barber's Pole.

On the following morning I strolled up the Berwyn on the south-west of
the town, by a broad winding path, which was at first very steep, but by
degrees became less so.  When I had accomplished about three parts of the
ascent I came to a place where the road, or path, divided into two.  I
took the one to the left, which seemingly led to the top of the mountain,
and presently came to a cottage from which a dog rushed barking towards
me; an old woman, however, coming to the door called him back.  I said a
few words to her in Welsh, whereupon in broken English she asked me to
enter the cottage and take a glass of milk.  I went in and sat down on a
chair which a sickly-looking young woman handed to me.  I asked her in
English who she was, but she made no answer, whereupon the old woman told
me that she was her daughter and had no English.  I then asked her in
Welsh what was the matter with her, she replied that she had the cryd or
ague.  The old woman now brought me a glass of milk, and said in the
Welsh language that she hoped I should like it.  What further
conversation we had was in the Cambrian tongue.  I asked the name of the
dog, who was now fondling upon me, and was told that his name was
Pharaoh.  I inquired if they had any books, and was shown two, one a
common Bible printed by the Bible Society, and the other a volume in
which the book of prayer of the Church of England was bound up with the
Bible, both printed at Oxford, about the middle of the last century.  I
found that both mother and daughter were Calvinistic-Methodists.  After a
little further discourse I got up and gave the old woman twopence for the
milk; she accepted it, but with great reluctance.  I inquired whether by
following the road I could get to the Pen y bryn or the top of the hill.
They shook their heads, and the young woman said that I could not, as the
road presently took a turn and went down.  I asked her how I could get to
the top of the hill.  "Which part of the top?" said she.  "I'r goruchaf,"
I replied.  "That must be where the barber's pole stands," said she.
"Why does the barber's pole stand there?" said I.  "A barber was hanged
there a long time ago," said she, "and the pole was placed to show the
spot."  "Why was he hanged?" said I.  "For murdering his wife," said she.
I asked her some questions about the murder, but the only information she
could give me was, that it was a very bad murder and occurred a long time
ago.  I had observed the pole from our garden, at Llangollen, but had
concluded that it was a common flagstaff.  I inquired the way to it.  It
was not visible from the cottage, but they gave me directions how to
reach it.  I bade them farewell, and in about a quarter of an hour
reached the pole on the top of the hill.  I imagined that I should have a
glorious view of the vale of Llangollen from the spot where it stood; the
view, however, did not answer my expectations.  I returned to Llangollen
by nearly the same way by which I had come.

The remainder of the day I spent entirely with my family, whom at their
particular request I took in the evening to see Plas Newydd, once the
villa of the two ladies of Llangollen.  It lies on the farther side of
the bridge, at a little distance from the back part of the church.  There
is a thoroughfare through the grounds, which are not extensive.  Plas
Newydd or the New Place is a small gloomy mansion, with a curious dairy
on the right-hand side, as you go up to it, and a remarkable stone pump.
An old man whom we met in the grounds, and with whom I entered into
conversation, said that he remembered the building of the house, and that
the place where it now stands was called before its erection Pen y maes,
or the head of the field.




CHAPTER XI


Welsh Farm-House--A Poet's Grandson--Hospitality--Mountain
Village--Madoc--The Native Valley--Corpse Candles--The Midnight Call.

My curiosity having been rather excited with respect to the country
beyond the Berwyn, by what my friend, the intelligent flannel-worker, had
told me about it, I determined to go and see it.  Accordingly on Friday
morning I set out.  Having passed by Pengwern Hall I turned up a lane in
the direction of the south, with a brook on the right running amongst
hazels, I presently arrived at a small farm-house standing on the left
with a little yard before it.  Seeing a woman at the door I asked her in
English if the road in which I was would take me across the mountain--she
said it would, and forthwith cried to a man working in a field who left
his work and came towards us.  "That is my husband," said she; "he has
more English than I."

The man came up and addressed me in very good English: he had a brisk,
intelligent look, and was about sixty.  I repeated the question, which I
had put to his wife, and he also said that by following the road I could
get across the mountain.  We soon got into conversation.  He told me that
the little farm in which he lived belonged to the person who had bought
Pengwern Hall.  He said that he was a good kind of gentleman, but did not
like the Welsh.  I asked him, if the gentleman in question did not like
the Welsh, why he came to live among them.  He smiled, and I then said
that I liked the Welsh very much, and was particularly fond of their
language.  He asked me whether I could read Welsh, and on my telling him
I could, he said that if I would walk in he would show me a Welsh book.
I went with him and his wife into a neat kind of kitchen, flagged with
stone, where were several young people, their children.  I spoke some
Welsh to them which appeared to give them great satisfaction.  The man
went to a shelf and taking down a book put it into my hand.  It was a
Welsh book, and the title of it in English was "Evening Work of the
Welsh."  It contained the lives of illustrious Welshmen, commencing with
that of Cadwalader.  I read a page of it aloud, while the family stood
round and wondered to hear a Saxon read their language.  I entered into
discourse with the man about Welsh poetry and repeated the famous
prophecy of Taliesin about the Coiling Serpent.  I asked him if the Welsh
had any poets at the present day.  "Plenty," said he, "and good
ones--Wales can never be without a poet."  Then after a pause he said,
that he was the grandson of a great poet.

"Do you bear his name?" said I.

"I do," he replied.

"What may it be?"

"Hughes," he answered.

"Two of the name of Hughes have been poets," said I--"one was Huw Hughes,
generally termed the Bardd Coch, or red bard; he was an Anglesea man, and
the friend of Lewis Morris and Gronwy Owen--the other was Jonathan
Hughes, where he lived I know not."

"He lived here, in this very house," said the man.  "Jonathan Hughes was
my grandfather!" and as he spoke his eyes flashed fire.

"Dear me!" said I; "I read some of his pieces thirty-two years ago when I
was a lad in England.  I think I can repeat some of the lines."  I then
repeated a quartet which I chanced to remember.

"Ah!" said the man, "I see you know his poetry.  Come into the next room
and I will show you his chair."  He led me into a sleeping-room on the
right hand, where in a corner he showed me an antique three-cornered
arm-chair.  "That chair," said he, "my grandsire won at Llangollen, at an
Eisteddfod of Bards.  Various bards recited their poetry, but my
grandfather won the prize.  Ah, he was a good poet.  He also won a prize
of fifteen guineas at a meeting of bards in London."

We returned to the kitchen, where I found the good woman of the house
waiting with a plate of bread-and-butter in one hand, and a glass of
buttermilk in the other--she pressed me to partake of both--I drank some
of the buttermilk, which was excellent, and after a little more discourse
shook the kind people by the hand and thanked them for their hospitality.
As I was about to depart the man said that I should find the lane farther
up very wet, and that I had better mount through a field at the back of
the house.  He took me to a gate, which he opened, and then pointed out
the way which I must pursue.  As I went away he said that both he and his
family should be always happy to see me at Ty yn y Pistyll, which words,
interpreted, are the house by the spout of water.

I went up the field with the lane on my right, down which ran a runnel of
water, from which doubtless the house derived its name.  I soon came to
an unenclosed part of the mountain covered with gorse and whin, and still
proceeding upward reached a road, which I subsequently learned was the
main road from Llangollen over the hill.  I was not long in gaining the
top which was nearly level.  Here I stood for some time looking about me,
having the vale of Llangollen to the north of me, and a deep valley
abounding with woods and rocks to the south.

Following the road to the south, which gradually descended, I soon came
to a place where a road diverged from the straight one to the left.  As
the left-hand road appeared to lead down a romantic valley I followed it.
The scenery was beautiful--steep hills on each side.  On the right was a
deep ravine, down which ran a brook; the hill beyond it was covered
towards the top with a wood, apparently of oak, between which and the
ravine were small green fields.  Both sides of the ravine were fringed
with trees, chiefly ash.  I descended the road which was zigzag and
steep, and at last arrived at the bottom of the valley, where there was a
small hamlet.  On the further side of the valley to the east was a steep
hill on which were a few houses--at the foot of the hill was a brook
crossed by an antique bridge of a single arch.  I directed my course to
the bridge, and after looking over the parapet for a minute or two upon
the water below, which was shallow and noisy, ascended a road which led
up the hill: a few scattered houses were on each side.  I soon reached
the top of the hill, where were some more houses, those which I had seen
from the valley below.  I was in a Welsh mountain village, which put me
much in mind of the villages which I had strolled through of old in
Castile and La Mancha; there were the same silence and desolation here as
yonder away--the houses were built of the same material, namely stone.  I
should perhaps have fancied myself for a moment in a Castilian or
Manchegan mountain pueblicito, but for the abundance of trees which met
my eye on every side.

In walking up this mountain village I saw no one, and heard no sound but
the echo of my steps amongst the houses.  As I returned, however, I saw a
man standing at a door--he was a short figure, about fifty.  He had an
old hat on his head, a stick in his hand, and was dressed in a duffel
greatcoat.

"Good-day, friend," said I; "what be the name of this place?"

"Pont Fadog, sir, is its name, for want of a better."

"That's a fine name," said I; "it signifies in English the bridge of
Madoc."

"Just so, sir; I see you know Welsh."

"And I see you know English," said I.

"Very little, sir; I can read English much better than I can speak it."

"So can I Welsh," said I.  "I suppose the village is named after the
bridge."

"No doubt it is, sir."

"And why was the bridge called the bridge of Madoc?" said I.

"Because one Madoc built it, sir."

"Was he the son of Owain Gwynedd?" said I.

"Ah, I see you know all about Wales, sir.  Yes, sir; he built it, or I
daresay he built it, Madawg ap Owain Gwynedd.  I have read much about
him--he was a great sailor, sir, and was the first to discover Tir y
Gorllewin or America.  Not many years ago his tomb was discovered there
with an inscription in old Welsh--saying who he was, and how he loved the
sea.  I have seen the lines which were found on the tomb."

"So have I," said I; "or at least those which were said to be found on a
tomb: they run thus in English:--

    "'Here, after sailing far I Madoc lie,
    Of Owain Gwynedd lawful progeny:
    The verdant land had little charms for me;
    From earliest youth I loved the dark-blue sea.'"

"Ah, sir," said the man, "I see you know all about the son of Owain
Gwynedd.  Well, sir, those lines, or something like them, were found upon
the tomb of Madoc in America."

"That I doubt," said I.

"Do you doubt, sir, that Madoc discovered America?"

"Not in the least," said I; "but I doubt very much that his tomb was ever
discovered with the inscription which you allude to upon it."

"But it was, sir, I do assure you, and the descendants of Madoc and his
people are still to be found in a part of America speaking the pure iaith
Cymraeg better Welsh than we of Wales do."

"That I doubt," said I.  "However, the idea is a pretty one; therefore
cherish it.  This is a beautiful country."

"A very beautiful country, sir; there is none more beautiful in all
Wales."

"What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?"

"The Ceiriog, sir."

"The Ceiriog," said I; "the Ceiriog!"

"Did you ever hear the name before, sir?"

"I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog," said I; "the Nightingale of Ceiriog."

"That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of Ceiriog."

"Did he live hereabout?"

"Oh no, sir; he lived far away up towards the head of the valley, at a
place called Pont y Meibion."

"Are you acquainted with his works?" said I.

"Oh yes, sir, at least with some of them.  I have read the Marwnad on
Barbara Middleton; and likewise the piece on Oliver and his men.  Ah, it
is a funny piece that--he did not like Oliver nor his men."

"Of what profession are you?" said I; "are you a schoolmaster or
apothecary?"

"Neither, sir, neither; I am merely a poor shoemaker."

"You know a great deal for a shoemaker," said I.

"Ah, sir; there are many shoemakers in Wales who know much more than I."

"But not in England," said I.  "Well, farewell."

"Farewell, sir.  When you have any boots to mend or shoes, sir--I shall
be happy to serve you."

"I do not live in these parts," said I.

"No, sir; but you are coming to live here."

"How do you know that?" said I.

"I know it very well, sir; you left these parts very young, and went far
away--to the East Indies, sir, where you made a large fortune in the
medical line, sir; you are now coming back to your own valley, where you
will buy a property, and settle down, and try to recover your language,
sir, and your health, sir; for you are not the person you pretend to be,
sir: I know you very well, and shall be happy to work for you."

"Well," said I, "if I ever settle down here, I shall be happy to employ
you.  Farewell."

I went back the way I had come, till I reached the little hamlet.  Seeing
a small public-house, I entered it.  A good-looking woman, who met me in
the passage, ushered me into a neat sanded kitchen, handed me a chair and
inquired my commands; I sat down, and told her to bring me some ale; she
brought it, and then seated herself by a bench close by the door.

"Rather a quiet place this," said I, "I have seen but two faces since I
came over the hill, and yours is one."

"Rather too quiet, sir," said the good woman, "one would wish to have
more visitors."

"I suppose," said I, "people from Llangollen occasionally come to visit
you."

"Sometimes, sir, for curiosity's sake; but very rarely--the way is very
steep."

"Do the Tylwyth Teg ever pay you visits?"

"The Tylwyth Teg, sir?"

"Yes; the fairies.  Do they never come to have a dance on the green sward
in this neighbourhood?"

"Very rarely, sir; indeed, I do not know how long it is since they have
been seen."

"You have never seen them?"

"I have not, sir; but I believe there are people living who have."

"Are corpse candles ever seen on the bank of that river?"

"I have never heard of more than one being seen, sir, and that was at a
place where a tinker was drowned a few nights after--there came down a
flood; and the tinker in trying to cross by the usual ford was drowned."

"And did the candle prognosticate, I mean foreshow his death?"

"It did, sir.  When a person is to die his candle is seen a few nights
before the time of his death."

"Have you ever seen a corpse candle?"

"I have, sir; and as you seem to be a respectable gentleman, I will tell
you all about it.  When I was a girl I lived with my parents a little way
from here.  I had a cousin, a very good young man, who lived with his
parents in the neighbourhood of our house.  He was an exemplary young
man, sir, and having a considerable gift of prayer, was intended for the
ministry; but he fell sick, and shortly became very ill indeed.  One
evening when he was lying in this state, as I was returning home from
milking, I saw a candle proceeding from my cousin's house.  I stood still
and looked at it.  It moved slowly forward for a little way, and then
mounted high in the air above the wood, which stood not far in front of
the house, and disappeared.  Just three nights after that my cousin
died."

"And you think that what you saw was his corpse candle?"

"I do, sir! what else should it be?"

"Are deaths prognosticated by any other means than corpse candles?"

"They are, sir; by the knockers, and by a supernatural voice heard at
night."

"Have you ever heard the knockers, or the supernatural voice?"

"I have not, sir; but my father and mother, who are now dead, heard once
a supernatural voice, and knocking.  My mother had a sister who was
married like herself, and expected to be confined.  Day after day,
however, passed away, without her confinement taking place.  My mother
expected every moment to be summoned to her assistance, and was so
anxious about her that she could not rest at night.  One night, as she
lay in bed, by the side of her husband, between sleeping and waking, she
heard of a sudden a horse coming stump, stump, up to the door.  Then
there was a pause--she expected every moment to hear some one cry out,
and tell her to come to her sister, but she heard no farther sound,
neither voice nor stump of horse.  She thought she had been deceived, so,
without awakening her husband, she tried to go to sleep, but sleep she
could not.  The next night, at about the same time, she again heard a
horse's feet come stump, stump, up to the door.  She now waked her
husband and told him to listen.  He did so, and both heard the stumping.
Presently, the stumping ceased, and then there was a loud "Hey!" as if
somebody wished to wake them.  "Hey!" said my father, and they both lay
for a minute expecting to hear something more, but they heard nothing.
My father then sprang out of bed, and looked out of the window; it was
bright moonlight, but he saw nothing.  The next night, as they lay in bed
both asleep, they were suddenly aroused by a loud and terrible knocking.
Out sprang my father from the bed, flung open the window, and looked out,
but there was no one at the door.  The next morning, however, a messenger
arrived with the intelligence that my aunt had had a dreadful confinement
with twins in the night, and that both she and the babes were dead."

"Thank you," said I; and paying for my ale, I returned to Llangollen.




CHAPTER XII


A Calvinistic-Methodist--Turn for Saxon--Our Congregation--Pont y
Cyssyltau--Catherine Lingo.

I had inquired of the good woman of the house, in which we lived, whether
she could not procure a person to accompany me occasionally in my walks,
who was well acquainted with the strange nooks and corners of the
country, and who could speak no language but Welsh; as I wished to
increase my knowledge of colloquial Welsh by having a companion who would
be obliged, in all he had to say to me, to address me in Welsh, and to
whom I should perforce have to reply in that tongue.  The good lady had
told me that there was a tenant of hers who lived in one of the cottages,
which looked into the perllan, who, she believed, would be glad to go
with me, and was just the kind of man I was in quest of.  The day after I
had met with the adventures, which I have related in the preceding
chapter, she informed me that the person in question was awaiting my
orders in the kitchen.  I told her to let me see him.  He presently made
his appearance.  He was about forty-five years of age, of middle stature,
and had a good-natured open countenance.  His dress was poor, but clean.

"Well," said I to him in Welsh, "are you the Cumro who can speak no
Saxon?"

"In truth, sir, I am."

"Are you sure that you know no Saxon?"

"Sir!  I may know a few words, but I cannot converse in Saxon, nor
understand a conversation in that tongue."

"Can you read Cumraeg?"

"In truth, sir, I can."

"What have you read in it?"

"I have read, sir, the Ysgrythyr-lan, till I have it nearly at the ends
of my fingers."

"Have you read anything else besides the holy Scripture?"

"I read the newspaper, sir, when kind friends lend it to me."

"In Cumraeg?"

"Yes, sir, in Cumraeg.  I can read Saxon a little but not sufficient to
understand a Saxon newspaper."

"What newspaper do you read?"

"I read, sir, Yr Amserau."

"Is that a good newspaper?"

"Very good, sir, it is written by good men."

"Who are they?"

"They are our ministers, sir."

"Of what religion are you?"

"A Calvinistic Methodist, sir."

"Why are you of the Methodist religion?"

"Because it is the true religion, sir."

"You should not be bigoted.  If I had more Cumraeg than I have, I would
prove to you that the only true religion is that of the Lloegrian
Church."

"In truth, sir, you could not do that; had you all the Cumraeg in Cumru
you could not do that."

"What are you by trade?"

"I am a gwehydd, sir."

"What do you earn by weaving?"

"About five shillings a week, sir."

"Have you a wife?

"I have, sir."

"Does she earn anything?"

"Very seldom, sir; she is a good wife, but is generally sick."

"Have you children?"

"I have three, sir."

"Do they earn anything?"

"My eldest son, sir, sometimes earns a few pence, the others are very
small."

"Will you sometimes walk with me, if I pay you?"

"I shall be always glad to walk with you, sir, whether you pay me or
not."

"Do you think it lawful to walk with one of the Lloegrian Church?"

"Perhaps, sir, I ought to ask the gentleman of the Lloegrian Church
whether he thinks it lawful to walk with the poor Methodist weaver."

"Well, I think we may venture to walk with one another.  What is your
name?"

"John Jones, sir."

"Jones! Jones!  I was walking with a man of that name the other night."

"The man with whom you walked the other night is my brother, sir, and
what he said to me about you made me wish to walk with you also."

"But he spoke very good English."

"My brother had a turn for Saxon, sir; I had not.  Some people have a
turn for the Saxon, others have not.  I have no Saxon, sir, my wife has
digon iawn--my two youngest children speak good Saxon, sir, my eldest son
not a word."

"Well; shall we set out?"

"If you please, sir."

"To what place shall we go?"

"Shall we go to the Pont y Cyssylltau, sir?"

"What is that?"

"A mighty bridge, sir, which carries the Camlas over a valley on its
back."

"Good! let us go and see the bridge of the junction, for that I think is
the meaning in Saxon of Pont y Cyssylltau."

We set out; my guide conducted me along the bank of the Camlas in the
direction of Rhiwabon, that is towards the east.  On the way we
discoursed on various subjects, and understood each other tolerably well.
I asked if he had been anything besides a weaver.  He told me that when a
boy he kept sheep on the mountain.  "Why did you not go on keeping
sheep?" said "I would rather keep sheep than weave."

"My parents wanted me at home, sir," said he; "and I was not sorry to go
home; I earned little, and lived badly."

"A shepherd," said I, "can earn more than five shillings a week."

"I was never a regular shepherd, sir," said he.  "But, sir, I would
rather be a weaver with five shillings a week in Llangollen, than a
shepherd with fifteen on the mountain.  The life of a shepherd, sir, is
perhaps not exactly what you and some other gentlefolks think.  The
shepherd bears much cold and wet, sir, and he is very lonely; no society
save his sheep and dog.  Then, sir, he has no privileges.  I mean gospel
privileges.  He does not look forward to Dydd Sul, as a day of llawenydd,
of joy and triumph, as the weaver does; that is if he is religiously
disposed.  The shepherd has no chapel, sir, like the weaver.  Oh, sir, I
say again that I would rather be a weaver in Llangollen with five
shillings a week, than a shepherd on the hill with fifteen."

"Do you mean to say," said I, "that you live with your family on five
shillings a week?"

"No, sir.  I frequently do little commissions by which I earn something.
Then, sir, I have friends, very good friends.  A good lady of our
congregation sent me this morning half-a-pound of butter.  The people of
our congregation are very kind to each other, sir."

"That is more," thought I to myself, "than the people of my congregation
are; they are always cutting each other's throats."  I next asked if he
had been much about Wales.

"Not much, sir.  However, I have been to Pen Caer Gybi, which you call
Holy Head, and to Beth Gelert, sir."

"What took you to those places?"

"I was sent to those places on business, sir; as I told you before, sir,
I sometimes execute commissions.  At Beth Gelert I stayed some time.  It
was there I married, sir; my wife comes from a place called Dol Gellyn
near Beth Gelert."

"What was her name?"

"Her name was Jones, sir."

"What, before she married?"

"Yes, sir, before she married.  You need not be surprised, sir; there are
plenty of the name of Jones in Wales.  The name of my brother's wife,
before she married, was also Jones."

"Your brother is a clever man," said I.

"Yes, sir, for a Cumro he is clebber enough."

"For a Cumro?"

"Yes, sir, he is not a Saxon, you know."

"Are Saxons then so very clever?"

"Oh yes, sir; who so clebber?  The clebberest people in Llangollen are
Saxons; that is, at carnal things--for at spiritual things I do not think
them at all clebber.  Look at Mr A., sir."

"Who is he?"

"Do you not know him, sir?  I thought everybody knew Mr A.  He is a
Saxon, sir, and keeps the inn on the road a little way below where you
live.  He is the clebberest man in Llangollen, sir.  He can do
everything.  He is a great cook, and can wash clothes better than any
woman.  Oh, sir, for carnal things, who so clebber as your countrymen!"

After walking about four miles by the side of the canal we left it, and
bearing to the right presently came to the aqueduct, which strode over a
deep and narrow valley, at the bottom of which ran the Dee.  "This is the
Pont y Cysswllt, sir," said my guide; "it's the finest bridge in the
world, and no wonder, if what the common people say be true, namely that
every stone cost a golden sovereign."

We went along it; the height was awful.  My guide, though he had been a
mountain shepherd, confessed that he was somewhat afraid.  "It gives me
the pendro, sir," said he, "to look down."  I too felt somewhat dizzy, as
I looked over the parapet into the glen.  The canal which this mighty
bridge carries across the gulf is about nine feet wide, and occupies
about two-thirds of the width of the bridge and the entire western side.
The footway is towards the east.  From about the middle of the bridge
there is a fine view of the forges on the Cefn Bach and also of a huge
hill near it called the Cefn Mawr.  We reached the termination, and
presently crossing the canal by a little wooden bridge we came to a
village.  My guide then said, "If you please, sir, we will return by the
old bridge, which leads across the Dee in the bottom of the vale."  He
then led me by a romantic road to a bridge on the west of the aqueduct,
and far below.  It seemed very ancient.  "This is the old bridge, sir,"
said my guide; "it was built a hundred years before the Pont y Cysswllt
was dreamt of."  We now walked to the west, in the direction of
Llangollen, along the bank of the river.  Presently we arrived where the
river, after making a bend, formed a pool.  It was shaded by lofty trees,
and to all appearance was exceedingly deep.  I stopped to look at it, for
I was struck with its gloomy horror.  "That pool, sir," said John Jones,
"is called Llyn y Meddwyn, the drunkard's pool.  It is called so, sir,
because a drunken man once fell into it, and was drowned.  There is no
deeper pool in the Dee, sir, save one, a little below Llangollen, which
is called the pool of Catherine Lingo.  A girl of that name fell into it,
whilst gathering sticks on the high bank above it.  She was drowned, and
the pool was named after her.  I never look at either without shuddering,
thinking how certainly I should be drowned if I fell in, for I cannot
swim, sir."

"You should have learnt to swim when you were young," said I, "and to
dive too.  I know one who has brought up stones from the bottom, I
daresay, of deeper pools than either, but he was a Saxon, and at carnal
things, you know, none so clebber as the Saxons."

I found my guide a first-rate walker and a good botanist, knowing the
names of all the plants and trees in Welsh.  By the time we returned to
Llangollen I had formed a very high opinion of him, in which I was
subsequently confirmed by what I saw of him during the period of our
acquaintance, which was of some duration.  He was very honest,
disinterested, and exceedingly good-humoured.  It is true, he had his
little skits occasionally at the Church, and showed some marks of
hostility to the church cat, more especially when he saw it mounted on my
shoulders; for the creature soon began to take liberties, and in less
than a week after my arrival at the cottage, generally mounted on my
back, when it saw me reading or writing, for the sake of the warmth.  But
setting aside those same skits at the Church, and that dislike of the
church cat, venial trifles after all, and easily to be accounted for, on
the score of his religious education, I found nothing to blame, and much
to admire, in John Jones, the Calvinistic Methodist of Llangollen.




CHAPTER XIII


Divine Service--Llangollen Bells--Iolo Goch--The Abbey--Twm o'r
Nant--Holy Well--Thomas Edwards

Sunday arrived--a Sunday of unclouded sunshine.  We attended Divine
service at church in the morning.  The congregation was very numerous,
but to all appearance consisted almost entirely of English visitors, like
ourselves.  There were two officiating clergymen, father and son.  They
both sat in a kind of oblong pulpit on the southern side of the church,
at a little distance below the altar.  The service was in English, and
the elder gentleman preached; there was good singing and chanting.

After dinner I sat in an arbour in the perllan, thinking of many things,
amongst others, spiritual.  Whilst thus engaged, the sound of the church
bells calling people to afternoon service came upon my ears.  I listened,
and thought I had never heard bells with so sweet a sound.  I had heard
them in the morning, but without paying much attention to them, but as I
now sat in the umbrageous arbour, I was particularly struck with them.
Oh how sweetly their voice mingled with the low rush of the river, at the
bottom of the perllan.  I subsequently found that the bells of Llangollen
were celebrated for their sweetness.  Their merit indeed has even been
admitted by an enemy; for a poet of the Calvinistic Methodist persuasion,
one who calls himself Einion Du, in a very beautiful ode, commencing
with--

    "Tangnefedd i Llangollen,"

says that in no part of the world do bells call people so sweetly to
church as those of Llangollen town.

In the evening, at about half-past six, I attended service again, but
without my family.  This time the congregation was not numerous, and was
composed principally of poor people.  The service and sermon were now in
Welsh, the sermon was preached by the younger gentleman, and was on the
building of the second temple, and, as far as I understood it, appeared
to me to be exceedingly good.

On the Monday evening, myself and family took a walk to the abbey.  My
wife and daughter, who are fond of architecture and ruins, were very
anxious to see the old place.  I too was anxious enough to see it, less
from love of ruins and ancient architecture, than from knowing that a
certain illustrious bard was buried in its precincts, of whom perhaps a
short account will not be unacceptable to the reader.

This man, whose poetical appellation was Iolo Goch, but whose real name
was Llwyd, was of a distinguished family, and Lord of Llechryd.  He was
born and generally resided at a place called Coed y Pantwn, in the upper
part of the Vale of Clwyd.  He was a warm friend and partisan of Owen
Glendower, with whom he lived, at Sycharth, for some years before the
great Welsh insurrection, and whom he survived, dying at an extreme old
age beneath his own roof-tree at Coed y Pantwn.  He composed pieces of
great excellence on various subjects; but the most remarkable of his
compositions are decidedly certain ones connected with Owen Glendower.
Amongst these is one in which he describes the Welsh chieftain's mansion
at Sycharth, and his hospitable way of living at that his favourite
residence; and another in which he hails the advent of the comet, which
made its appearance in the month of March, fourteen hundred and two, as
of good augury to his darling hero.

It was from knowing that this distinguished man lay buried in the
precincts of the old edifice, that I felt so anxious to see it.  After
walking about two miles we perceived it on our right hand.

The abbey of the vale of the cross stands in a green meadow, in a corner
near the north-west end of the valley of Llangollen.  The vale or glen,
in which the abbey stands, takes its name from a certain ancient pillar
or cross, called the pillar of Eliseg, and which is believed to have been
raised over the body of an ancient British chieftain of that name, who
perished in battle against the Saxons, about the middle of the tenth
century.  In the Papist times the abbey was a place of great
pseudo-sanctity, wealth and consequence.  The territory belonging to it
was very extensive, comprising, amongst other districts, the vale of
Llangollen and the mountain region to the north of it, called the
Eglwysig Rocks, which region derived its name Eglwysig, or
ecclesiastical, from the circumstance of its pertaining to the abbey of
the vale of the cross.

We first reached that part of the building which had once been the
church, having previously to pass through a farmyard, in which was
abundance of dirt and mire.

The church fronts the west and contains the remains of a noble window,
beneath which is a gate, which we found locked.  Passing on we came to
that part where the monks had lived, but which now served as a farmhouse;
an open doorway exhibited to us an ancient gloomy hall, where was some
curious old-fashioned furniture, particularly an ancient rack, in which
stood a goodly range of pewter trenchers.  A respectable dame kindly
welcomed us and invited us to sit down.  We entered into conversation
with her, and asked her name, which she said was Evans.  I spoke some
Welsh to her, which pleased her.  She said that Welsh people at the
present day were so full of fine airs that they were above speaking the
old language--but that such was not the case formerly, and that she had
known a Mrs Price, who was housekeeper to the Countess of Mornington, who
lived in London upwards of forty years, and at the end of that time
prided herself upon speaking as good Welsh as she did when a girl.  I
spoke to her about the abbey, and asked if she had ever heard of Iolo
Goch.  She inquired who he was.  I told her he was a great bard, and was
buried in the abbey.  She said she had never heard of him, but that she
could show me the portrait of a great poet, and going away, presently
returned with a print in a frame.

"There," said she, "is the portrait of Twm o'r Nant, generally called the
Welsh Shakespeare."

I looked at it.  The Welsh Shakespeare was represented sitting at a table
with a pen in his hand; a cottage-latticed window was behind him, on his
left hand; a shelf with plates, and trenchers behind him, on his right.
His features were rude, but full of wild, strange expression; below the
picture was the following couplet:--

    "Llun Gwr yw llawn gwir Awen;
    Y Byd a lanwodd o'i Ben."

"Did you ever hear of Twm o'r Nant?" said the old dame.

"I never heard of him by word of mouth," said I; "but I know all about
him--I have read his life in Welsh, written by himself, and a curious
life it is.  His name was Thomas Edwards, but he generally called himself
Twm o'r Nant, or Tom of the Dingle, because he was born in a dingle, at a
place called Pen Porchell, in the vale of Clwyd--which, by the bye, was
on the estate which once belonged to Iolo Goch, the poet I was speaking
to you about just now.  Tom was a carter by trade, but once kept a
toll-bar in South Wales, which, however, he was obliged to leave at the
end of two years, owing to the annoyance which he experienced from ghosts
and goblins, and unearthly things, particularly phantom hearses, which
used to pass through his gate at midnight without paying, when the gate
was shut."

"Ah," said the dame, "you know more about Tom o'r Nant than I do; and was
he not a great poet?"

"I daresay he was," said I, "for the pieces which he wrote, and which he
called Interludes, had a great run, and he got a great deal of money by
them, but I should say the lines beneath the portrait are more applicable
to the real Shakespeare than to him."

"What do the lines mean?" said the old lady; "they are Welsh, I know, but
they are far beyond my understanding."

"They may be thus translated," said I:

    "God in his head the Muse instill'd,
    And from his head the world he fill'd."

"Thank you, sir," said the old lady.  "I never found any one before who
could translate them."  She then said she would show me some English
lines written on the daughter of a friend of hers who was lately dead,
and put some printed lines in a frame into my hand.  They were an Elegy
to Mary, and were very beautiful, I read them aloud, and when I had
finished she thanked me and said she had no doubt that if I pleased I
could put them into Welsh--she then sighed and wiped her eyes.

On our enquiring whether we could see the interior of the abbey she said
we could, and that if we rang a bell at the gate a woman would come to
us, who was in the habit of showing the place.  We then got up and bade
her farewell--but she begged that we would stay and taste the dwr
santaidd of the holy well.

"What holy well is that?" said I.

"A well," said she, "by the road's side, which in the time of the popes
was said to perform wonderful cures."

"Let us taste it by all means," said I; whereupon she went out, and
presently returned with a tray on which were a jug and tumbler, the jug
filled with the water of the holy well; we drank some of the dwr
santaidd, which tasted like any other water, and then after shaking her
by the hand, we went to the gate, and rang at the bell.

Presently a woman made her appearance at the gate--she was genteelly
drest, about the middle age, rather tall, and bearing in her countenance
the traces of beauty.  When we told her the object of our coming she
admitted us, and after locking the gate conducted us into the church.  It
was roofless, and had nothing remarkable about it, save the western
window, which we had seen from without.  Our attendant pointed out to us
some tombs, and told us the names of certain great people whose dust they
contained.  "Can you tell us where Iolo Goch lies interred?" said I.

"No," said she; "indeed I never heard of such a person."

"He was the bard of Owen Glendower," said I, "and assisted his cause
wonderfully by the fiery odes, in which he incited the Welsh to rise
against the English."

"Indeed!" said she; "well, I am sorry to say that I never heard of him."

"Are you Welsh?" said I.

"I am," she replied.

"Did you ever hear of Thomas Edwards?"

"Oh, yes," said she; "I have frequently heard of him."

"How odd," said I, "that the name of a great poet should be unknown in
the very place where he is buried, whilst that of one certainly not his
superior, should be well known in that same place, though he is not
buried there."

"Perhaps," said she, "the reason is that the poet, whom you mentioned,
wrote in the old measures and language which few people now understand,
whilst Thomas Edwards wrote in common verse and in the language of the
present day."

"I daresay it is so," said I.

From the church she led us to other parts of the ruin--at first she had
spoken to us rather cross and loftily, but she now became kind and
communicative.  She said that she resided near the ruins, which she was
permitted to show, that she lived alone, and wished to be alone; there
was something singular about her, and I believe that she had a history of
her own.  After showing us the ruins she conducted us to a cottage in
which she lived; it stood behind the ruins by a fish-pond, in a beautiful
and romantic place enough; she said that in the winter she went away, but
to what place she did not say.  She asked us whether we came walking, and
on our telling her that we did, she said that she would point out to us a
near way home.  She then pointed to a path up a hill, telling us we must
follow it.  After making her a present we bade her farewell, and passing
through a meadow crossed a brook by a rustic bridge, formed of the stem
of a tree, and ascending the hill by the path which she had pointed out,
we went through a cornfield or two on its top, and at last found
ourselves on the Llangollen road, after a most beautiful walk.




CHAPTER XIV


Expedition to Ruthyn--The Column--Slate Quarries--The
Gwyddelod--Nocturnal Adventure.

Nothing worthy of commemoration took place during the two following days,
save that myself and family took an evening walk on the Wednesday up the
side of the Berwyn, for the purpose of botanizing, in which we were
attended by John Jones.  There, amongst other plants, we found a curious
moss which our good friend said was called in Welsh, Corn Carw, or deer's
horn, and which he said the deer were very fond of.  On the Thursday he
and I started on an expedition on foot to Ruthyn, distant about fourteen
miles, proposing to return in the evening.

The town and castle of Ruthyn possessed great interest for me from being
connected with the affairs of Owen Glendower.  It was at Ruthyn that the
first and not the least remarkable scene of the Welsh insurrection took
place by Owen making his appearance at the fair held there in fourteen
hundred, plundering the English who had come with their goods, slaying
many of them, sacking the town and concluding his day's work by firing
it; and it was at the castle of Ruthyn that Lord Grey dwelt, a minion of
Henry the Fourth and Glendower's deadliest enemy, and who was the
principal cause of the chieftain's entering into rebellion, having, in
the hope of obtaining his estates in the vale of Clwyd, poisoned the mind
of Harry against him, who proclaimed him a traitor, before he had
committed any act of treason, and confiscated his estates, bestowing that
part of them upon his favourite, which the latter was desirous of
obtaining.

We started on our expedition at about seven o'clock of a brilliant
morning.  We passed by the abbey and presently came to a small fountain
with a little stone edifice, with a sharp top above it.  "That is the
holy well," said my guide: "Llawer iawn o barch yn yr amser yr Pabyddion
yr oedd i'r fynnon hwn--much respect in the times of the Papists there
was to this fountain."

"I heard of it," said I, "and tasted of its water the other evening at
the abbey;" shortly after we saw a tall stone standing in a field on our
right hand at about a hundred yards' distance from the road.  "That is
the pillar of Eliseg, sir," said my guide.  "Let us go and see it," said
I.  We soon reached the stone.  It is a fine upright column about seven
feet high, and stands on a quadrate base.  "Sir," said my guide, "a dead
king lies buried beneath this stone.  He was a mighty man of valour and
founded the abbey.  He was called Eliseg."  "Perhaps Ellis," said I, "and
if his name was Ellis the stone was very properly called Colofn Eliseg,
in Saxon the Ellisian column."  The view from the column is very
beautiful, below on the south-east is the venerable abbey, slumbering in
its green meadow.  Beyond it runs a stream, descending from the top of a
glen, at the bottom of which the old pile is situated; beyond the stream
is a lofty hill.  The glen on the north is bounded by a noble mountain,
covered with wood.  Struck with its beauty I inquired its name.  "Moel
Eglwysig, sir," said my guide.  "The Moel of the Church," said I.  "That
is hardly a good name for it, for the hill is not bald (moel)."  "True,
sir," said John Jones.  "At present its name is good for nothing, but
estalom (of old) before the hill was planted with trees its name was good
enough.  Our fathers were not fools when they named their hills."  "I
daresay not," said I, "nor in many other things which they did, for which
we laugh at them, because we do not know the reasons they had for doing
them."  We regained the road; the road tended to the north up a steep
ascent.  I asked John Jones the name of a beautiful village, which lay
far away on our right, over the glen, and near its top.  "Pentref y dwr,
sir" (the village of the water).  It is called the village of the water,
because the river below comes down through part of it.  I next asked the
name of the hill up which we were going, and he told me Allt Bwlch; that
is, the high place of the hollow road.

This bwlch, or hollow way, was a regular pass, which put me wonderfully
in mind of the passes of Spain.  It took us a long time to get to the
top.  After resting a minute on the summit we began to descend.  My guide
pointed out to me some slate-works, at some distance on our left.  "There
is a great deal of work going on there, sir," said he: "all the slates
that you see descending the canal at Llangollen came from there."  The
next moment we heard a blast, and then a thundering sound: "Llais craig
yn syrthiaw; the voice of the rock in falling, sir," said John Jones;
"blasting is dangerous and awful work."  We reached the bottom of the
descent, and proceeded for two or three miles up and down a rough and
narrow road; I then turned round and looked at the hills which we had
passed over.  They looked bulky and huge.

We continued our way, and presently saw marks of a fire in some grass by
the side of the road.  "Have the Gipsiaid been there?" said I to my
guide.

"Hardly, sir; I should rather think that the Gwyddelaid (Irish) have been
camping there lately."

"The Gwyddeliad?"

"Yes, sir, the vagabond Gwyddeliad, who at present infest these parts
much, and do much more harm than the Gipsiaid ever did."

"What do you mean by the Gipsiaid?"

"Dark, handsome people, sir, who occasionally used to come about in vans
and carts, the men buying and selling horses, and sometimes tinkering,
whilst the women told fortunes."

"And they have ceased to come about?"

"Nearly so, sir; I believe they have been frightened away by the
Gwyddelod."

"What kind of people are these Gwyddelod?

"Savage, brutish people, sir; in general without shoes and stockings,
with coarse features and heads of hair like mops."

"How do they live?"

"The men tinker a little, sir, but more frequently plunder.  The women
tell fortunes, and steal whenever they can."

"They live something like the Gipsiaid."

"Something, sir; but the hen Gipsiaid were gentlefolks in comparison."

"You think the Gipsiaid have been frightened away by the Gwyddelians?"

"I do, sir; the Gwyddelod made their appearance in these parts about
twenty years ago, and since then the Gipsiaid have been rarely seen."

"Are these Gwyddelod poor?"

"By no means, sir; they make large sums by plundering and other means,
with which, 'tis said, they retire at last to their own country or
America, where they buy land and settle down."

"What language do they speak?"

"English, sir; they pride themselves on speaking good English, that is to
the Welsh.  Amongst themselves they discourse in their own Paddy
Gwyddel."

"Have they no Welsh?"

"Only a few words, sir; I never heard one of them speaking Welsh, save a
young girl--she fell sick by the roadside as she was wandering by
herself--some people at a farmhouse took her in, and tended her till she
was well.  During her sickness she took a fancy to their quiet way of
life, and when she was recovered she begged to stay with them and serve
them.  They consented; she became a very good servant, and hearing
nothing but Welsh spoken, soon picked up the tongue."

"Do you know what became of her?"

"I do, sir; her own people found her out, and wished to take her away
with them, but she refused to let them, for by that time she was
perfectly reclaimed, had been to chapel, renounced her heathen crefydd,
and formed an acquaintance with a young Methodist who had a great gift of
prayer, whom she afterwards married--she and her husband live at present
not far from Mineira."

"I almost wonder that her own people did not kill her."

"They threatened to do so, sir, and would doubtless have put their threat
into execution, had they not been prevented by the Man on High."

And here my guide pointed with his finger reverently upward.

"Is it a long time since you have seen any of these Gwyddeliaid?"

"About two months, sir, and then a terrible fright they caused me."

"How was that?"

"I will tell you, sir; I had been across the Berwyn to carry home a piece
of weaving work to a person who employs me.  It was night as I returned,
and when I was about halfway down the hill, at a place which is called
Allt Paddy, because the Gwyddelod are in the habit of taking up their
quarters there, I came upon a gang of them, who had come there and camped
and lighted their fire, whilst I was on the other side of the hill.
There were nearly twenty of them, men and women, and amongst the rest was
a man standing naked in a tub of water with two women stroking him down
with clouts.  He was a large fierce-looking fellow and his body, on which
the flame of the fire glittered, was nearly covered with red hair.  I
never saw such a sight.  As I passed they glared at me and talked
violently in their Paddy Gwyddel, but did not offer to molest me.  I
hastened down the hill, and right glad I was when I found myself safe and
sound at my house in Llangollen, with my money in my pocket, for I had
several shillings there, which the man across the hill had paid me for
the work which I had done."




CHAPTER XV


The Turf Tavern--Don't Understand--The Best Welsh--The Maids of
Merion--Old and New--Ruthyn--The Ash Yggdrasill.

We now emerged from the rough and narrow way which we had followed for
some miles, upon one much wider, and more commodious, which my guide told
me was the coach road from Wrexham to Ruthyn, and going on a little
farther we came to an avenue of trees which shaded the road.  It was
chiefly composed of ash, sycamore and birch, and looked delightfully cool
and shady.  I asked my guide if it belonged to any gentleman's house.  He
told me that it did not, but to a public-house, called Tafarn Tywarch,
which stood near the end, a little way off the road.   "Why is it called
Tafarn Tywarch?" said I, struck by the name which signifies "the tavern
of turf."

"It was called so, sir," said John, "because it was originally merely a
turf hovel, though at present it consists of good brick and mortar."

"Can we breakfast there," said I, "for I feel both hungry and thirsty?"

"Oh yes, sir," said John, "I have heard there is good cheese and cwrw
there."

We turned off to the "tafarn," which was a decent public-house of rather
an antiquated appearance.  We entered a sanded kitchen, and sat down by a
large oaken table.  "Please to bring us some bread, cheese and ale," said
I in Welsh to an elderly woman, who was moving about.

"Sar?" said she.

"Bring us some bread, cheese and ale," I repeated in Welsh.

"I do not understand you, sar," said she in English.

"Are you Welsh?" said I in English.

"Yes, I am Welsh!"

"And can you speak Welsh?"

"Oh yes, and the best."

"Then why did you not bring what I asked for?"

"Because I did not understand you."

"Tell her," said I to John Jones, "to bring us some bread, cheese and
ale."

"Come, aunt," said John, "bring us bread and cheese and a quart of the
best ale."

The woman looked as if she was going to reply in the tongue in which he
addressed her, then faltered, and at last said in English that she did
not understand.

"Now," said I, "you are fairly caught: this man is a Welshman, and
moreover understands no language but Welsh."

"Then how can he understand you?" said she.

"Because I speak Welsh," said I.

"Then you are a Welshman?" said she.

"No I am not," said I, "I am English."

"So I thought," said she, "and on that account I could not understand
you."

"You mean that you would not," said I.  "Now do you choose to bring what
you are bidden?"

"Come, aunt," said John, "don't be silly and cenfigenus, but bring the
breakfast."

The woman stood still for a moment or two, and then biting her lips went
away.

"What made the woman behave in this manner?" said I to my companion.

"Oh, she was cenfigenus, sir," he replied; "she did not like that an
English gentleman should understand Welsh; she was envious; you will find
a dozen or two like her in Wales; but let us hope not more."

Presently the woman returned with the bread, cheese and ale, which she
placed on the table.

"Oh," said I, "you have brought what was bidden, though it was never
mentioned to you in English, which shows that your pretending not to
understand was all a sham.  What made you behave so?"

"Why I thought," said the woman, "that no Englishman could speak Welsh,
that his tongue was too short."

"Your having thought so," said I, "should not have made you tell a
falsehood, saying that you did not understand, when you knew that you
understood very well.  See what a disgraceful figure you cut."

"I cut no disgraced figure," said the woman: "after all, what right have
the English to come here speaking Welsh, which belongs to the Welsh
alone, who in fact are the only people that understand it."

"Are you sure that you understand Welsh?" said I.

"I should think so," said the woman, "for I come from the Vale of Clwyd,
where they speak the best Welsh in the world, the Welsh of the Bible."

"What do they call a salmon in the Vale of Clwyd?" said I.

"What do they call a salmon?" said the woman.  "Yes," said I, "when they
speak Welsh."

"They call it--they call it--why a salmon."

"Pretty Welsh!" said I.  "I thought you did not understand Welsh."

"Well, what do you call it?" said the woman.

"Eawg," said I, "that is the word for a salmon in general--but there are
words also to show the sex--when you speak of a male salmon you should
say cemyw, when of a female hwyfell."

"I never heard the words before," said the woman, "nor do I believe them
to be Welsh."

"You say so," said I, "because you do not understand Welsh."

"I not understand Welsh!" said she.  "I'll soon show you that I do.
Come, you have asked me the word for salmon in Welsh, I will now ask you
the word for salmon-trout.  Now tell me that, and I will say you know
something of the matter."

"A tinker of my country can tell you that," said I.  "The word for
salmon-trout is gleisiad."

The countenance of the woman fell.

"I see you know something about the matter," said she; "there are very
few hereabouts, though so near to the Vale of Clwyd, who know the word
for salmon-trout in Welsh, I shouldn't have known the word myself, but
for the song which says:

    Glan yw'r gleisiad yn y llyn."

"And who wrote that song?" said I.

"I don't know," said the woman.

"But I do," said I; "one Lewis Morris wrote it.'

"Oh," said she, "I have heard all about Huw Morris."

"I was not talking of Huw Morris," said I, "but Lewis Morris, who lived
long after Huw Morris.  He was a native of Anglesea, but resided for some
time in Merionethshire, and whilst there composed a song about the
Morwynion bro Meirionydd or the lasses of County Merion of a great many
stanzas, in one of which the gleisiad is mentioned.  Here it is in
English:

    "'Full fair the gleisiad in the flood,
       Which sparkles 'neath the summer's sun,
    And fair the thrush in green abode
       Spreading his wings in sportive fun,
    But fairer look if truth be spoke,
    The maids of County Merion.'"

The woman was about to reply, but I interrupted her.

"There," said I, "pray leave us to our breakfast, and the next time you
feel inclined to talk nonsense about no Englishman's understanding Welsh,
or knowing anything of Welsh matters, remember that it was an Englishman
who told you the Welsh word for salmon, and likewise the name of the
Welshman who wrote the song in which the gleisiad is mentioned."

The ale was very good and so were the bread and cheese.  The ale indeed
was so good that I ordered a second jug.  Observing a large antique
portrait over the mantel-piece I got up to examine it.  It was that of a
gentleman in a long wig, and underneath it was painted in red letters
"Sir Watkin Wynn: 1742."  It was doubtless the portrait of the Sir Watkin
who, in 1745 was committed to the tower under suspicion of being
suspected of holding Jacobite opinions, and favouring the Pretender.  The
portrait was a very poor daub, but I looked at it long and attentively as
a memorial of Wales at a critical and long past time.

When we had dispatched the second jug of ale, and I had paid the
reckoning, we departed and soon came to where stood a turnpike house at a
junction of two roads, to each of which was a gate.

"Now, sir," said John Jones, "the way straight forward is the ffordd
newydd, and the one on our right hand is the hen ffordd.  Which shall we
follow, the new or the old?"

"There is a proverb in the Gerniweg," said I, "which was the language of
my forefathers, saying, 'ne'er leave the old way for the new,' we will
therefore go by the hen ffordd."

"Very good, sir," said my guide, "that is the path I always go, for it is
the shortest."  So we turned to the right and followed the old road.
Perhaps, however, it would have been well had we gone by the new, for the
hen ffordd was a very dull and uninteresting road, whereas the ffordd
newydd, as I long subsequently found, is one of the grandest passes in
Wales.  After we had walked a short distance my guide said, "Now, sir, if
you will turn a little way to the left hand I will show you a house,
built in the old style, such a house, sir, as I daresay the original turf
tavern was."  Then leading me a little way from the road he showed me,
under a hollow bank, a small cottage covered with flags.

"That is a house, sir, built yn yr hen dull in the old fashion, of earth,
flags and wattles and in one night.  It was the custom of old when a
house was to be built, for the people to assemble, and to build it in one
night of common materials, close at hand.  The custom is not quite dead.
I was at the building of this myself, and a merry building it was.  The
cwrw da passed quickly about among the builders, I assure you."  We
returned to the road, and when we had ascended a hill, my companion told
me that if I looked to the left I should see the Vale of Clwyd.

I looked and perceived an extensive valley pleasantly dotted with trees
and farm-houses, and bounded on the west by a range of hills.

"It is a fine valley, sir," said my guide, "four miles wide and twenty
long, and contains the richest land in all Wales.  Cheese made in that
valley, sir, fetches a penny a pound more than cheese made in any other
valley."

"And who owns it?" said I.

"Various are the people who own it, sir, but Sir Watkin owns the greater
part."

We went on, passed by a village called Craig Vychan, where we saw a
number of women washing at a fountain, and by a gentle descent soon
reached the Vale of Clwyd.

After walking about a mile we left the road and proceeded by a footpath
across some meadows.  The meadows were green and delightful and were
intersected by a beautiful stream.  Trees in abundance were growing
about, some of which were oaks.  We passed by a little white chapel with
a small graveyard before it, which my guide told me belonged to the
Baptists, and shortly afterwards reached Ruthyn.

We went to an inn called the Crossed Foxes, where we refreshed ourselves
with ale.  We then sallied forth to look about, after I had ordered a
duck to be got ready for dinner, at three o'clock.  Ruthyn stands on a
hill above the Clwyd, which in the summer is a mere brook, but in the
winter a considerable stream, being then fed with the watery tribute of a
hundred hills.  About three miles to the north is a range of lofty
mountains, dividing the shire of Denbigh from that of Flint, amongst
which, almost parallel with the town, and lifting its head high above the
rest, is the mighty Moel Vamagh, the mother heap, which I had seen from
Chester.  Ruthyn is a dull town, but it possessed plenty of interest to
me, for as I strolled with my guide about the streets I remembered that I
was treading the ground which the wild bands of Glendower had trod, and
where the great struggle commenced, which for fourteen years convulsed
Wales, and for some time shook England to its centre.  After I had
satisfied myself with wandering about the town we proceeded to the
castle.

The original castle suffered terribly in the civil wars; it was held for
wretched Charles, and was nearly demolished by the cannon of Cromwell,
which were planted on a hill about half a mile distant.  The present
castle is partly modern and partly ancient.  It belongs to a family of
the name of W--- who reside in the modern part, and who have the
character of being kind, hospitable and intellectual people.  We only
visited the ancient part, over which we were shown by a woman, who
hearing us speaking Welsh, spoke Welsh herself during the whole time she
was showing us about.  She showed us dark passages, a gloomy apartment in
which Welsh kings and great people had been occasionally confined, that
strange memorial of the good old times, a drowning pit, and a large
prison room, in the middle of which stood a singular-looking column,
scrawled with odd characters, which had of yore been used for a
whipping-post, another memorial of the good old baronial times, so dear
to romance readers and minds of sensibility.  Amongst other things which
our conductor showed us was an immense onen or ash; it stood in one of
the courts and measured, as she said, pedwar y haner o ladd yn ei gwmpas,
or four yards and a half in girth.  As I gazed on the mighty tree I
thought of the Ash Yggdrasill mentioned in the Voluspa, or prophecy of
Vola, that venerable poem which contains so much relating to the
mythology of the ancient Norse.

We returned to the inn and dined.  The duck was capital, and I asked John
Jones if he had ever tasted a better.  "Never, sir," said he, "for to
tell you the truth, I never tasted a duck before."  "Rather singular,"
said I.  "What, that I should not have tasted duck?  Oh, sir, the
singularity is, that I should now be tasting duck.  Duck in Wales, sir,
is not fare for poor weavers.  This is the first duck I ever tasted, and
though I never taste another, as I probably never shall, I may consider
myself a fortunate weaver, for I can now say I have tasted duck once in
my life.  Few weavers in Wales are ever able to say as much."




CHAPTER XVI


Baptist Tomb-Stone--The Toll-Bar--Rebecca--The Guitar.

The sun was fast declining as we left Ruthyn.  We retraced our steps
across the fields.  When we came to the Baptist Chapel I got over the
wall of the little yard to look at the grave-stones.  There were only
three.  The inscriptions upon them were all in Welsh.  The following
stanza was on the stone of Jane, the daughter of Elizabeth Williams, who
died on the second of May, 1843:

    "Er myn'd i'r oerllyd annedd
    Dros dymher hir i orwedd,
    Cwyd i'r lan o'r gwely bridd
    Ac hyfryd fydd ei hagwedd."

which is

    "Though thou art gone to dwelling cold
       To lie in mould for many a year,
    Thou shalt, at length, from earthy bed,
       Uplift thy head to blissful sphere."

As we went along I stopped to gaze at a singular-looking hill forming
part of the mountain range on the east.  I asked John Jones what its name
was, but he did not know.  As we were standing talking about it, a lady
came up from the direction in which our course lay.  John Jones, touching
his hat to her, said:

"Madam, this gwr boneddig wishes to know the name of that moel, perhaps
you can tell him."

"Its name is Moel Agrik," said the lady, addressing me in English.

"Does that mean Agricola's hill?" said I.

"It does," said she, "and there is a tradition that the Roman General
Agricola, when he invaded these parts, pitched his camp on that moel.
The hill is spoken of by Pennant."

"Thank you, madam," said I; "perhaps you can tell me the name of the
delightful grounds in which we stand, supposing they have a name?"

"They are called Oaklands," said the lady.

"A very proper name," said I, "for there is plenty of oaks growing about.
But why are they called by a Saxon name, for Oaklands is Saxon?"

"Because," said the lady, "when the grounds were first planted with trees
they belonged to an English family."

"Thank you," said I, and, taking off my hat, I departed with my guide.  I
asked him her name, but he could not tell me.  Before she was out of
sight, however, we met a labourer of whom John Jones enquired her name.

"Her name is W---s," said the man, "and a good lady she is."

"Is she Welsh?" said I.

"Pure Welsh, master," said the man.  "Purer Welsh flesh and blood need
not be."

Nothing farther worth relating occurred till we reached the toll-bar at
the head of the hen ffordd, by which time the sun was almost gone down.
We found the master of the gate, his wife and son seated on a bench
before the door.  The woman had a large book on her lap, in which she was
reading by the last light of the departing orb.  I gave the group the
sele of the evening in English, which they all returned, the woman
looking up from her book.

"Is that volume the Bible?" said I.

"It is, sir," said the woman.

"May I look at it?" said I.

"Certainly," said the woman, and placed the book in my hand.  It was a
magnificent Welsh Bible, but without the title-page.

"That book must be a great comfort to you," said I to her.

"Very great," said she.  "I know not what we should do without it in the
long winter evenings."

"Of what faith are you?" said I.

"We are Methodists," she replied.

"Then you are of the same faith as my friend here," said I.

"Yes, yes," said she, "we are aware of that.  We all know honest John
Jones."

After we had left the gate I asked John Jones whether he had ever heard
of Rebecca of the toll-gates.

"Oh, yes," said he; "I have heard of that chieftainess."

"And who was she?" said I.

"I cannot say, sir; I never saw her, nor any one who had seen her.  Some
say that there were a hundred Rebeccas, and all of them men dressed in
women's clothes, who went about at night, at the head of bands to break
the gates.  Ah, sir, something of the kind was almost necessary at that
time.  I am a friend of peace, sir, no head-breaker, house-breaker, nor
gate-breaker, but I can hardly blame what was done at that time, under
the name of Rebecca.  You have no idea how the poor Welsh were oppressed
by those gates, aye, and the rich too.  The little people and farmers
could not carry their produce to market owing to the exactions at the
gates, which devoured all the profit and sometimes more.  So that the
markets were not half supplied, and people with money could frequently
not get what they wanted.  Complaints were made to government, which not
being attended to, Rebecca and her byddinion made their appearance at
night, and broke the gates to pieces with sledge-hammers, and everybody
said it was gallant work, everybody save the keepers of the gates and the
proprietors.  Not only the poor but the rich, said so.  Aye, and I have
heard that many a fine young gentleman had a hand in the work, and went
about at night at the head of a band dressed as Rebecca.  Well, sir,
those breakings were acts of violence, I don't deny, but they did good,
for the system is altered; such impositions are no longer practised at
gates as were before the time of Rebecca."

"Were any people ever taken up and punished for those nocturnal
breakings?" said I.

"No, sir; and I have heard say that nobody's being taken up was a proof
that the rich approved of the work and had a hand in it."

Night had come on by the time we reached the foot of the huge hills we
had crossed in the morning.  We toiled up the ascent, and after crossing
the level ground on the top, plunged down the bwlch between walking and
running, occasionally stumbling, for we were nearly in complete darkness,
and the bwlch was steep and stony.  We more than once passed people who
gave us the n's da, the hissing night salutation of the Welsh.  At length
I saw the Abbey looming amidst the darkness, and John Jones said that, we
were just above the fountain.  We descended, and putting my head down I
drank greedily of the dwr santaidd, my guide following my example.  We
then proceeded on our way, and in about half-an-hour reached Llangollen.
I took John Jones home with me.  We had a cheerful cup of tea.  Henrietta
played on the guitar, and sang a Spanish song, to the great delight of
John Jones, who at about ten o'clock departed contented and happy to his
own dwelling.




CHAPTER XVII


John Jones and his Bundle--A Good Lady--The Irishman's Dingle--Ab Gwilym
and the Mist--The Kitchen--The Two Individuals--The Horse-Dealer--I can
manage him--The Mist Again.

The following day was gloomy.  In the evening John Jones made his
appearance with a bundle under his arm, and an umbrella in his hand.

"Sir," said he, "I am going across the mountain with it piece of weaving
work, for the man on the other side, who employs me.  Perhaps you would
like to go with me, as you are fond of walking."

"I suppose," said I, "you wish to have my company for fear of meeting
Gwyddelians on the hill."

John smiled.

"Well, sir," said he, "if I do meet them I would sooner be with company
than without.  But I dare venture by myself, trusting in the Man on High,
and perhaps I do wrong to ask you to go, as you must be tired with your
walk of yesterday."

"Hardly more than yourself," said I.  "Come; I shall be glad to go.  What
I said about the Gwyddelians was only in jest."

As we were about to depart John said:

"It does not rain at present, sir, but I think it will.  You had better
take an umbrella."

I did so, and away we went.  We passed over the bridge, and turning to
the right went by the back of the town through a field.  As we passed by
the Plas Newydd John Jones said:

"No one lives there now, sir; all dark and dreary; very different from
the state of things when the ladies lived there--all gay then and
cheerful.  I remember the ladies, sir, particularly the last, who lived
by herself after her companion died.  She was a good lady, and very kind
to the poor; when they came to her gate they were never sent away without
something to cheer them.  She was a grand lady too--kept grand company,
and used to be drawn about in a coach by four horses.  But she too is
gone, and the house is cold and empty; no fire in it, sir; no furniture.
There was an auction after her death; and a grand auction it was and
lasted four days.  Oh, what a throng of people there was, some of whom
came from a great distance to buy the curious things, of which there were
plenty."

We passed over a bridge, which crosses a torrent, which descends from the
mountain on the south side of Llangollen, which bridge John Jones told me
was called the bridge of the Melin Bac, or mill of the nook, from a mill
of that name close by.  Continuing our way we came to a glen, down which
the torrent comes which passes under the bridge.  There was little water
in the bed of the torrent, and we crossed easily enough by
stepping-stones.  I looked up the glen; a wild place enough, its sides
overgrown with trees.  Dreary and dismal it looked in the gloom of the
closing evening.  John Jones said that there was no regular path up it,
and that one could only get along by jumping from stone to stone, at the
hazard of breaking one's legs.  Having passed over the bed of the
torrent, we came to a path, which led up the mountain.  The path was very
steep and stony; the glen with its trees and darkness on our right.  We
proceeded some way.  At length John Jones pointed to a hollow lane on our
right, seemingly leading into the glen.

"That place, sir," said he, "is called Pant y Gwyddel--the Irishman's
dingle, and sometimes Pant Paddy, from the Irish being fond of taking up
their quarters there.  It was just here, at the entrance of the pant,
that the tribe were encamped, when I passed two months ago at night, in
returning from the other side of the hill with ten shillings in my
pocket, which I had been paid for a piece of my work, which I had carried
over the mountain to the very place where I am now carrying this.  I
shall never forget the fright I was in, both on account of my life, and
my ten shillings.  I ran down what remained of the hill as fast as I
could, not minding the stones.  Should I meet a tribe now on my return I
shall not run; you will be with me, and I shall not fear for my life nor
for my money, which will be now more than ten shillings, provided the man
over the hills pays me, as I have no doubt he will."

As we ascended higher we gradually diverged from the glen, though we did
not lose sight of it till we reached the top of the mountain.  The top
was nearly level.  On our right were a few fields enclosed with stone
walls.  On our left was an open space where whin, furze and heath were
growing.  We passed over the summit, and began to descend by a tolerably
good, though steep road.  But for the darkness of evening and a drizzling
mist, which, for some time past, had been coming on, we should have
enjoyed a glorious prospect down into the valley, or perhaps I should say
that I should have enjoyed a glorious prospect, for John Jones, like a
true mountaineer, cared not a brass farthing for prospects.  Even as it
was, noble glimpses of wood and rock were occasionally to be obtained.
The mist soon wetted us to the skin notwithstanding that we put up our
umbrellas.  It was a regular Welsh mist, a niwl, like that in which the
great poet Ab Gwilym lost his way, whilst trying to keep an assignation
with his beloved Morfydd, and which he abuses in the following manner:--

    "O ho! thou villain mist, O ho!
    What plea hast thou to plague me so?
    I scarcely know a scurril name,
    But dearly thou deserv'st the same;
    Thou exhalation from the deep
    Unknown, where ugly spirits keep!
    Thou smoke from hellish stews uphurl'd
    To mock and mortify the world!
    Thou spider-web of giant race,
    Spun out and spread through airy space!
    Avaunt, thou filthy, clammy thing,
    Of sorry rain the source and spring!
    Moist blanket dripping misery down,
    Loathed alike by land and town!
    Thou watery monster, wan to see,
    Intruding 'twixt the sun and me,
    To rob me of my blessed right,
    To turn my day to dismal night.
    Parent of thieves and patron best,
    They brave pursuit within thy breast!
    Mostly from thee its merciless snow
    Grim January doth glean, I trow.
    Pass off with speed, thou prowler pale,
    Holding along o'er hill and dale,
    Spilling a noxious spittle round,
    Spoiling the fairies' sporting ground!
    Move off to hell, mysterious haze;
    Wherein deceitful meteors blaze;
    Thou wild of vapour, vast, o'ergrown,
    Huge as the ocean of unknown."

As we descended, the path became more steep; it was particularly so at a
part where it was overshadowed with trees on both sides.  Here, finding
walking very uncomfortable, my knees suffering much, I determined to run.
So shouting to John Jones, "Nis gallav gerdded rhaid rhedeg," I set off
running down the pass.  My companion followed close behind, and luckily
meeting no mischance, we presently found ourselves on level ground,
amongst a collection of small houses.  On our turning a corner a church
appeared on our left hand on the slope of the hill.  In the churchyard,
and close to the road, grew a large yew-tree which flung its boughs far
on every side.  John Jones stopping by the tree said, that if I looked
over the wall of the yard I should see the tomb of a Lord Dungannon, who
had been a great benefactor to the village.  I looked, and through the
lower branches of the yew, which hung over part of the churchyard, I saw
what appeared to be a mausoleum.  Jones told me that in the church also
there was the tomb of a great person of the name of Tyrwhitt.

We passed on by various houses till we came nearly to the bottom of the
valley.  Jones then pointing to a large house, at a little distance on
the right, told me that it was a good gwesty, and advised me to go and
refresh myself in it, whilst he went and carried home his work to the man
who employed him, who he said lived in a farm-house a few hundred yards
off.  I asked him where we were.

"At Llyn Ceiriog," he replied.

I then asked if we were near Pont Fadog; and received for answer that
Pont Fadog was a good way down the valley, to the north-east, and that we
could not see it owing to a hill which intervened.

Jones went his way and I proceeded to the gwestfa, the door of which
stood invitingly open.  I entered a large kitchen, at one end of which a
good fire was burning in a grate, in front of which was a long table, and
a high settle on either side.  Everything looked very comfortable.  There
was nobody in the kitchen: on my calling, however, a girl came, whom I
bade in Welsh to bring me a pint of the best ale.  The girl stared, but
went away apparently to fetch it--presently came the landlady, a
good-looking middle-aged woman.  I saluted her in Welsh and then asked
her if she could speak English.  She replied "Tipyn bach," which
interpreted, is, a little bit.  I soon, however, found that she could
speak it very passably, for two men coming in from the rear of the house
she conversed with them in English.  These two individuals seated
themselves on chairs near the door, and called for beer.  The girl
brought in the ale, and I sat down by the fire, poured myself out a
glass, and made myself comfortable.  Presently a gig drove up to the
door, and in came a couple of dogs, one a tall black grey-hound, the
other a large female setter, the coat of the latter dripping with rain,
and shortly after two men from the gig entered; one who appeared to be
the principal was a stout bluff-looking person between fifty and sixty,
dressed in a grey stuff coat and with a slouched hat on his head.  This
man bustled much about, and in a broad Yorkshire dialect ordered a fire
to be lighted in another room, and a chamber to be prepared for him and
his companion; the landlady, who appeared to know him, and to treat him
with a kind of deference, asked if she should prepare two beds; whereupon
he answered "No!  As we came together and shall start together, so shall
we sleep together; it will not be for the first time."

His companion was a small mean-looking man, dressed in a black coat, and
behaved to him with no little respect.  Not only the landlady, but the
two men, of whom I have previously spoken, appeared to know him and to
treat him with deference.  He and his companion presently went out to see
after the horse.  After a little time they returned, and the stout man
called lustily for two fourpennyworths of brandy and water--"Take it into
the other room!" said he, and went into a side room with his companion,
but almost immediately came out saying that the room smoked and was cold,
and that he preferred sitting in the kitchen.  He then took his seat near
me, and when the brandy was brought drank to my health.  I said thank
you, but nothing farther.  He then began talking to the men and his
companion upon indifferent subjects.  After a little time John Jones came
in, called for a glass of ale, and at my invitation seated himself
between me and the stout personage.  The latter addressed him roughly in
English, but receiving no answer said, "Ah, you no understand.  You have
no English and I no Welsh."

"You have not mastered Welsh yet Mr ---" said one of the men to him.

"No!" said he: "I have been doing business with the Welsh forty years,
but can't speak a word of their language.  I sometimes guess at a word,
spoken in the course of business, but am never sure."

Presently John Jones began talking to me, saying that he had been to the
river, that the water was very low, and that there was little but stones
in the bed of the stream.

I told him if its name was Ceiriog no wonder there were plenty of stones
in it, Ceiriog being derived from Cerrig, a rock.  The men stared to hear
me speak Welsh.

"Is the gentleman a Welshman?" said one of the men, near the door, to his
companion; "he seems to speak Welsh very well."

"How should I know?" said the other, who appeared to be a low working
man.

"Who are those people?" said I to John Jones.

"The smaller man is a workman at a flannel manufactory," said Jones.
"The other I do not exactly know."

"And who is the man on the other side of you?" said I.

"I believe he is an English dealer in gigs and horses," replied Jones,
"and that he is come here either to buy or sell."

The man, however, soon put me out of all doubt with respect to his
profession.

"I was at Chirk," said he; "and Mr So-and-so asked me to have a look at
his new gig and horse, and have a ride.  I consented.  They were both
brought out--everything new; gig new, harness new, and horse new.  Mr
So-and-so asked me what I thought of his turn-out.  I gave a look and
said, 'I like the car very well, harness very well, but I don't like the
horse at all; a regular bolter, rearer and kicker, or I'm no judge;
moreover, he's pigeon-toed.'  However, we all got on the car--four of us,
and I was of course complimented with the ribbons.  Well, we hadn't gone
fifty yards before the horse, to make my words partly good, began to kick
like a new 'un.  However, I managed him, and he went on for a couple of
miles till we got to the top of the hill, just above the descent with the
precipice on the right hand.  Here he began to rear like a very devil.

"'Oh dear me!' says Mr So-and-so; 'let me get out!'

"'Keep where you are,' says I, 'I can manage him.'

"However, Mr So-and-so would not be ruled, and got out; coming down, not
on his legs, but his hands and knees.  And then the two others said--

"'Let us get out!'

"'Keep where you are,' said I, 'I can manage him.'

"But they must needs get out, or rather tumble out, for they both came
down on the road, hard on their backs.

"'Get out yourself,' said they all, 'and let the devil go, or you are a
done man.'

"'Getting out may do for you young hands,' says I, 'but it won't do for
I; neither my back nor bones will stand the hard road.'

"Mr So-and-so ran to the horse's head.

"'Are you mad?' says I, 'if you try to hold him he'll be over the
pree-si-pice in a twinkling, and then where am I?  Give him head; I can
manage him.'

"So Mr So-and-so got out of the way, and down flew the horse right down
the descent, as fast as he could gallop.  I tell you what, I didn't half
like it!  A pree-si-pice on my right, the rock on my left, and a devil
before me, going, like a cannon-ball, right down the hill.  However, I
contrived, as I said I would, to manage him; kept the car from the rock
and from the edge of the gulf too.  Well, just when we had come to the
bottom of the hill out comes the people running from the inn, almost
covering the road.

"'Now get out of the way,' I shouts, 'if you don't wish to see your
brains knocked out, and what would be worse, mine too.'

"So they gets out of the way, and on I spun, I and my devil.  But by this
time I had nearly taken the devil out of him.  Well, he hadn't gone fifty
yards on the level ground, when, what do you think he did? why, went
regularly over, tumbled down regularly on the road, even as I knew he
would some time or other, because why? he was pigeon-toed.  Well, I gets
out of the gig, and no sooner did Mr So-and-so come up than I says--

"'I likes your car very well, and I likes your harness, but--me if I
likes your horse, and it will be some time before you persuade me to
drive him again.'"

I am a great lover of horses, and an admirer of good driving, and should
have wished to have some conversation with this worthy person about
horses and their management.  I should also have wished to ask him some
questions about Wales and the Welsh, as he must have picked up a great
deal of curious information about both in his forty years' traffic,
notwithstanding he did not know a word of Welsh, but John Jones prevented
my further tarrying by saying, that it would be as well to get over the
mountain before it was entirely dark.  So I got up, paid for my ale,
vainly endeavoured to pay for that of my companion, who insisted upon
paying for what he had ordered, made a general bow and departed from the
house, leaving the horse-dealer and the rest staring at each other and
wondering who we were, or at least who I was.  We were about to ascend
the hill when John Jones asked me whether I should not like to see the
bridge and the river.  I told him I should.  The bridge and the river
presented nothing remarkable.  The former was of a single arch; and the
latter anything but abundant in its flow.

We now began to retrace our steps over the mountain.  At first the mist
appeared to be nearly cleared away.  As we proceeded, however, large
sheets began to roll up the mountain sides, and by the time we reached
the summit were completely shrouded in vapour.  The night, however, was
not very dark, and we found our way tolerably well, though once in
descending I had nearly tumbled into the nant or dingle, now on our left
hand.  The bushes and trees, seen indistinctly through the mist, had
something the look of goblins, and brought to my mind the elves, which Ab
Gwilym of old saw, or thought he saw, in a somewhat similar situation:--

    "In every hollow dingle stood
    Of wry-mouth'd elves a wrathful brood."

Drenched to the skin, but uninjured in body and limb, we at length
reached Llangollen.




CHAPTER XVIII


Venerable Old Gentleman--Surnames in Wales--Russia and Britain--Church of
England--Yriarte--The Eagle and his Young--Poets of the Gael--The
Oxonian--Master Salisburie.

My wife had told me that she had had some conversation upon the Welsh
language and literature with a venerable old man, who kept a shop in the
town, that she had informed him that I was very fond of both, and that he
had expressed a great desire to see me.  One afternoon I said: "Let us go
and pay a visit to your old friend of the shop.  I think from two or
three things which you have told me about him, that he must be worth
knowing."  We set out.  She conducted me across the bridge a little way;
then presently turning to the left into the principal street, she entered
the door of a shop on the left-hand side, over the top of which was
written: "Jones; Provision Dealer and General Merchant."  The shop was
small, with two little counters, one on each side.  Behind one was a
young woman, and behind the other a venerable-looking old man.

"I have brought my husband to visit you," said my wife, addressing
herself to him.

"I am most happy to see him," said the old gentleman, making me a polite
bow.

He then begged that we would do him the honour to walk into his parlour,
and led us into a little back room, the window of which looked out upon
the Dee a few yards below the bridge.  On the left side of the room was a
large case, well stored with books.  He offered us chairs, and we all sat
down.  I was much struck with the old man.  He was rather tall, and
somewhat inclined to corpulency.  His hair was grey; his forehead high;
his nose aquiline; his eyes full of intelligence; whilst his manners were
those of a perfect gentleman.

I entered into conversation by saying that I supposed his name was Jones,
as I had observed that name over the door.

"Jones is the name I bear at your service, sir," he replied.

I said that it was a very common name in Wales, as I knew several people
who bore it, and observed that most of the surnames in Wales appeared to
be modifications of Christian names; for example Jones, Roberts, Edwards,
Humphreys, and likewise Pugh, Powel, and Probert, which were nothing more
than the son of Hugh, the son of Howel, and the son of Robert.  He said I
was right, that there were very few real surnames in Wales; that the
three great families, however, had real surnames; for that Wynn, Morgan
and Bulkley were all real surnames.  I asked him whether the Bulkleys of
Anglesea were not originally an English family.  He said they were, and
that they settled down in Anglesea in the time of Elizabeth.

After some minutes my wife got up and left us.  The old gentleman and I
had then some discourse in Welsh; we soon, however, resumed speaking
English.  We got on the subject of Welsh bards, and after a good deal of
discourse the old gentleman said:

"You seem to know something about Welsh poetry; can you tell me who wrote
the following line?

    "'There will be great doings in Britain, and
          I shall have no concern in them.'"

"I will not be positive," said I, "but I think from its tone and tenor
that it was composed by Merddyn, whom my countrymen call Merlin."

"I believe you are right," said the old gentleman, "I see you know
something of Welsh poetry.  I met the line, a long time ago, in a Welsh
grammar.  It then made a great impression upon me, and of late it has
always been ringing in my ears.  I love Britain.  Britain has just
engaged in a war with a mighty country, and I am apprehensive of the
consequences.  I am old, upwards of four-score, and shall probably not
live to see the evil, if evil happens, as I fear it will--'There will be
strange doings in Britain, but they will not concern me.'  I cannot get
the line out of my head."

I told him that the line probably related to the progress of the Saxons
in Britain, but that I did not wonder that it made an impression upon him
at the present moment.  I said, however, that we ran no risk from Russia;
that the only power at all dangerous to Britain was France, which though
at present leagued with her against Russia, would eventually go to war
with and strive to subdue her, and then of course Britain could expect no
help from Russia, her old friend and ally, who, if Britain had not
outraged her, would have assisted her, in any quarrel or danger, with
four or five hundred thousand men.  I said that I hoped neither he nor I
should see a French invasion, but I had no doubt one would eventually
take place, and that then Britain must fight stoutly, as she had no one
to expect help from but herself; that I wished she might be able to hold
her own, but--

"Strange things will happen in Britain, though they will concern me
nothing," said the old gentleman with a sigh.

On my expressing a desire to know something of his history, he told me
that he was the son of a small farmer, who resided at some distance from
Llangollen; that he lost his father at an early age, and was obliged to
work hard, even when a child, in order to assist his mother who had some
difficulty, after the death of his father, in keeping things together;
that though he was obliged to work hard he had been fond of study, and
used to pore over Welsh and English books by the glimmering light of the
turf fire at night, for that his mother could not afford to allow him
anything in the shape of a candle to read by; that at his mother's death
he left rural labour, and coming to Llangollen, commenced business in the
little shop in which he was at present; that he had been married, and had
children, but that his wife and family were dead; that the young woman
whom I had seen in the shop, and who took care of his house, was a
relation of his wife; that though he had always been attentive to
business, he had never abandoned study; that he had mastered his own
language, of which he was passionately fond, and had acquired a good
knowledge of English and of some other languages.  That his fondness for
literature had shortly after his arrival at Llangollen attracted the
notice of some of the people, who encouraged him in his studies, and
assisted him by giving him books; that the two celebrated ladies of
Llangollen had particularly noticed him; that he held the situation of
church clerk for upwards of forty years, and that it was chiefly owing to
the recommendation of the "great ladies" that he had obtained it.  He
then added with a sigh, that about ten years ago he was obliged to give
it up, owing to something the matter with his eyesight, which prevented
him from reading, and, that his being obliged to give it up was a source
of bitter grief to him, as he had always considered it a high honour to
be permitted to assist in the service of the Church of England, in the
principles of which he had been bred, and in whose doctrines he firmly
believed.

Here shaking him by the hand, I said that I too had been bred up in the
principles of the Church of England; that I too firmly believed in its
doctrines, and would maintain with my blood, if necessary, that there was
not such another church in the world.

"So would I," said the old gentleman; "where is there a church in whose
liturgy there is so much Scripture as in that of the Church of England?"

"Pity," said I, "that so many traitors have lately sprung up in its
ministry."

"If it be so," said the old church clerk, "they have not yet shown
themselves in the pulpit at Llangollen.  All the clergymen who have held
the living in my time have been excellent.  The present incumbent is a
model of a Church-of-England clergyman.  Oh, how I regret that the state
of my eyes prevents me from officiating as clerk beneath him."

I told him that I should never from the appearance of his eyes have
imagined that they were not excellent ones.

"I can see to walk about with them, and to distinguish objects," said the
old gentleman; "but see to read with them I cannot.  Even with the help
of the most powerful glasses I cannot distinguish a letter.  I believe I
strained my eyes at a very early age, when striving to read at night by
the glimmer of the turf fire in my poor mother's chimney corner.  Oh what
an affliction is this state of my eyes!  I can't turn my books to any
account, nor read the newspapers; but I repeat that I chiefly lament it
because it prevents me from officiating as under-preacher."

He showed me his books.  Seeing amongst them "The Fables of Yriarte" in
Spanish, I asked how they came into his possession.

"They were presented to me," said he, "by one of the ladies of
Llangollen, Lady Eleanor Butler."

"Have you ever read them?" said I.

"No," he replied; "I do not understand a word of Spanish; but I suppose
her ladyship, knowing I was fond of languages, thought that I might one
day set about learning Spanish, and that then they might be useful to
me."

He then asked me if I knew Spanish, and on my telling him that I had some
knowledge of that language, he asked me to translate some of the fables.
I translated two of them, which pleased him much.

I then asked if he had ever heard of a collection of Welsh fables
compiled about the year thirteen hundred.  He said that he had not, and
inquired whether they had ever been printed.  I told him that some had
appeared in the old Welsh magazine called "The Greal."

"I wish you would repeat one of them," said the old clerk.

"Here is one," said I, "which particularly struck me:--

"It is the custom of the eagle, when his young are sufficiently old, to
raise them up above his nest in the direction of the sun; and the bird
which has strength enough of eye to look right in the direction of the
sun, he keeps and nourishes, but the one which has not, he casts down
into the gulf to its destruction.  So does the Lord deal with His
children in the Catholic Church Militant: those whom He sees worthy to
serve Him in godliness and spiritual goodness He keeps with Him and
nourishes, but those who are not worthy from being addicted to earthly
things, He casts out into utter darkness, where there is weeping and
gnashing of teeth."

The old gentleman, after a moment's reflection, said it was a clever
fable, but an unpleasant one.  It was hard for poor birds to be flung
into a gulf, for not having power of eye sufficient to look full in the
face of the sun, and likewise hard that poor human creatures should be
lost for ever, for not doing that which they had no power to do.

"Perhaps," said I, "the eagle does not deal with his chicks, or the Lord
with His creatures as the fable represents."

"Let us hope at any rate," said the old gentleman, "that the Lord does
not."

"Have you ever seen this book?" said he, and put Smith's "Sean Dana" into
my hand.

"Oh, yes," said I, "and have gone through it.  It contains poems in the
Gaelic language by Oisin and others, collected in the Highlands.  I went
through it a long time ago with great attention.  Some of the poems are
wonderfully beautiful."

"They are so," said the old clerk.  "I too have gone through the book; it
was presented to me a great many years ago by a lady to whom I gave some
lessons in the Welsh language.  I went through it with the assistance of
a Gaelic grammar and dictionary, which she also presented to me, and I
was struck with the high tone of the poetry."

"This collection is valuable indeed," said I; "it contains poems, which
not only possess the highest merit, but serve to confirm the authenticity
of the poems of Ossian, published by Macpherson, so often called in
question.  All the pieces here attributed to Ossian are written in the
same metre, tone, and spirit, as those attributed to him in the other
collection, so if Macpherson's Ossianic poems, which he said were
collected by him in the Highlands, are forgeries, Smith's Ossianic poems,
which, according to his account, were also collected in the Highlands,
must be also forged, and have been imitated from those published by the
other.  Now as it is well known that Smith did not possess sufficient
poetic power to produce any imitation of Macpherson's Ossian, with a
tenth part the merit which the "Sean Dana" possess, and that even if he
had possessed it, his principles would not have allowed him to attempt to
deceive the world by imposing forgeries upon it, as the authentic poems
of another, he being a highly respectable clergyman, the necessary
conclusion is that the Ossianic poems which both published are genuine,
and collected in the manner in which both stated they were."

After a little more discourse about Ossian, the old gentleman asked me if
there was any good modern Gaelic poetry.  "None very modern," said I:
"the last great poets of the Gael were Macintyre and Buchanan, who
flourished about the middle of the last century.  The first sang of love
and of Highland scenery; the latter was a religious poet.  The best piece
of Macintyre is an ode to Ben Dourain, or the Hill of the Water-dogs--a
mountain in the Highlands.  The master-piece of Buchanan is his La
Breitheanas or Day of Judgment, which is equal in merit, or nearly so, to
the Cywydd y Farn, or Judgment Day of your own immortal Gronwy Owen.
Singular that the two best pieces on the Day of Judgment should have been
written in two Celtic dialects, and much about the same time; but such is
the fact."

"Really," said the old church clerk, "you seem to know something of
Celtic literature."

"A little," said I; "I am a bit of a philologist; and when studying
languages dip a little into the literature which they contain."

As I had heard him say that he had occasionally given lessons in the
Welsh language, I inquired whether any of his pupils had made much
progress in it.  "The generality," said he, "soon became tired of its
difficulties, and gave it up without making any progress at all.  Two or
three got on tolerably well.  One, however, acquired it in a time so
short that it might be deemed marvellous.  He was an Oxonian, and came
down with another in the vacation in order to study hard against the
yearly collegiate examination.  He and his friend took lodgings at
Pengwern Hall, then a farm-house, and studied and walked about for some
time, as other young men from college, who come down here, are in the
habit of doing.  One day he and his friend came to me, who was then
clerk, and desired to see the interior of the church.  So I took the key
and went with them into the church.  When he came to the altar he took up
the large Welsh Common Prayer-Book, which was lying there, and looked
into it.  'A curious language this Welsh,' said he; 'I should like to
learn it.'  'Many have wished to learn it, without being able,' said I;
'it is no easy language.'  'I should like to try,' he replied; 'I wish I
could find some one who would give me a few lessons.'  'I have
occasionally given instructions in Welsh,' said I, 'and shall be happy to
oblige you.'  Well, it was agreed that he should take lessons of me; and
to my house he came every evening, and I gave him what instructions I
could.  I was astonished at his progress.  He acquired the pronunciation
in a lesson, and within a week was able to construe and converse.  By the
time he left Llangollen, and he was not here in all more than two months,
he understood the Welsh Bible as well as I did, and could speak Welsh so
well that the Welsh, who did not know him, took him to be one of
themselves, for he spoke the language with the very tone and manner of a
native.  Oh, he was the cleverest man for language that I ever knew; not
a word that he heard did he ever forget."

"Just like Mezzofanti," said I, "the great cardinal philologist.  But
whilst learning Welsh, did he not neglect his collegiate studies?"

"Well, I was rather apprehensive on that point," said the old gentleman,
"but mark the event.  At the examination he came off most brilliantly in
Latin, Greek, mathematics, and other things too; in fact, a double
first-class man, as I think they call it."

"I have never heard of so extraordinary an individual," said I.  "I could
no more have done what you say he did, than I could have taken wings and
flown.  Pray, what was his name?"

"His name," said the old gentleman, "was Earl."

I was much delighted with my new acquaintance, and paid him frequent
visits; the more I saw him the more he interested me.  He was kind and
benevolent, a good old Church of England Christian, was well versed in
several dialects of the Celtic, and possessed an astonishing deal of
Welsh heraldic and antiquarian lore.  Often whilst discoursing with him I
almost fancied that I was with Master Salisburie, Vaughan of Hengwrt, or
some other worthy of old, deeply skilled in everything remarkable
connected with wild "Camber's Lande."




CHAPTER XIX


The Vicar and his Family--Evan Evans--Foaming Ale--Llam y
Lleidyr--Baptism--Joost Van Vondel--Over to Rome--The Miller's Man--Welsh
and English.

We had received a call from the Vicar of Llangollen and his lady; we had
returned it, and they had done us the kindness to invite us to take tea
with them.  On the appointed evening we went, myself, wife, and
Henrietta, and took tea with the vicar and his wife, their sons and
daughters, all delightful and amiable beings--the eldest son a fine
intelligent young man from Oxford, lately admitted into the Church, and
now assisting his father in his sacred office.  A delightful residence
was the vicarage, situated amongst trees in the neighbourhood of the Dee.
A large open window in the room, in which our party sat, afforded us a
view of a green plat on the top of a bank running down to the Dee, part
of the river, the steep farther bank covered with umbrageous trees, and a
high mountain beyond, even that of Pen y Coed clad with wood.  During tea
Mr E. and I had a great deal of discourse.  I found him to be a
first-rate Greek and Latin scholar, and also a proficient in the poetical
literature of his own country.  In the course of discourse he repeated
some noble lines of Evan Evans, the unfortunate and eccentric Prydydd
Hir, or tall poet, the friend and correspondent of Gray, for whom he made
literal translations from the Welsh, which the great English genius
afterwards wrought into immortal verse.

"I have a great regard for poor Evan Evans," said Mr E., after he had
finished repeating the lines, "for two reasons: first, because he was an
illustrious genius, and second, because he was a South-Wallian like
myself."

"And I," I replied, "because he was a great poet, and like myself fond of
a glass of cwrw da."

Some time after tea the younger Mr E. and myself took a walk in an
eastern direction along a path cut in the bank, just above the stream.
After proceeding a little way amongst most romantic scenery, I asked my
companion if he had ever heard of the pool of Catherine Lingo--the deep
pool, as the reader will please to remember, of which John Jones had
spoken.

"Oh yes," said young Mr E.: "my brothers and myself are in the habit of
bathing there almost every morning.  We will go to it if you please."

We proceeded, and soon came to the pool.  The pool is a beautiful sheet
of water, seemingly about one hundred and fifty yards in length, by about
seventy in width.  It is bounded on the east by a low ridge of rocks
forming a weir.  The banks on both sides are high and precipitous, and
covered with trees, some of which shoot their arms for some way above the
face of the pool.  This is said to be the deepest pool in the whole
course of the Dee, varying in depth from twenty to thirty feet.  Enormous
pike, called in Welsh penhwiaid, or ducks-heads, from the similarity
which the head of a pike bears to that of a duck, are said to be tenants
of this pool.

We returned to the vicarage, and at about ten we all sat down to supper.
On the supper-table was a mighty pitcher full of foaming ale.

"There," said my excellent host, as he poured me out a glass, "there is a
glass of cwrw, which Evan Evans himself might have drunk."

One evening my wife, Henrietta, and myself, attended by John Jones, went
upon the Berwyn, a little to the east of the Geraint or Barber's Hill, to
botanize.  Here we found a fern which John Jones called Coed llus y Bran,
or the plant of the Crow's berry.  There was a hard kind of berry upon
it, of which he said the crows were exceedingly fond.  We also discovered
two or three other strange plants, the Welsh names of which our guide
told us, and which were curious and descriptive enough.  He took us home
by a romantic path which we had never before seen, and on our way pointed
out to us a small house in which he said he was born.

The day after, finding myself on the banks of the Dee in the upper part
of the valley, I determined to examine the Llam Lleidyr or Robber's Leap,
which I had heard spoken of on a former occasion.  A man passing near me
with a cart I asked him where the Robber's Leap was.  I spoke in English,
and with a shake of his head he replied "Dim Saesneg."  On my putting the
question to him in Welsh, however, his countenance brightened up.

"Dyna Llam Lleidyr, sir!" said he, pointing to a very narrow part of the
stream a little way down.

"And did the thief take it from this side?" I demanded.

"Yes, sir, from this side," replied the man.

I thanked him, and passing over the dry part of the river's bed, came to
the Llam Lleidyr.  The whole water of the Dee in the dry season gurgles
here through a passage not more than four feet across, which, however, is
evidently profoundly deep, as the water is as dark as pitch.  If the
thief ever took the leap he must have taken it in the dry season, for in
the wet the Dee is a wide and roaring torrent.  Yet even in the dry
season it is difficult to conceive how anybody could take this leap, for
on the other side is a rock rising high above the dark gurgling stream.
On observing the opposite side, however, narrowly, I perceived that there
was a small hole a little way up the rock, in which it seemed possible to
rest one's foot for a moment.  So I supposed that if the leap was ever
taken, the individual who took it darted the tip of his foot into the
hole, then springing up seized the top of the rock with his hands, and
scrambled up.  From either side the leap must have been a highly
dangerous one--from the farther side the leaper would incur the almost
certain risk of breaking his legs on a ledge of hard rock, from this of
falling back into the deep horrible stream, which would probably suck him
down in a moment.

From the Llam y Lleidyr I went to the canal and walked along it till I
came to the house of the old man who sold coals, and who had put me in
mind of Smollett's Morgan; he was now standing in his little coal-yard,
leaning over the pales.  I had spoken to him on two or three occasions
subsequent to the one on which I made his acquaintance, and had been
every time more and more struck with the resemblance which his ways and
manners bore to those of Smollett's character, on which account I shall
call him Morgan, though such was not his name.  He now told me that he
expected that I should build a villa and settle down in the
neighbourhood, as I seemed so fond of it.  After a little discourse,
induced either by my questions or from a desire to talk about himself, he
related to me his history, which, though not one of the most wonderful, I
shall repeat.  He was born near Aberdarron in Caernarvonshire, and in
order to make me understand the position of the place, and its bearing
with regard to some other places, he drew marks in the coal-dust on the
earth.  His father was a Baptist minister, who when Morgan was about six
years of age, went to live at Canol Lyn, a place at some little distance
from Port Heli.  With his father he continued till he was old enough to
gain his own maintenance, when he went to serve a farmer in the
neighbourhood.  Having saved some money young Morgan departed to the
foundries at Cefn Mawr, at which he worked thirty years with an interval
of four, which he had passed partly in working in slate quarries, and
partly upon the canal.  About four years before the present time he came
to where he now lived, where he commenced selling coals, at first on his
own account and subsequently for some other person.  He concluded his
narration by saying that he was now sixty-two years of age, was afflicted
with various disorders, and believed that he was breaking up.

Such was Morgan's history; certainly not a very remarkable one.  Yet
Morgan was a most remarkable individual, as I shall presently make
appear.

Rather affected at the bad account he gave me of his health I asked him
if he felt easy in his mind?  He replied perfectly so, and when I
inquired how he came to feel so comfortable, he said that his feeling so
was owing to his baptism into the faith of Christ Jesus.  On my telling
him that I too had been baptized, he asked me if I had been dipped; and
on learning that I had not, but only been sprinkled, according to the
practice of my church, he gave me to understand that my baptism was not
worth three halfpence.  Feeling rather nettled at hearing the baptism of
my church so undervalued, I stood up for it, and we were soon in a
dispute, in which I got rather the worst, for though he spuffled and
sputtered in a most extraordinary manner, and spoke in a dialect which
was neither Welsh, English nor Cheshire, but a mixture of all three, he
said two or three things rather difficult to be got over.  Finding that
he had nearly silenced me, he observed that he did not deny that I had a
good deal of book learning, but that in matters of baptism I was as
ignorant as the rest of the people of the church were, and had always
been.  He then said that many church people had entered into argument
with him on the subject of baptism, but that he had got the better of
them all; that Mr P., the minister of the parish of L., in which we then
were, had frequently entered into argument with him, but quite
unsuccessfully, and had at last given up the matter, as a bad job.  He
added that a little time before, as Mr P. was walking close to the canal
with his wife and daughter and a spaniel dog, Mr P. suddenly took up the
dog and flung it in, giving it a good ducking, whereupon he, Morgan,
cried out: "Dyna y gwir vedydd!  That is the right baptism, sir!  I
thought I should bring you to it at last!" at which words Mr P. laughed
heartily, but made no particular reply.

After a little time he began to talk about the great men who had risen up
amongst the Baptists, and mentioned two or three distinguished
individuals.

I said that he had not mentioned the greatest man who had been born
amongst the Baptists.

"What was his name?" said he.

"His name was Joost Van Vondel," I replied.

"I never heard of him before," said Morgan.

"Very probably," said I: "he was born, bred, and died in Holland."

"Has he been dead long?" said Morgan.

"About two hundred years," said I.

"That's a long time," said Morgan, "and maybe is the reason that I never
heard of him.  So he was a great man?"

"He was indeed," said I.  "He was not only the greatest man that ever
sprang up amongst the Baptists, but the greatest, and by far the
greatest, that Holland ever produced, though Holland has produced a great
many illustrious men."

"Oh I daresay he was a great man if he was a Baptist," said Morgan.
"Well, it's strange I never read of him.  I thought I had read the lives
of all the eminent people who lived and died in our communion."

"He did not die in the Baptist communion," said I.

"Oh, he didn't die in it," said Morgan; "What, did he go over to the
Church of England? a pretty fellow!"

"He did not go over to the Church of England," said I, "for the Church of
England does not exist in Holland; he went over to the Church of Rome."

"Well, that's not quite so bad," said Morgan; "however, it's bad enough.
I daresay he was a pretty blackguard."

"No," said I: "he was a pure virtuous character, and perhaps the only
pure and virtuous character that ever went over to Rome.  The only wonder
is that so good a man could ever have gone over to so detestable a
church; but he appears to have been deluded."

"Deluded indeed!" said Morgan.  "However, I suppose he went over for
advancement's sake."

"No," said I; "he lost every prospect of advancement by going over to
Rome: nine-tenths of his countrymen were of the reformed religion, and he
endured much poverty and contempt by the step he took."

"How did he support himself?" said Morgan.

"He obtained a livelihood," said I, "by writing poems and plays, some of
which are wonderfully fine."

"What," said Morgan, "a writer of Interludes?  One of Twm o'r Nant's
gang!  I thought he would turn out a pretty fellow."  I told him that the
person in question certainly did write Interludes, for example Noah, and
Joseph at Goshen, but that he was a highly respectable, nay venerable
character.

"If he was a writer of Interludes," said Morgan, "he was a blackguard;
there never yet was a writer of Interludes, or a person who went about
playing them, that was not a scamp.  He might be a clever man, I don't
say he was not.  Who was a cleverer man than Twm o'r Nant with his
Pleasure and Care, and Riches and Poverty, but where was there a greater
blackguard?  Why, not in all Wales.  And if you knew this other
fellow--what's his name--Fondle's history, you would find that he was not
a bit more respectable than Twm o'r Nant, and not half so clever.  As for
his leaving the Baptists I don't believe a word of it; he was turned out
of the connection, and then went about the country saying he left it.  No
Baptist connection would ever have a writer of Interludes in it, not Twm
o'r Nant himself, unless he left his ales and Interludes and wanton
hussies, for the three things are sure to go together.  You say he went
over to the Church of Rome; of course he did, if the Church of England
were not at hand to receive him, where should he go but to Rome?  No
respectable church like the Methodist or the Independent would have
received him.  There are only two churches in the world that will take in
anybody without asking questions, and will never turn them out however
bad they may behave; the one is the Church of Rome, and the other the
Church of Canterbury; and if you look into the matter you will find that
every rogue, rascal and hanged person since the world began, has belonged
to one or other of those communions."

In the evening I took a walk with my wife and daughter past the Plas
Newydd.  Coming to the little mill called the Melyn Bac, at the bottom of
the gorge, we went into the yard to observe the water-wheel.  We found
that it was turned by a very little water, which was conveyed to it by
artificial means.  Seeing the miller's man, a short dusty figure,
standing in the yard, I entered into conversation with him, and found to
my great surprise that he had a considerable acquaintance with the
ancient language.  On my repeating to him verses from Taliesin he
understood them, and to show me that he did, translated some of the lines
into English.  Two or three respectable-looking lads, probably the
miller's sons, came out, and listened to us.  One of them said we were
both good Welshmen.  After a little time the man asked me if I had heard
of Huw Morris, I told him that I was well acquainted with his writings,
and enquired whether the place in which he had lived was not somewhere in
the neighbourhood.  He said it was; and that it was over the mountains
not far from Llan Sanfraid.  I asked whether it was not called Pont y
Meibion.  He answered in the affirmative, and added that he had himself
been there, and had sat in Huw Morris's stone chair which was still to be
seen by the road's side.  I told him that I hoped to visit the place in a
few days.  He replied that I should be quite right in doing so, and that
no one should come to these parts without visiting Pont y Meibion, for
that Huw Morris was one of the columns of the Cumry.

"What a difference," said I to my wife, after we had departed, "between a
Welshman and an Englishman of the lower class.  What would a Suffolk
miller's swain have said if I had repeated to him verses out of Beowulf
or even Chaucer, and had asked him about the residence of Skelton."




CHAPTER XX


Huw Morris--Immortal Elegy--The Valley of Ceiriog--Tangled
Wilderness--Perplexity--Chair of Huw Morris--The Walking Stick--Huw's
Descendant--Pont y Meibion.

Two days after the last adventure I set off, over the Berwyn, to visit
the birth-place of Huw Morris under the guidance of John Jones, who was
well acquainted with the spot.

Huw Morus or Morris, was born in the year 1622 on the banks of the
Ceiriog.  His life was a long one, for he died at the age of eighty-four,
after living in six reigns.  He was the second son of a farmer, and was
apprenticed to a tanner, with whom, however, he did not stay till the
expiration of the term of his apprenticeship, for not liking the tanning
art, he speedily returned to the house of his father, whom he assisted in
husbandry till death called the old man away.  He then assisted his elder
brother, and on his elder brother's death, lived with his son.  He did
not distinguish himself as a husbandman, and appears never to have been
fond of manual labour.  At an early period, however, he applied himself
most assiduously to poetry, and before he had attained the age of thirty
was celebrated, throughout Wales, as the best poet of his time.  When the
war broke out between Charles and his parliament, Huw espoused the part
of the king, not as soldier, for he appears to have liked fighting little
better than tanning or husbandry, but as a poet, and probably did the
king more service in that capacity than he would if he had raised him a
troop of horse, or a regiment of foot, for he wrote songs breathing
loyalty to Charles, and fraught with pungent satire against his foes,
which ran like wild-fire through Wales, and had a great influence on the
minds of the people.  Even when the royal cause was lost in the field, he
still carried on a poetical war against the successful party, but not so
openly as before, dealing chiefly in allegories, which, however, were
easy to be understood.  Strange to say the Independents, when they had
the upper hand, never interfered with him though they persecuted certain
Royalist poets of far inferior note.  On the accession of Charles the
Second he celebrated the event by a most singular piece called the
Lamentation of Oliver's men, in which he assails the Roundheads with the
most bitter irony.  He was loyal to James the Second, till that monarch
attempted to overthrow the Church of England, when Huw, much to his
credit, turned against him, and wrote songs in the interest of the
glorious Prince of Orange.  He died in the reign of good Queen Anne.  In
his youth his conduct was rather dissolute, but irreproachable and almost
holy in his latter days--a kind of halo surrounded his old brow.  It was
the custom in those days in North Wales for the congregation to leave the
church in a row with the clergyman at their head, but so great was the
estimation in which old Huw was universally held, for the purity of his
life and his poetical gift, that the clergyman of the parish abandoning
his claim to precedence, always insisted on the good and inspired old
man's leading the file, himself following immediately in his rear.  Huw
wrote on various subjects, mostly in common and easily understood
measures.  He was great in satire, great in humour, but when he pleased
could be greater in pathos than in either; for his best piece is an elegy
on Barbara Middleton, the sweetest song of the kind ever written.  From
his being born on the banks of the brook Ceiriog, and from the flowing
melody of his awen or muse, his countrymen were in the habit of calling
him Eos Ceiriog, or the Ceiriog Nightingale.

So John Jones and myself set off across the Berwyn to visit the
birthplace of the great poet Huw Morris.  We ascended the mountain by
Allt Paddy.  The morning was lowering and before we had half got to the
top it began to rain.  John Jones was in his usual good spirits.
Suddenly taking me by the arm he told me to look to the right across the
gorge to a white house, which he pointed out.

"What is there in that house?" said I.

"An aunt of mine lives there," said he.

Having frequently heard him call old women his aunts, I said, "Every poor
old woman in the neighbourhood seems to be your aunt."

"This is no poor old woman," said he, "she is cyfoethawg iawn, and only
last week she sent me and my family a pound of bacon, which would have
cost me sixpence-halfpenny, and about a month ago a measure of wheat."

We passed over the top of the mountain, and descending the other side
reached Llansanfraid, and stopped at the public-house where we had been
before, and called for two glasses of ale.  Whilst drinking our ale Jones
asked some questions about Huw Morris of the woman who served us; she
said that he was a famous poet, and that people of his blood were yet
living upon the lands which had belonged to him at Pont y Meibion.  Jones
told her that his companion, the gwr boneddig, meaning myself, had come
in order to see the birth-place of Huw Morris, and that I was well
acquainted with his works, having gotten them by heart in Lloegr, when a
boy.  The woman said that nothing would give her greater pleasure than to
hear a Sais recite poetry of Huw Morris, whereupon I recited a number of
his lines addressed to the Gof Du, or blacksmith.  The woman held up her
hands, and a carter who was in the kitchen somewhat the worse for liquor,
shouted applause.  After asking a few questions as to the road we were to
take, we left the house, and in a little time entered the valley of
Ceiriog.  The valley is very narrow, huge hills overhanging it on both
sides, those on the east side lumpy and bare, those on the west
precipitous, and partially clad with wood; the torrent Ceiriog runs down
it, clinging to the east side; the road is tolerably good, and is to the
west of the stream.  Shortly after we had entered the gorge, we passed by
a small farm-house on our right hand, with a hawthorn hedge before it,
upon which seems to stand a peacock, curiously cut out of thorn.  Passing
on we came to a place called Pandy uchaf, or the higher Fulling mill.
The place so called is a collection of ruinous houses, which put me in
mind of the Fulling mills mentioned in "Don Quixote."  It is called the
Pandy because there was formerly a fulling mill here, said to have been
the first established in Wales; which is still to be seen, but which is
no longer worked.  Just above the old mill there is a meeting of streams,
the Tarw from the west rolls down a dark valley into the Ceiriog.

At the entrance of this valley and just before you reach the Pandy, which
it nearly overhangs, is an enormous crag.  After I had looked at the
place for some time with considerable interest we proceeded towards the
south, and in about twenty minutes reached a neat kind of house, on our
right hand, which John Jones told me stood on the ground of Huw Morris.
Telling me to wait, he went to the house, and asked some questions.
After a little time I followed him and found him discoursing at the door
with a stout dame about fifty-five years of age, and a stout buxom damsel
of about seventeen, very short of stature.

"This is the gentleman," said he, "who wishes to see anything there may
be here connected with Huw Morris."

The old dame made me a curtsey, and said in very distinct Welsh, "We have
some things in the house which belonged to him, and we will show them to
the gentleman willingly."

"We first of all wish to see his chair," said John Jones.

"The chair is in a wall in what is called the hen ffordd (old road),"
said the old gentlewoman; "it is cut out of the stone wall, you will have
maybe some difficulty in getting to it, but the girl shall show it to
you."  The girl now motioned to us to follow her, and conducted us across
the road to some stone steps, over a wall to a place which looked like a
plantation.

"This was the old road," said Jones; "but the place has been enclosed.
The new road is above us on our right hand beyond the wall."

We were in a maze of tangled shrubs, the boughs of which, very wet from
the rain which was still falling, struck our faces, as we attempted to
make our way between them; the girl led the way, bare-headed and
bare-armed, and soon brought us to the wall, the boundary of the new
road.  Along this she went with considerable difficulty, owing to the
tangled shrubs, and the nature of the ground, which was very precipitous,
shelving down to the other side of the enclosure.  In a little time we
were wet to the skin, and covered with the dirt of birds, which they had
left while roosting in the trees; on went the girl, sometimes creeping,
and trying to keep herself from falling by holding against the young
trees; once or twice she fell and we after her, for there was no path,
and the ground, as I have said before very shelvy; still as she went her
eyes were directed towards the wall, which was not always very easy to be
seen, for thorns, tall nettles and shrubs, were growing up against it.
Here and there she stopped, and said something, which I could not always
make out, for her Welsh was anything but clear; at length I heard her say
that she was afraid we had passed the chair, and indeed presently we came
to a place where the enclosure terminated in a sharp corner.

"Let us go back," said I; "we must have passed it."

I now went first, breaking down with my weight the shrubs nearest to the
wall.

"Is not this the place?" said I, pointing to a kind of hollow in the
wall, which looked something like the shape of a chair.

"Hardly," said the girl, "for there should be a slab on the back, with
letters, but there's neither slab nor letters here."

The girl now again went forward, and we retraced our way, doing the best
we could to discover the chair, but all to no purpose; no chair was to be
found.  We had now been, as I imagined, half-an-hour in the enclosure,
and had nearly got back to the place from which we had set out, when we
suddenly heard the voice of the old lady exclaiming, "What are ye doing
there, the chair is on the other side of the field; wait a bit, and I
will come and show it you;" getting over the stone stile, which led into
the wilderness, she came to us, and we now went along the wall at the
lower end; we had quite as much difficulty here as on the other side, and
in some places more, for the nettles were higher, the shrubs more
tangled, and the thorns more terrible.  The ground, however, was rather
more level.  I pitied the poor girl who led the way, and whose fat naked
arms were both stung and torn.  She at last stopped amidst a huge grove
of nettles, doing the best she could to shelter her arms from the
stinging leaves.

"I never was in such a wilderness in my life," said I to John Jones, "is
it possible that the chair of the mighty Huw is in a place like this;
which seems never to have been trodden by human foot.  Well does the
Scripture say 'Dim prophwyd yw yn cael barch yn ei dir ei hunan.'"

This last sentence tickled the fancy of my worthy friend, the
Calvinistic-Methodist, he laughed aloud and repeated it over and over
again to the females, with amplifications.

"Is the chair really here," said I, "or has it been destroyed? if such a
thing has been done it is a disgrace to Wales."

"The chair is really here," said the old lady, "and though Huw Morus was
no prophet, we love and reverence everything belonging to him.  Get on
Llances, the chair can't be far off;" the girl moved on, and presently
the old lady exclaimed, "There's the chair, Diolch i Duw!"

I was the last of the file, but I now rushed past John Jones, who was
before me, and next to the old lady, and sure enough there was the chair,
in the wall, of him who was called in his day, and still is called by the
mountaineers of Wales, though his body has been below the earth in the
quiet church-yard one hundred and forty years, Eos Ceiriog, the
Nightingale of Ceiriog, the sweet caroller Huw Morus, the enthusiastic
partizan of Charles and the Church of England, and the never-tiring
lampooner of Oliver and the Independents.  There it was, a kind of hollow
in the stone wall, in the hen ffordd, fronting to the west, just above
the gorge at the bottom of which murmurs the brook Ceiriog, there it was,
something like a half barrel chair in a garden, a mouldering stone slab
forming the seat, and a large slate stone, the back, on which were cut
these letters--

                                   H. M. B.

signifying Huw Morus Bard.

"Sit down in the chair, Gwr Boneddig," said John Jones, "you have taken
trouble enough to get to it."

"Do, gentleman," said the old lady; "but first let me wipe it with my
apron, for it is very wet and dirty."

"Let it be," said I; then taking off my hat I stood uncovered before the
chair, and said in the best Welsh I could command, "Shade of Huw Morus,
supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when
alive--a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this
place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever
ready to pay.  He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the
most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that
he is a grey-haired man he is come to say in this place that they
frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture."

I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw
Morris.  All which I did in the presence of the stout old lady, the
short, buxom and bare-armed damsel, and of John Jones the Calvinistic
weaver of Llangollen, all of whom listened patiently and approvingly,
though the rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees
and the tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain
hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at
by the noble simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may
receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon.

After some time, our party returned to the house--which put me very much
in mind of the farm-houses of the substantial yeomen of Cornwall,
particularly that of my friends at Penquite; a comfortable fire blazed in
the kitchen grate, the floor was composed of large flags of slate.  In
the kitchen the old lady pointed to me the ffon, or walking-stick, of Huw
Morris; it was supported against a beam by three hooks; I took it down
and walked about the kitchen with it; it was a thin polished black stick,
with a crome cut in the shape of an eagle's head; at the end was a brass
fence.  The kind creature then produced a sword without a scabbard; this
sword was found by Huw Morris on the mountain--it belonged to one of
Oliver's officers who was killed there.  I took the sword, which was a
thin two-edged one, and seemed to be made of very good steel; it put me
in mind of the blades which I had seen at Toledo--the guard was very
slight like those of all rapiers, and the hilt the common old-fashioned
English officer's hilt--there was no rust on the blade, and it still
looked a dangerous sword.  A man like Thistlewood would have whipped it
through his adversary in a twinkling.  I asked the old lady if Huw Morris
was born in this house; she said no, but a little farther on at Pont y
Meibion; she said, however, that the ground had belonged to him, and that
they had some of his blood in their veins.  I shook her by the hand, and
gave the chubby bare-armed damsel a shilling, pointing to the marks of
the nettle stings on her fat bacon-like arms.  She laughed, made me a
curtsey, and said: "Llawer iawn o diolch."

John Jones and I then proceeded to the house at Pont y Meibion, where we
saw two men, one turning a grind-stone, and the other holding an adze to
it.  We asked if we were at the house of Huw Morris, and whether they
could tell us anything about him; they made us no answer but proceeded
with their occupation; John Jones then said that the Gwr Boneddig was
very fond of the verses of Huw Morris, and had come a great way to see
the place where he was born.  The wheel now ceased turning, and the man
with the adze turned his face full upon me--he was a stern-looking, dark
man, with black hair, of about forty; after a moment or two he said that
if I chose to walk into the house I should be welcome.  He then conducted
us into the house, a common-looking stone tenement, and bade us be
seated.  I asked him if he was a descendant of Huw Morus; he said he was;
I asked him his name, which he said was Huw--.  "Have you any of the
manuscripts of Huw Morus?" said I.

"None," said he, "but I have one of the printed copies of his works."

He then went to a drawer, and taking out a book, put it into my hand, and
seated himself in a blunt, careless manner.  The book was the first
volume of the common Wrexham edition of Huw's works; it was much
thumbed--I commenced reading aloud a piece which I had much admired in my
boyhood.  I went on for some time, my mind quite occupied with my
reading; at last lifting my eyes I saw the man standing bolt upright
before me, like a soldier of the days of my childhood, during the time
that the adjutant read prayers; his hat was no longer upon his head, but
on the ground, and his eyes were reverently inclined to the book.  After
all what a beautiful thing it is, not to be, but to have been a genius.
Closing the book, I asked him whether Huw Morris was born in the house
where we were, and received for answer that he was born about where we
stood, but that the old house had been pulled down, and that of all the
premises only a small out-house was coeval with Huw Morris.  I asked him
the name of the house, and he said Pont y Meibion.

"But where is the bridge?" said I.

"The bridge," he replied, "is close by, over the Ceiriog.  If you wish to
see it, you must go down yon field, the house is called after the
bridge."  Bidding him farewell, we crossed the road and going down the
field speedily arrived at Pont y Meibion.  The bridge is a small bridge
of one arch which crosses the brook Ceiriog--it is built of rough moor
stone; it is mossy, broken, and looks almost inconceivably old; there is
a little parapet to it about two feet high.  On the right-hand side it is
shaded by an ash.  The brook when we viewed it, though at times a roaring
torrent, was stealing along gently, on both sides it is overgrown with
alders, noble hills rise above it to the east and west, John Jones told
me that it abounded with trout.  I asked him why the bridge was called
Pont y Meibion, which signifies the bridge of the children.  "It was
built originally by children," said he, "for the purpose of crossing the
brook."

"That bridge," said I, "was never built by children."

"The first bridge," said he, "was of wood, and was built by the children
of the houses above."

Not quite satisfied with his explanation, I asked him to what place the
little bridge led, and was told that he believed it led to an upland
farm.  After taking a long and wistful view of the bridge and the scenery
around it, I turned my head in the direction of Llangollen.  The
adventures of the day were, however, not finished.




CHAPTER XXI


The Gloomy Valley--The Lonely Cottage--Happy Comparison--Clogs--The Alder
Swamp--The Wooden Leg--The Militiaman--Death-bed Verses.

On reaching the ruined village where the Pandy stood I stopped, and
looked up the gloomy valley to the west, down which the brook which joins
the Ceiriog at this place, descends, whereupon John Jones said, that if I
wished to go up it a little way he should have great pleasure in
attending me, and that he should show me a cottage built in the hen
ddull, or old fashion, to which he frequently went to ask for the rent;
he being employed by various individuals in the capacity of
rent-gatherer.  I said that I was afraid that if he was a rent-collector,
both he and I should have a sorry welcome.  "No fear," he replied, "the
people are very good people, and pay their rent very regularly," and
without saying another word he led the way up the valley.  At the end of
the village, seeing a woman standing at the door of one of the ruinous
cottages, I asked her the name of the brook, or torrent, which came down
the valley.  "The Tarw," said she, "and this village is called Pandy
Teirw."

"Why is the streamlet called the bull?" said I.  "Is it because it comes
in winter weather roaring down the glen and butting at the Ceiriog?"

The woman laughed, and replied that perhaps it was.  The valley was wild
and solitary to an extraordinary degree, the brook or torrent running in
the middle of it covered with alder trees.  After we had proceeded about
a furlong we reached the house of the old fashion--it was a rude stone
cottage standing a little above the road on a kind of platform on the
right-hand side of the glen; there was a paling before it with a gate, at
which a pig was screaming, as if anxious to get in.  "It wants its
dinner," said John Jones, and opened the gate for me to pass, taking
precautions that the screamer did not enter at the same time.  We entered
the cottage, very glad to get into it, a storm of wind and rain having
just come on.  Nobody was in the kitchen when we entered, it looked
comfortable enough, however, there was an excellent fire of wood and
coals, and a very snug chimney corner.  John Jones called aloud, but for
some time no one answered; at last a rather good-looking woman, seemingly
about thirty, made her appearance at a door at the farther end of the
kitchen.  "Is the mistress at home," said Jones, "or the master?"

"They are neither at home," said the woman, "the master is abroad at his
work, and the mistress is at the farm-house of--three miles off to pick
feathers (trwsio plu)."  She asked us to sit down.

"And who are you?" said I.

"I am only a lodger," said she, "I lodge here with my husband who is a
clog-maker."

"Can you speak English?" said I.

"Oh yes," said she, "I lived eleven years in England, at a place called
Bolton, where I married my husband, who is an Englishman."

"Can he speak Welsh?" said I.

"Not a word," said she.  "We always speak English together."

John Jones sat down, and I looked about the room.  It exhibited no
appearance of poverty; there was plenty of rude but good furniture in it;
several pewter plates and trenchers in a rack, two or three prints in
frames against the wall, one of which was the likeness of no less a
person than the Rev. Joseph Sanders, on the table was a newspaper.  "Is
that in Welsh?" said I.

"No," replied the woman, "it is the _Bolton Chronicle_, my husband reads
it."

I sat down in the chimney-corner.  The wind was now howling abroad, and
the rain was beating against the cottage panes--presently a gust of wind
came down the chimney, scattering sparks all about.  "A cataract of
sparks!" said I, using the word Rhaiadr.

"What is Rhaiadr?" said the woman; "I never heard the word before."

"Rhaiadr means water tumbling over a rock," said John Jones--"did you
never see water tumble over the top of a rock?"

"Frequently," said she.

"Well," said he, "even as the water with its froth tumbles over the rock,
so did sparks and fire tumble over the front of that grate when the wind
blew down the chimney.  It was a happy comparison of the Gwr Boneddig,
and with respect to Rhaiadr it is a good old word, though not a common
one; some of the Saxons who have read the old writings, though they
cannot speak the language as fast as we, understand many words and things
which we do not."

"I forgot much of my Welsh in the land of the Saxons," said the woman,
"and so have many others; there are plenty of Welsh at Bolton, but their
Welsh is sadly corrupted."

She then went out and presently returned with an infant in her arms and
sat down.  "Was that child born in Wales?" I demanded.

"No," said she, "he was born at Bolton, about eighteen months ago--we
have been here only a year."

"Do many English," said I, "marry Welsh wives?"

"A great many," said she.  "Plenty of Welsh girls are married to
Englishmen at Bolton."

"Do the Englishmen make good husbands?" said I.

The woman smiled and presently sighed.

"Her husband," said Jones, "is fond of a glass of ale and is often at the
public-house."

"I make no complaint," said the woman, looking somewhat angrily at John
Jones.

"Is your husband a tall bulky man?" said I.

"Just so," said the woman.

"The largest of the two men we saw the other night at the public-house at
Llansanfraid," said I to John Jones.

"I don't know him," said Jones, "though I have heard of him, but I have
no doubt that was he."

I asked the woman how her husband could carry on the trade of a
clog-maker in such a remote place--and also whether he hawked his clogs
about the country.

"We call him a clog-maker," said the woman, "but the truth is that he
merely cuts down the wood and fashions it into squares, these are taken
by an under-master who sends them to the manufacturer at Bolton, who
employs hands, who make them into clogs."

"Some of the English," said Jones, "are so poor that they cannot afford
to buy shoes; a pair of shoes cost ten or twelve shillings, whereas a
pair of clogs only cost two."

"I suppose," said I, "that what you call clogs are wooden shoes."

"Just so," said Jones--"they are principally used in the neighbourhood of
Manchester."

"I have seen them at Huddersfield," said I, "when I was a boy at school
there; of what wood are they made?"

"Of the gwern, or alder tree," said the woman, "of which there is plenty
on both sides of the brook."

John Jones now asked her if she could give him a tamaid of bread; she
said she could, "and some butter with it."

She then went out and presently returned with a loaf and some butter.

"Had you not better wait," said I, "till we get to the inn at
Llansanfraid?"

The woman, however, begged him to eat some bread and butter where he was,
and cutting a plateful, placed it before him, having first offered me
some which I declined.

"But you have nothing to drink with it," said I to him.

"If you please," said the woman, "I will go for a pint of ale to the
public-house at the Pandy, there is better ale there than at the inn at
Llansanfraid.  When my husband goes to Llansanfraid he goes less for the
ale than for the conversation, because there is little English spoken at
the Pandy however good the ale."

John Jones said he wanted no ale--and attacking the bread and butter
speedily made an end of it; by the time he had done the storm was over,
and getting up I gave the child twopence, and left the cottage with
Jones.  We proceeded some way farther up the valley, till we came to a
place where the ground descended a little.  Here Jones touching me on the
shoulder pointed across the stream.  Following with my eye the direction
of his finger, I saw two or three small sheds with a number of small
reddish blocks in regular piles beneath them.  Several trees felled from
the side of the torrent were lying near, some of them stripped of their
arms and bark.  A small tree formed a bridge across the brook to the
sheds.

"It is there," said John Jones, "that the husband of the woman with whom
we have been speaking works, felling trees from the alder swamp and
cutting them up into blocks.  I see there is no work going on at present
or we would go over--the woman told me that her husband was at
Llangollen."

"What a strange place to come to work at," said I, "out of crowded
England.  Here is nothing to be heard but the murmuring of waters and the
rushing of wind down the gulleys.  If the man's head is not full of
poetical fancies, which I suppose it is not, as in that case he would be
unfit for any useful employment, I don't wonder at his occasionally going
to the public-house."

After going a little further up the glen and observing nothing more
remarkable than we had seen already, we turned back.  Being overtaken by
another violent shower just as we reached the Pandy I thought that we
could do no better than shelter ourselves within the public-house, and
taste the ale, which the wife of the clog-maker had praised.  We entered
the little hostelry which was one of two or three shabby-looking houses,
standing in contact, close by the Ceiriog.  In a kind of little back
room, lighted by a good fire and a window which looked up the Ceiriog
valley, we found the landlady, a gentlewoman with a wooden leg, who on
perceiving me got up from a chair, and made me the best curtsey that I
ever saw made by a female with such a substitute for a leg of flesh and
bone.  There were three men, sitting with jugs of ale near them on a
table by the fire, two were seated on a bench by the wall, and the other
on a settle with a high back, which ran from the wall just by the door,
and shielded those by the fire from the draughts of the doorway.  He of
the settle no sooner beheld me than he sprang up, and placing a chair for
me by the fire bade me in English be seated, and then resumed his own
seat.  John Jones soon finding a chair came and sat down by me, when I
forthwith called for a quart of cwrw da.  The landlady bustled about on
her wooden leg and presently brought us the ale with two glasses, which I
filled, and taking one drank to the health of the company who returned us
thanks, the man of the settle in English rather broken.  Presently one of
his companions getting up paid his reckoning and departed, the other
remained, a stout young fellow dressed something like a stone-mason,
which indeed I soon discovered that he was--he was far advanced towards a
state of intoxication and talked very incoherently about the war, saying
that he hoped it would soon terminate, for that if it continued he was
afraid he might stand a chance of being shot, as he was a private in the
Denbighshire Militia.  I told him that it was the duty of every gentleman
in the militia to be willing at all times to lay down his life in the
service of the Queen.  The answer which he made I could not exactly
understand, his utterance being very indistinct and broken; it was,
however, made with some degree of violence, with two or three Myn Diawls,
and a blow on the table with his clenched fist.  He then asked me whether
I thought the militia would be again called out.  "Nothing more
probable," said I.

"And where would they be sent to?"

"Perhaps to Ireland," was my answer, whereupon he started up with another
Myn Diawl, expressing the greatest dread of being sent to Iwerddon.

"You ought to rejoice in your chance of going there," said I, "Iwerddon
is a beautiful country, and abounds with whisky."

"And the Irish?" said he.

"Hearty, jolly fellows," said I, "if you know how to manage them, and all
gentlemen."

Here he became very violent, saying that I did not speak truth, for that
he had seen plenty of Irish camping amidst the hills, that the men were
half naked and the women were three parts so, and that they carried their
children on their backs.  He then said that he hoped somebody would
speedily kill Nicholas, in order that the war might be at an end and
himself not sent to Iwerddon.  He then asked if I thought Cronstadt could
be taken.  I said I believed it could, provided the hearts of those who
were sent to take it were in the right place.

"Where do you think the hearts of those are who are gone against it?"
said he--speaking with great vehemence.

I made no other answer than by taking my glass and drinking.

His companion now looking at our habiliments which were in rather a
dripping condition asked John Jones if we had come from far.

"We have been to Pont y Meibion," said Jones, "to see the chair of Huw
Morris," adding that the Gwr Boneddig was a great admirer of the songs of
the Eos Ceiriog.

He had no sooner said these words than the intoxicated militiaman started
up, and striking the table with his fist said: "I am a poor
stone-cutter--this is a rainy day and I have come here to pass it in the
best way I can.  I am somewhat drunk, but though I am a poor stone-mason,
a private in the militia, and not so sober as I should be, I can repeat
more of the songs of the Eos than any man alive, however great a
gentleman, however sober--more than Sir Watkin, more than Colonel
Biddulph himself."

He then began to repeat what appeared to be poetry, for I could
distinguish the rhymes occasionally, though owing to his broken utterance
it was impossible for me to make out the sense of the words.  Feeling a
great desire to know what verses of Huw Morris the intoxicated youth
would repeat, I took out my pocket-book and requested Jones, who was much
better acquainted with Welsh pronunciation, under any circumstances, than
myself, to endeavour to write down from the mouth of the young fellow any
verses uppermost in his mind.  Jones took the pocket-book and pencil and
went to the window, followed by the young man scarcely able to support
himself.  Here a curious scene took place, the drinker hiccuping up
verses, and Jones dotting them down, in the best manner he could, though
he had evidently great difficulty to distinguish what was said to him.
At last, methought, the young man said--"There they are, the verses of
the Nightingale, on his death-bed."

I took the book and read aloud the following lines beautifully
descriptive of the eagerness of a Christian soul to leave its perishing
tabernacle, and get to Paradise and its Creator:--

    "Myn'd i'r wyl ar redeg,
    I'r byd a beryi chwaneg,
    I Beradwys, y ber wiw deg,
    Yn Enw Duw yn union deg."

"Do you understand those verses?" said the man on the settle, a dark
swarthy fellow with an oblique kind of vision, and dressed in a
pepper-and-salt coat.

"I will translate them," said I; and forthwith put them into
English--first into prose and then into rhyme, the rhymed version running
thus:--

    "Now to my rest I hurry away,
    To the world which lasts for ever and aye,
    To Paradise, the beautiful place,
    Trusting alone in the Lord of Grace"--

"Well," said he of the pepper-and-salt, "if that isn't capital I don't
know what is."

A scene in a public-house, yes! but in a Welsh public-house.  Only think
of a Suffolk toper repeating the death-bed verses of a poet; surely there
is a considerable difference between the Celt and the Saxon.




CHAPTER XXII


Llangollen Fair--Buyers and Sellers--The Jockey--The Greek Cap.

On the twenty-first was held Llangollen Fair.  The day was dull with
occasional showers.  I went to see the fair about noon.  It was held in
and near a little square in the south-east quarter of the town, of which
square the police-station is the principal feature on the side of the
west, and an inn, bearing the sign of the Grapes, on the east.  The fair
was a little bustling fair, attended by plenty of people from the
country, and from the English border, and by some who appeared to come
from a greater distance than the border.  A dense row of carts extended
from the police-station half across the space, these carts were filled
with pigs, and had stout cord-nettings drawn over them, to prevent the
animals escaping.  By the sides of these carts the principal business of
the fair appeared to be going on--there stood the owners male and female,
higgling with Llangollen men and women, who came to buy.  The pigs were
all small, and the price given seemed to vary from eighteen to
twenty-five shillings.  Those who bought pigs generally carried them away
in their arms; and then there was no little diversion; dire was the
screaming of the porkers, yet the purchaser invariably appeared to know
how to manage his bargain, keeping the left arm round the body of the
swine and with the right hand fast gripping the ear--some few were led
away by strings.  There were some Welsh cattle, small of course, and the
purchasers of these seemed to be Englishmen, tall burly fellows in
general, far exceeding the Welsh in height and size.

Much business in the cattle-line did not seem, however, to be going on.
Now and then a big fellow made an offer, and held out his hand for a
little Pictish grazier to give it a slap--a cattle bargain being
concluded by a slap of the hand--but the Welshman generally turned away,
with a half resentful exclamation.  There were a few horses and ponies in
the street leading into the fair from the south.

I saw none sold, however.  A tall athletic figure was striding amongst
them, evidently a jockey and a stranger, looking at them and occasionally
asking a slight question of one or another of their proprietors, but he
did not buy.  He might in age be about eight-and-twenty, and about six
feet and three-quarters of an inch in height; in build he was perfection
itself, a better built man I never saw.  He wore a cap and a brown jockey
coat, trowsers, leggings and high-lows, and sported a single spur.  He
had whiskers--all jockeys should have whiskers--but he had what I did not
like, and what no genuine jockey should have, a moustache, which looks
coxcombical and Frenchified--but most things have terribly changed since
I was young.  Three or four hardy-looking fellows, policemen, were
gliding about in their blue coats and leather hats, holding their thin
walking-sticks behind them; conspicuous amongst whom was the leader, a
tall lathy North Briton with a keen eye and hard features.  Now if I add
there was much gabbling of Welsh round about, and here and there some
slight sawing of English--that in the street leading from the north there
were some stalls of gingerbread and a table at which a queer-looking
being with a red Greek-looking cap on his head, sold rhubarb, herbs, and
phials containing the Lord knows what, and who spoke a low vulgar English
dialect--I repeat, if I add this, I think I have said all that is
necessary about Llangollen Fair.




CHAPTER XXIII


An Expedition--Pont y Pandy--The Sabbath--Glendower's Mount--Burial Place
of Old--Corwen--The Deep Glen--The Grandmother--The Roadside Chapel.

I was now about to leave Llangollen, for a short time, and to set out on
an expedition to Bangor, Snowdon, and one or two places in Anglesea.  I
had determined to make the journey on foot, in order that I might have
perfect liberty of action, and enjoy the best opportunities of seeing the
country.  My wife and daughter were to meet me at Bangor, to which place
they would repair by the railroad, and from which, after seeing some of
the mountain districts, they would return to Llangollen by the way they
came, where I proposed to join them, returning, however, by a different
way from the one I went, that I might traverse new districts.  About
eleven o'clock of a brilliant Sunday morning I left Llangollen, after
reading the morning-service of the Church to my family.  I set out on a
Sunday because I was anxious to observe the general demeanour of the
people, in the interior of the country, on the Sabbath.

I directed my course towards the west, to the head of the valley.  My
wife and daughter after walking with me about a mile bade me farewell,
and returned.  Quickening my pace I soon left Llangollen valley behind me
and entered another vale, along which the road which I was following, and
which led to Corwen and other places, might be seen extending for miles.
Lumpy hills were close upon my left, the Dee running noisily between
steep banks, fringed with trees, was on my right; beyond it rose hills
which form part of the wall of the Vale of Clwyd; their tops bare, but
their sides pleasantly coloured with yellow corn-fields and woods of dark
verdure.  About an hour's walking, from the time when I entered the
valley, brought me to a bridge over a gorge, down which water ran to the
Dee.  I stopped and looked over the side of the bridge nearest to the
hill.  A huge rock about forty feet long by twenty broad, occupied the
entire bed of the gorge, just above the bridge, with the exception of a
little gullet to the right, down which between the rock and a high bank,
on which stood a cottage, a run of water purled and brawled.  The rock
looked exactly like a huge whale lying on its side, with its back turned
towards the runnel.  Above it was a glen of trees.  After I had been
gazing a little time a man making his appearance at the door of the
cottage just beyond the bridge I passed on, and drawing nigh to him,
after a slight salutation, asked him in English the name of the bridge.

"The name of the bridge, sir," said the man, in very good English, "is
Pont y Pandy."

"Does not that mean the bridge of the fulling mill?"

"I believe it does, sir," said the man.

"Is there a fulling mill near?"

"No, sir, there was one some time ago, but it is now a sawing mill."

Here a woman, coming out, looked at me steadfastly.

"Is that gentlewoman your wife?"

"She is no gentlewoman, sir, but she is my wife."

"Of what religion are you?"

"We are Calvinistic-Methodists, sir."

"Have you been to chapel?"

"We are just returned, sir."

Here the woman said something to her husband, which I did not hear, but
the purport of which I guessed from the following question which he
immediately put.

"Have you been to chapel, sir?"

"I do not go to chapel; I belong to the Church."

"Have you been to church, sir?"

"I have not--I said my prayers at home, and then walked out."

"It is not right to walk out on the Sabbath-day, except to go to church
or chapel."

"Who told you so?"

"The law of God, which says you shall keep holy the Sabbath-day."

"I am not keeping it unholy."

"You are walking about, and in Wales when we see a person walking idly
about, on the Sabbath-day, we are in the habit of saying,
Sabbath-breaker, where are you going?"

"The Son of Man walked through the fields on the Sabbath-day, why should
I not walk along the roads?"

"He who called Himself the Son of Man was God and could do what He
pleased, but you are not God."

"But He came in the shape of a man to set an example.  Had there been
anything wrong in walking about on the Sabbath-day, He would not have
done it."

Here the wife exclaimed, "How worldly-wise these English are!"

"You do not like the English," said I.

"We do not dislike them," said the woman; "at present they do us no harm,
whatever they did of old."

"But you still consider them," said I, "the seed of Y Sarfes cadwynog,
the coiling serpent."

"I should be loth to call any people the seed of the serpent," said the
woman.

"But one of your great bards did," said I.

"He must have belonged to the Church, and not to the chapel then," said
the woman.  "No person who went to chapel would have used such bad
words."

"He lived," said I, "before people were separated into those of the
Church and the chapel; did you ever hear of Taliesin Ben Beirdd?"

"I never did," said the woman.

"But I have," said the man; "and of Owain Glendower too."

"Do people talk much of Owen Glendower in these parts?" said I.

"Plenty," said the man, "and no wonder, for when he was alive he was much
about here--some way farther on there is a mount, on the bank of the Dee,
called the mount of Owen Glendower, where it is said he used to stand and
look out after his enemies."

"Is it easy to find?" said I.

"Very easy," said the man, "it stands right upon the Dee and is covered
with trees; there is no mistaking it."

I bade the man and his wife farewell, and proceeded on my way.  After
walking about a mile, I perceived a kind of elevation which answered to
the description of Glendower's mount, which the man by the bridge had
given me.  It stood on the right hand, at some distance from the road,
across a field.  As I was standing looking at it a man came up from the
direction in which I myself had come.  He was a middle-aged man, plainly
but decently dressed, and had something of the appearance of a farmer.

"What hill may that be?" said I in English, pointing to the elevation.

"Dim Saesneg, sir," said the man, looking rather sheepish, "Dim gair o
Saesneg."

Rather surprised that a person of his appearance should not have a word
of English, I repeated my question in Welsh.

"Ah, you speak Cumraeg, sir;" said the man evidently surprised that a
person of my English appearance should speak Welsh.  "I am glad of it!
What hill is that, you ask--Dyna Mont Owain Glyndwr, sir."

"Is it easy to get to?" said I.

"Quite easy, sir," said the man.  "If you please I will go with you."

I thanked him, and opening a gate he conducted me across the field to the
mount of the Welsh hero.

The mount of Owen Glendower stands close upon the southern bank of the
Dee, and is nearly covered with trees of various kinds.  It is about
thirty feet high from the plain, and about the same diameter at the top.
A deep black pool of the river which here runs far beneath the surface of
the field, purls and twists under the northern side, which is very steep,
though several large oaks spring out of it.  The hill is evidently the
work of art, and appeared to me to be some burying-place of old.

"And this is the hill of Owain Glyndwr?" said I.

"Dyma Mont Owain Glyndwr, sir, lle yr oedd yn sefyll i edrych am ei
elvnion yn dyfod o Gaer Lleon.  This is the hill of Owain Glendower, sir,
where he was in the habit of standing to look out for his enemies coming
from Chester."

"I suppose it was not covered with trees then?" said I.

"No, sir; it has not been long planted with trees.  They say, however,
that the oaks which hang over the river are very old."

"Do they say who raised this hill?"

"Some say that God raised it, sir; others that Owain Glendower raised it.
Who do you think raised it?"

"I believe that it was raised by man, but not by Owen Glendower.  He may
have stood upon it, to watch for the coming of his enemies, but I believe
it was here long before his time, and that it was raised over some old
dead king by the people whom he had governed."

"Do they bury kings by the side of rivers, sir?"

"In the old time they did, and on the tops of mountains; they burnt their
bodies to ashes, placed them in pots and raised heaps of earth or stones
over them.  Heaps like this have frequently been opened, and found to
contain pots with ashes and bones."

"I wish all English could speak Welsh, sir."

"Why?"

"Because then we poor Welsh who can speak no English could learn much
which we do not know."

Descending the monticle we walked along the road together.  After a
little time I asked my companion of what occupation he was and where he
lived.

"I am a small farmer, sir," said he, "and live at Llansanfraid Glyn
Dyfrdwy across the river."

"How comes it," said I, "that you do not know English?"

"When I was young," said he, "and could have easily learnt it, I cared
nothing about it, and now that I am old and see its use, it is too late
to acquire it."

"Of what religion are you?" said I.

"I am of the Church," he replied.

I was about to ask him if there were many people of his persuasion in
these parts; before, however, I could do so he turned down a road to the
right which led towards a small bridge, and saying that was his way home,
bade me farewell and departed.

I arrived at Corwen which is just ten miles from Llangollen and which
stands beneath a vast range of rocks at the head of the valley up which I
had been coming, and which is called Glyndyfrdwy, or the valley of the
Dee water.  It was now about two o'clock, and feeling rather thirsty I
went to an inn very appropriately called the Owen Glendower, being the
principal inn in the principal town of what was once the domain of the
great Owen.  Here I stopped for about an hour refreshing myself and
occasionally looking into a newspaper in which was an excellent article
on the case of poor Lieutenant P.  I then started for Cerrig-y-Drudion,
distant about ten miles, where I proposed to pass the night.  Directing
my course to the north-west, I crossed a bridge over the Dee water and
then proceeded rapidly along the road, which for some way lay between
corn-fields, in many of which sheaves were piled up, showing that the
Welsh harvest was begun.  I soon passed over a little stream, the name of
which I was told was Alowan.  "Oh, what a blessing it is to be able to
speak Welsh!" said I, finding that not a person to whom I addressed
myself had a word of English to bestow upon me.  After walking for about
five miles I came to a beautiful but wild country of mountain and wood
with here and there a few cottages.  The road at length making an abrupt
turn to the north, I found myself with a low stone wall on my left, on
the verge of a profound ravine, and a high bank covered with trees on my
right.  Projecting out over the ravine was a kind of looking place,
protected by a wall, forming a half-circle, doubtless made by the
proprietor of the domain for the use of the admirers of scenery.  There I
stationed myself, and for some time enjoyed one of the wildest and most
beautiful scenes imaginable.  Below me was the deep narrow glen or
ravine, down which a mountain torrent roared and foamed.  Beyond it was a
mountain rising steeply, its nearer side, which was in deep shade, the
sun having long sunk below its top, hirsute with all kinds of trees, from
the highest pinnacle down to the torrent's brink.  Cut on the top surface
of the wall, which was of slate, and therefore easily impressible by the
knife, were several names, doubtless those of tourists, who had gazed
from the look-out on the prospect, amongst which I observed in remarkably
bold letters that of T . . . .

"Eager for immortality, Mr T.," said I; "but you are no H. M., no Huw
Morris."

Leaving the looking place I proceeded, and, after one or two turnings,
came to another, which afforded a view if possible yet more grand,
beautiful and wild, the most prominent objects of which were a kind of
devil's bridge flung over the deep glen and its foaming water, and a
strange-looking hill beyond it, below which, with a wood on either side,
stood a white farm-house--sending from a tall chimney a thin misty reek
up to the sky.  I crossed the bridge, which, however diabolically
fantastical it looked at a distance, seemed when one was upon it, capable
of bearing any weight, and soon found myself by the farm-house past which
the way led.  An aged woman sat on a stool by the door.

"A fine evening," said I in English.

"Dim Saesneg;" said the aged woman.

"Oh, the blessing of being able to speak Welsh," said I; and then
repeated in that language what I had said to her in the other tongue.

"I daresay," said the aged woman, "to those who can see."

"Can you not see?"

"Very little.  I am almost blind."

"Can you not see me?"

"I can see something tall and dark before me; that is all."

"Can you tell me the name of the bridge?"

"Pont y Glyn bin--the bridge of the glen of trouble."

"And what is the name of this place?"

"Pen y bont--the head of the bridge."

"What is your own name?"

"Catherine Hughes."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen after three twenties."

"I have a mother three after four twenties; that is eight years older
than yourself."

"Can she see?"

"Better than I--she can read the smallest letters."

"May she long be a comfort to you!"

"Thank you--are you the mistress of the house?"

"I am the grandmother."

"Are the people in the house?"

"They are not--they are at the chapel."

"And they left you alone?"

"They left me with my God."

"Is the chapel far from here?"

"About a mile."

"On the road to Cerrig y Drudion?"

"On the road to Cerrig y Drudion."

I bade her farewell, and pushed on--the road was good, with high rocky
banks on each side.  After walking about the distance indicated by the
old lady, I reached a building, which stood on the right-hand side of the
road, and which I had no doubt was the chapel, from a half-groaning,
half-singing noise which proceeded from it.  The door being open, I
entered, and stood just within it, bare-headed.  A rather singular scene
presented itself.  Within a large dimly-lighted room, a number of people
were assembled, partly seated in rude pews, and partly on benches.
Beneath a kind of altar, a few yards from the door, stood three men--the
middlemost was praying in Welsh in a singular kind of chant, with his
arms stretched out.  I could distinguish the words, "Jesus descend among
us! sweet Jesus descend among us--quickly."  He spoke very slowly, and
towards the end of every sentence dropped his voice, so that what he said
was anything but distinct.  As I stood within the door, a man dressed in
coarse garments came up to me from the interior of the building, and
courteously, and in excellent Welsh, asked me to come with him and take a
seat.  With equal courtesy, but far inferior Welsh, I assured him that I
meant no harm, but wished to be permitted to remain near the door,
whereupon with a low bow he left me.  When the man had concluded his
prayer, the whole of the congregation began singing a hymn, many of the
voices were gruff and discordant, two or three, however, were of great
power, and some of the female ones of surprising sweetness.  At the
conclusion of the hymn, another of the three men by the altar began to
pray, just in the same manner as his comrade had done, and seemingly
using much the same words.  When he had done, there was another hymn,
after which, seeing that the congregation was about to break up, I bowed
my head towards the interior of the building, and departed.

Emerging from the hollow way, I found myself on a moor, over which the
road lay in the direction of the north.  Towards the west, at an immense
distance, rose a range of stupendous hills, which I subsequently learned
were those of Snowdon--about ten minutes' walking brought me to Cerrig y
Drudion, a small village near a rocky elevation, from which, no doubt,
the place takes its name, which interpreted, is the Rock of Heroes.




CHAPTER XXIV


Cerrig y Drudion--The Landlady--Doctor Jones--Coll Gwynfa--The
Italian--Men of Como--Disappointment--Weather--Glasses--Southey.

The inn at Cerrig y Drudion was called the Lion--whether the white,
black, red or green Lion, I do not know, though I am certain that it was
a lion of some colour or other.  It seemed as decent and respectable a
hostelry as any traveller could wish, to refresh and repose himself in,
after a walk of twenty miles.  I entered a well-lighted passage, and from
thence a well-lighted bar room, on the right hand, in which sat a stout,
comely, elderly lady, dressed in silks and satins, with a cambric coif on
her head, in company with a thin, elderly man with a hat on his head,
dressed in a rather prim and precise manner.  "Madam!" said I, bowing to
the lady, "as I suppose you are the mistress of this establishment, I beg
leave to inform you that I am an Englishman, walking through these
regions, in order fully to enjoy their beauties and wonders.  I have this
day come from Llangollen, and being somewhat hungry and fatigued, hope I
can be accommodated here with a dinner and a bed."

"Sir!" said the lady, getting up and making me a profound curtsey, "I am,
as you suppose, the mistress of this establishment, and am happy to say
that I shall be able to accommodate you--pray sit down, sir;" she
continued, handing me a chair, "you must indeed be tired, for Llangollen
is a great way from here."

I took the seat with thanks, and she resumed her own.

"Rather hot weather for walking, sir!" said the precise-looking
gentleman.

"It is," said I; "but as I can't observe the country well without walking
through it, I put up with the heat."

"You exhibit a philosophic mind, sir," said the precise-looking
gentleman--"and a philosophic mind I hold in reverence."

"Pray, sir," said I, "have I the honour of addressing a member of the
medical profession?"

"Sir," said the precise-looking gentleman, getting up and making me a
bow, "your question does honour to your powers of discrimination--a
member of the medical profession I am, though an unworthy one."

"Nay, nay, doctor," said the landlady briskly; "say not so--every one
knows that you are a credit to your profession--well would it be if there
were many in it like you--unworthy? marry come up!  I won't hear such an
expression."

"I see," said I, "that I have not only the honour of addressing a medical
gentleman, but a doctor of medicine--however, I might have known as much
by your language and deportment."

With a yet lower bow than before he replied with something of a sigh,
"No, sir, no, our kind landlady and the neighbourhood are in the habit of
placing doctor before my name, but I have no title to it--I am not Doctor
Jones, sir, but plain Geffery Jones at your service," and thereupon with
another bow he sat down.

"Do you reside here?" said I.

"Yes, sir, I reside here in the place of my birth--I have not always
resided here--and I did not always expect to spend my latter days in a
place of such obscurity, but, sir, misfortunes--misfortunes . . ."

"Ah," said I, "misfortunes! they pursue every one, more especially those
whose virtues should exempt them from them.  Well, sir, the consciousness
of not having deserved them should be your consolation."

"Sir," said the doctor, taking off his hat, "you are infinitely kind."

"You call this an obscure place," said I--"can that be an obscure place
which has produced a poet?  I have long had a respect for Cerrig y
Drudion because it gave birth to, and was the residence of a poet of
considerable merit."

"I was not aware of that fact," said the doctor, "pray what was his
name?"

"Peter Lewis," said I; "he was a clergyman of Cerrig y Drudion about the
middle of the last century, and amongst other things wrote a beautiful
song called Cathl y Gair Mwys, or the melody of the ambiguous word."

"Surely you do not understand Welsh?" said the doctor.

"I understand a little of it," I replied.

"Will you allow me to speak to you in Welsh?" said the doctor.

"Certainly," said I.

He spoke to me in Welsh, and I replied.

"Ha, ha," said the landlady in English; "only think, doctor, of the
gentleman understanding Welsh--we must mind what we say before him."

"And are you an Englishman?" said the doctor.

"I am," I replied.

"And how came you to learn it?"

"I am fond of languages," said I, "and studied Welsh at an early period."

"And you read Welsh poetry?"

"Oh yes."

"How were you enabled to master its difficulties?"

"Chiefly by going through Owen Pugh's version of 'Paradise Lost' twice,
with the original by my side.  He has introduced into that translation so
many of the poetic terms of the old bards, that after twice going through
it, there was little in Welsh poetry that I could not make out with a
little pondering."

"You pursued a very excellent plan, sir," said the doctor, "a very
excellent plan indeed.  Owen Pugh!"

"Owen Pugh!  The last of your very great men," said I.

"You say right, sir," said the doctor.  "He was indeed our last great
man--Ultimus Romanorum.  I have myself read his work, which he called
Coll Gwynfa, the Loss of the place of Bliss--an admirable translation,
sir; highly poetical, and at the same time correct."

"Did you know him?" said I.

"I had not the honour of his acquaintance," said the doctor--"but, sir, I
am happy to say that I have made yours."

The landlady now began to talk to me about dinner, and presently went out
to make preparations for that very important meal.  I had a great deal of
conversation with the doctor, whom I found a person of great and varied
information, and one who had seen a vast deal of the world.  He was
giving me an account of an island in the West Indies, which he had
visited, when a boy coming in, whispered into his ear; whereupon, getting
up he said: "Sir, I am called away.  I am a country surgeon, and of
course an accoucheur.  There is a lady who lives at some distance
requiring my assistance.  It is with grief I leave you so abruptly, but I
hope that some time or other we shall meet again."  Then making me an
exceedingly profound bow, he left the room, followed by the boy.

I dined upstairs in a very handsome drawing-room, communicating with a
sleeping apartment.  During dinner I was waited upon by the daughter of
the landlady, a good-looking merry girl of twenty.  After dinner I sat
for some time thinking over the adventures of the day, then feeling
rather lonely and not inclined to retire to rest, I went down to the bar,
where I found the landlady seated with her daughter.  I sat down with
them and we were soon in conversation.  We spoke of Doctor Jones--the
landlady said that he had his little eccentricities, but was an excellent
and learned man.  Speaking of herself she said that she had three
daughters, that the youngest was with her and that the two eldest kept
the principal inn at Ruthyn.  We occasionally spoke a little Welsh.  At
length the landlady said, "There is an Italian in the kitchen who can
speak Welsh too.  It's odd the only two people not Welshmen I have ever
known who could speak Welsh, for such you and he are, should be in my
house at the same time."

"Dear me," said I; "I should like to see him."

"That you can easily do," said the girl; "I daresay he will be glad
enough to come in if you invite him."

"Pray take my compliments to him," said I, "and tell him that I shall be
glad of his company."

The girl went out and presently returned with the Italian.  He was a
short, thick, strongly-built fellow of about thirty-seven, with a swarthy
face, raven-black hair, high forehead, and dark deep eyes, full of
intelligence and great determination.  He was dressed in a velveteen
coat, with broad lappets, red waistcoat, velveteen breeches, buttoning a
little way below the knee; white stockings apparently of lamb's-wool and
high-lows.

"Buona sera?" said I.

"Buona sera, signore!" said the Italian.

"Will you have a glass of brandy and water?" said I in English.

"I never refuse a good offer," said the Italian.

He sat down, and I ordered a glass of brandy and water for him and
another for myself.

"Pray speak a little Italian to him," said the good landlady to me.  "I
have heard a great deal about the beauty of that language, and should
like to hear it spoken."

"From the Lago di Como?" said I, trying to speak Italian.

"Si, signore! but how came you to think that I was from the Lake of
Como?"

"Because," said I, "when I was a ragazzo I knew many from the Lake of
Como, who dressed much like yourself.  They wandered about the country
with boxes on their backs and weather-glasses in their hands, but had
their head-quarters at N. where I lived."

"Do you remember any of their names?" said the Italian.

"Giovanni Gestra and Luigi Pozzi," I replied.

"I have seen Giovanni Gestra myself," said the Italian, "and I have heard
of Luigi Pozzi.  Giovanni Gestra returned to the Lago--but no one knows
what is become of Luigi Pozzi."

"The last time I saw him," said I, "was about eighteen years ago at
Coruna in Spain; he was then in a sad drooping condition, and said he
bitterly repented ever quitting N."

"E con ragione," said the Italian, "for there is no place like N. for
doing business in the whole world.  I myself have sold seventy pounds'
worth of weather-glasses at N. in one day.  One of our people is living
there now, who has done bene, molto bene."

"That's Rossi," said I, "how is it that I did not mention him first?  He
is my excellent friend, and a finer, cleverer fellow never lived, nor a
more honourable man.  You may well say he has done well, for he is now
the first jeweller in the place.  The last time I was there I bought a
diamond of him for my daughter Henrietta.  Let us drink his health!"

"Willingly!" said the Italian.  "He is the prince of the Milanese of
England--the most successful of all, but I acknowledge the most
deserving.  Che viva."

"I wish he would write his life," said I; "a singular life it would
be--he has been something besides a travelling merchant, and a jeweller.
He was one of Buonaparte's soldiers, and served in Spain, under Soult,
along with John Gestra.  He once told me that Soult was an old rascal,
and stole all the fine pictures from the convents, at Salamanca.  I
believe he spoke with some degree of envy, for he is himself fond of
pictures, and has dealt in them, and made hundreds by them.  I question
whether if in Soult's place he would not have done the same.  Well,
however that may be, che viva."

Here the landlady interposed, observing that she wished we would now
speak English, for that she had quite enough of Italian, which she did
not find near so pretty a language as she had expected.

"You must not judge of the sound of Italian from what proceeds from my
mouth," said I.  "It is not my native language.  I have had little
practice in it, and only speak it very imperfectly."

"Nor must you judge of Italian from what you have heard me speak," said
the man of Como; "I am not good at Italian, for the Milanese speak
amongst themselves a kind of jargon, composed of many languages, and can
only express themselves with difficulty in Italian.  I have been doing my
best to speak Italian, but should be glad now to speak English, which
comes to me much more glibly."

"Are there any books in your dialect, or jergo, as I believe you call
it?" said I.

"I believe there are a few," said the Italian.

"Do you know the word slandra?" said I.

"Who taught you that word?" said the Italian.

"Giovanni Gestra," said I; "he was always using it."

"Giovanni Gestra was a vulgar illiterate man," said the Italian; "had he
not been so he would not have used it.  It is a vulgar word; Rossi would
not have used it."

"What is the meaning of it?" said the landlady eagerly.

"To roam about in a dissipated manner," said I.

"Something more," said the Italian.  "It is considered a vulgar word even
in jergo."

"You speak English remarkably well," said I; "have you been long in
Britain?"

"I came over about four years ago," said the Italian.

"On your own account?" said I.

"Not exactly, signore; my brother, who was in business in Liverpool,
wrote to me to come over and assist him.  I did so, but soon left him,
and took a shop for myself at Denbigh, where, however, I did not stay
long.  At present I travel for an Italian house in London, spending the
summer in Wales, and the winter in England."

"And what do you sell?" said I.

"Weather-glasses, signore--pictures and little trinkets, such as the
country people like."

"Do you sell many weather-glasses in Wales?" said I.

"I do not, signore.  The Welsh care not for weather-glasses; my principal
customers for weather-glasses are the farmers of England."

"I am told that you can speak Welsh," said I; "is that true?"

"I have picked up a little of it, signore."

"He can speak it very well," said the landlady; "and glad should I be,
sir, to hear you and him speak Welsh together."

"So should I," said the daughter who was seated nigh us, "nothing would
give me greater pleasure than to hear two who are not Welshmen speaking
Welsh together."

"I would rather speak English," said the Italian; "I speak a little
Welsh, when my business leads me amongst people who speak no other
language, but I see no necessity for speaking Welsh here."

"It is a pity," said I, "that so beautiful a country as Italy should not
be better governed."

"It is, signore," said the Italian; "but let us hope that a time will
speedily come when she will be so."

"I don't see any chance of it," said I.  "How will you proceed in order
to bring about so desirable a result as the good government of Italy?"

"Why, signore, in the first place we must get rid of the Austrians."

"You will not find it an easy matter," said I, "to get rid of the
Austrians; you tried to do so a little time ago, but miserably failed."

"True, signore; but the next time we try perhaps the French will help
us."

"If the French help you to drive the Austrians from Italy," said I, "you
must become their servants.  It is true you had better be the servants of
the polished and chivalrous French, than of the brutal and barbarous
Germans, but it is not pleasant to be a servant to anybody.  However, I
do not believe that you will ever get rid of the Austrians, even if the
French assist you.  The Pope for certain reasons of his own favours the
Austrians, and will exert all the powers of priestcraft to keep them in
Italy.  Alas, alas, there is no hope for Italy!  Italy, the most
beautiful country in the world, the birth-place of the cleverest people,
whose very pedlars can learn to speak Welsh, is not only enslaved, but
destined always to remain enslaved."

"Do not say so, signore," said the Italian, with a kind of groan.

"But I do say so," said I, "and what is more, one whose shoe-strings,
were he alive, I should not he worthy to untie, one of your mighty ones,
has said so.  Did you ever hear of Vincenzio Filicaia?"

"I believe I have, signore; did he not write a sonnet on Italy?"

"He did," said I; "would you like to hear it?

"Very much, signore."

I repeated Filicaia's glorious sonnet on Italy, and then asked him if he
understood it.

"Only in part, signore; for it is composed in old Tuscan, in which I am
not much versed.  I believe I should comprehend it better if you were to
say it in English."

"Do say it in English," said the landlady and her daughter: "we should so
like to hear it in English."

"I will repeat a translation," said I, "which I made when a boy, which
though far from good, has, I believe, in it something of the spirit of
the original:--

    "O Italy! on whom dark Destiny
    The dangerous gift of beauty did bestow,
    From whence thou hast that ample dower of wo,
    Which on thy front thou bear'st so visibly.
    Would thou hadst beauty less or strength more high,
    That more of fear, and less of love might show,
    He who now blasts him in thy beauty's glow,
    Or woos thee with a zeal that makes thee die;
    Then down from Alp no more would torrents rage
    Of armed men, nor Gallic coursers hot
    In Po's ensanguin'd tide their thirst assuage;
    Nor girt with iron, not thine own, I wot,
    Wouldst thou the fight by hands of strangers wage
    Victress or vanquish'd slavery still thy lot."




CHAPTER XXV


Lacing-up High-lows--The Native Village--Game Leg--Croppies Lie
Down--Keeping Faith--Processions--Croppies Get Up--Daniel O'Connell.

I slept in the chamber communicating with the room in which I had dined.
The chamber was spacious and airy, the bed first-rate, and myself rather
tired, so that no one will be surprised when I say that I had excellent
rest.  I got up, and after dressing myself went down.  The morning was
exceedingly brilliant.  Going out I saw the Italian lacing up his
high-lows against a step.  I saluted him, and asked him if he was about
to depart.

"Yes, signore; I shall presently start for Denbigh."

"After breakfast I shall start for Bangor," said I.

"Do you propose to reach Bangor to-night, signore?"

"Yes," said I.

"Walking, signore?"

"Yes," said I; "I always walk in Wales."

"Then you will have rather a long walk, signore; for Bangor is
thirty-four miles from here."

I asked him if he was married.

"No, signore; but my brother in Liverpool is."

"To an Italian?"

"No, signore; to a Welsh girl."

"And I suppose," said I, "you will follow his example by marrying one;
perhaps that good-looking girl the landlady's daughter we were seated
with last night?"

"No, signore; I shall not follow my brother's example.  If ever I take a
wife she shall be of my own village, in Como, whither I hope to return,
as soon as I have picked up a few more pounds."

"Whether the Austrians are driven away or not?" said I.

"Whether the Austrians are driven away or not--for to my mind there is no
country like Como, signore."

I ordered breakfast; whilst taking it in the room above I saw through the
open window the Italian trudging forth on his journey, a huge box on his
back, and a weather-glass in his hand--looking the exact image of one of
those men, his country people, whom forty years before I had known at
N---.  I thought of the course of time, sighed and felt a tear gather in
my eye.

My breakfast concluded, I paid my bill, and after inquiring the way to
Bangor, and bidding adieu to the kind landlady and her daughter, set out
from Cerrig y Drudion.  My course lay west, across a flat country,
bounded in the far distance by the mighty hills I had seen on the
preceding evening.  After walking about a mile I overtook a man with a
game leg, that is a leg which, either by nature or accident not being so
long as its brother leg, had a patten attached to it, about five inches
high, to enable it to do duty with the other--he was a fellow with red
shock hair and very red features, and was dressed in ragged coat and
breeches and a hat which had lost part of its crown, and all its rim, so
that even without a game leg he would have looked rather a queer figure.
In his hand he carried a fiddle.

"Good morning to you," said I.

"A good morning to your hanner, a merry afternoon and a roaring, joyous
evening--that is the worst luck I wish to ye."

"Are you a native of these parts?" said I.

"Not exactly, your hanner--I am a native of the city of Dublin, or,
what's all the same thing, of the village of Donnybrook, which is close
by it."

"A celebrated place," said I.

"Your hanner may say that; all the world has heard of Donnybrook, owing
to the humours of its fair.  Many is the merry tune I have played to the
boys at that fair."

"You are a professor of music, I suppose?"

"And not a very bad one, as your hanner will say, if you allow me to play
you a tune."

"Can you play Croppies Lie Down?"

"I cannot, your hanner, my fingers never learnt to play such a blackguard
tune; but if you wish to hear Croppies Get Up I can oblige ye."

"You are a Roman Catholic, I suppose?"

"I am not, your hanner--I am a Catholic to the back-bone, just like my
father before me.  Come, your hanner, shall I play ye Croppies Get Up?"

"No," said I; "it's a tune that doesn't please my ears.  If, however, you
choose to play Croppies Lie Down, I'll give you a shilling."

"Your hanner will give me a shilling?"

"Yes," said I; "if you play Croppies Lie Down; but you know you cannot
play it, your fingers never learned the tune."

"They never did, your hanner; but they have heard it played of ould by
the blackguard Orange fiddlers of Dublin on the first of July, when the
Protestant boys used to walk round Willie's statue on College Green--so
if your hanner gives me the shilling, they may perhaps bring out
something like it."

"Very good," said I; "begin!"

"But, your hanner, what shall we do for the words? though my fingers may
remember the tune my tongue does not remember the words--that is unless
. . ."

"I give another shilling," said I; "but never mind you the words; I know
the words, and will repeat them."

"And your hanner will give me a shilling?"

"If you play the tune," said I.

"Hanner bright, your hanner?"

"Honour bright," said I.

Thereupon the fiddler taking his bow and shouldering his fiddle, struck
up in first-rate style the glorious tune, which I had so often heard with
rapture in the days of my boyhood in the barrack-yard of Clonmel; whilst
I, walking by his side as he stumped along, caused the welkin to resound
with the words, which were the delight of the young gentlemen of the
Protestant academy of that beautiful old town.

"I never heard those words before," said the fiddler, after I had
finished the first stanza.

"Get on with you," said I.

"Regular Orange words!" said the fiddler, on my finishing the second
stanza.

"Do you choose to get on?" said I.

"More blackguard Orange words I never heard!" cried the fiddler, on my
coming to the conclusion of the third stanza.  "Divil a bit farther will
I play; at any rate till I get the shilling."

"Here it is for you," said I; "the song is ended, and, of course, the
tune."

"Thank your hanner," said the fiddler, taking the money, "your hanner has
kept your word with me, which is more than I thought your hanner would.
And now your hanner let me ask you why did your hanner wish for that
tune, which is not only a blackguard one but quite out of date; and where
did your hanner get the words?"

"I used to hear the tune in my boyish days," said I, "and wished to hear
it again, for though you call it a blackguard tune, it is the sweetest
and most noble air that Ireland, the land of music, has ever produced.
As for the words, never mind where I got them; they are violent enough,
but not half so violent as the words of some of the songs made against
the Irish Protestants by the priests."

"Your hanner is an Orange man, I see.  Well, your hanner, the Orange is
now in the kennel, and the Croppies have it all their own way."

"And perhaps," said I, "before I die, the Orange will be out of the
kennel and the Croppies in, even as they were in my young days."

"Who knows, your hanner? and who knows that I may not play the old tune
round Willie's image in College Green, even as I used some twenty-seven
years ago?"

"Oh then you have been an Orange fiddler?"

"I have, your hanner.  And now as your hanner has behaved like a
gentleman to me I will tell ye all my history.  I was born in the city of
Dublin, that is in the village of Donnybrook, as I tould your hanner
before.  It was to the trade of bricklaying I was bred, and bricklaying I
followed till at last, getting my leg smashed, not by falling off the
ladder, but by a row in the fair, I was obliged to give it up, for how
could I run up the ladder with a patten on my foot, which they put on to
make my broken leg as long as the other.  Well your hanner, being obliged
to give up my bricklaying, I took to fiddling, to which I had always a
natural inclination, and played about the streets, and at fairs, and
wakes, and weddings.  At length some Orange men getting acquainted with
me, and liking my style of playing, invited me to their lodge, where they
gave me to drink and tould me that if I would change my religion, and
join them, and play their tunes, they would make it answer my purpose.
Well, your hanner, without much stickling I gave up my Popery, joined the
Orange lodge, learned the Orange tunes, and became a regular Protestant
boy, and truly the Orange men kept their word, and made it answer my
purpose.  Oh the meat and drink I got, and the money I made by playing at
the Orange lodges and before the processions when the Orange men paraded
the streets with their Orange colours.   And oh, what a day for me was
the glorious first of July when with my whole body covered with Orange
ribbons, I fiddled Croppies Lie Down, Boyne Water, and the Protestant
Boys before the procession which walked round Willie's figure on
horseback in College Green, the man and horse all ablaze with Orange
colours.  But nothing lasts under the sun, as your hanner knows;
Orangeism began to go down; the Government scowled at it, and at last
passed a law preventing the Protestant boys dressing up the figure on the
first of July, and walking round it.  That was the death-blow of the
Orange party, your hanner; they never recovered it, but began to despond
and dwindle, and I with them; for there was scarcely any demand for
Orange tunes.  Then Dan O'Connell arose with his emancipation and repale
cries, and then instead of Orange processions and walkings, there were
Papist processions and mobs, which made me afraid to stir out, lest
knowing me for an Orange fiddler, they should break my head, as the boys
broke my leg at Donnybrook fair.  At length some of the repalers and
emancipators knowing that I was a first-rate hand at fiddling came to me
and tould me, that if I would give over playing Croppies Lie Down and
other Orange tunes, and would play Croppies Get Up, and what not, and
become a Catholic and a repaler, and an emancipator, they would make a
man of me--so as my Orange trade was gone, and I was half-starved, I
consinted, not however till they had introduced me to Daniel O'Connell,
who called me a cridit to my country, and the Irish Horpheus, and
promised me a sovereign if I would consint to join the cause, as he
called it.  Well, your hanner, I joined with the cause and became a
Papist, I mane a Catholic once more, and went at the head of processions
covered all over with green ribbons, playing Croppies Get Up, Granny
Whale, and the like.  But, your hanner, though I went the whole hog with
the repalers and emancipators, they did not make their words good by
making a man of me.  Scant and sparing were they in the mate and drink,
and yet more sparing in the money, and Daniel O'Connell never gave me the
sovereign which he promised me.  No, your hanner, though I played
Croppies Get Up, till my fingers ached, as I stumped before him and his
mobs and processions, he never gave me the sovereign: unlike your hanner
who gave me the shilling ye promised me for playing Croppies Lie Down,
Daniel O'Connell never gave me the sovereign he promised me for playing
Croppies Get Up.  Och, your hanner, I often wished the ould Orange days
were back again.  However as I could do no better I continued going the
whole hog with the emancipators and repalers and Dan O'Connell; I went
the whole animal with them till they had got emancipation; and I went the
whole animal with them till they had nearly got repale--when all of a
sudden they let the whole thing drop--Dan and his party having frighted
the Government out of its seven senses, and gotten all they could get, in
money and places, which was all they wanted, let the whole hullabaloo
drop, and of course myself, who formed part of it.  I went to those who
had persuaded me to give up my Orange tunes, and to play Papist ones,
begging them to give me work; but they tould me very civilly that they
had no further occasion for my services.  I went to Daniel O'Connell
reminding him of the sovereign he had promised me, and offering if he
gave it me to play Croppies Get Up under the nose of the lord-lieutenant
himself; but he tould me that he had not time to attend to me, and when I
persisted, bade me go to the Divil and shake myself.  Well, your hanner,
seeing no prospect for myself in my own country, and having incurred some
little debts, for which I feared to be arrested, I came over to England
and Wales, where with little content and satisfaction I have passed seven
years."

"Well," said I; "thank you for your history--farewell."

"Stap, your hanner; does your hanner think that the Orange will ever be
out of the kennel, and that the Orange boys will ever walk round the
brass man and horse in College Green as they did of ould?"

"Who knows?" said I.  "But suppose all that were to happen, what would it
signify to you?"

"Why then divil be in my patten if I would not go back to Donnybrook and
Dublin, hoist the Orange cockade, and become as good an Orange boy as
ever."

"What," said I, "and give up Popery for the second time?"

"I would, your hanner; and why not? for in spite of what I have heard
Father Toban say, I am by no means certain that all Protestants will be
damned."

"Farewell," said I.

"Farewell, your hanner, and long life and prosperity to you!  God bless
your hanner and your Orange face.  Ah, the Orange boys are the boys for
keeping faith.  They never served me as Dan O'Connell and his dirty gang
of repalers and emancipators did.  Farewell, your hanner, once more; and
here's another scratch of the illigant tune your hanner is so fond of, to
cheer up your hanner's ears upon your way."

And long after I had left him I could hear him playing on his fiddle in
first-rate style the beautiful tune of "Down, down, Croppies Lie Down."




CHAPTER XXVI


Ceiniog Mawr--Pentre Voelas--The Old Conway--Stupendous Pass--The Gwedir
Family--Capel Curig--The Two Children--Bread--Wonderful Echo--Tremendous
Walker.

I walked on briskly over a flat uninteresting country, and in about an
hour's time came in front of a large stone house.  It stood near the
road, on the left-hand side, with a pond and pleasant trees before it,
and a number of corn-stacks behind.  It had something the appearance of
an inn, but displayed no sign.  As I was standing looking at it, a man
with the look of a labourer, and with a dog by his side, came out of the
house and advanced towards me.

"What is the name of this place?" said I to him in English as he drew
nigh.

"Sir," said the man, "the name of the house is Ceiniog Mawr."

"Is it an inn?" said I.

"Not now, sir; but some years ago it was an inn, and a very large one, at
which coaches used to stop; at present it is occupied by an
amaethwr--that is a farmer, sir."

"Ceiniog Mawr means a great penny," said I, "why is it called by that
name?"

"I have heard, sir, that before it was an inn it was a very considerable
place, namely a royal mint, at which pennies were made, and on that
account it was called Ceiniog Mawr."

I was subsequently told that the name of this place was Cernioge Mawr.
If such be the real name the legend about the mint falls to the ground,
Cernioge having nothing to do with pence.  Cern in Welsh means a jaw.
Perhaps the true name of the house is Corniawg, which interpreted is a
place with plenty of turrets or chimneys.  A mile or two further the
ground began to rise, and I came to a small village at the entrance of
which was a water-wheel--near the village was a gentleman's seat almost
surrounded by groves.  After I had passed through the village, seeing a
woman seated by the roadside knitting, I asked her in English its name.
Finding she had no Saesneg I repeated the question in Welsh, whereupon
she told me that it was called Pentre Voelas.

"And whom does the 'Plas' belong to yonder amongst the groves?" said I.

"It belongs to Mr Wynn, sir, and so does the village and a great deal of
the land about here.  A very good gentleman is Mr Wynn, sir; he is very
kind to his tenants and a very good lady is Mrs Wynn, sir; in the winter
she gives much soup to the poor."

After leaving the village of Pentre Voelas I soon found myself in a wild
hilly region.  I crossed a bridge over a river, which, brawling and
tumbling amidst rocks, shaped its course to the north-east.  As I
proceeded, the country became more and more wild; there were dingles and
hollows in abundance, and fantastic-looking hills, some of which were
bare, and others clad with trees of various kinds.  Came to a little well
in a cavity, dug in a high bank on the left-hand side of the road, and
fenced by rude stone work on either side; the well was about ten inches
in diameter, and as many deep.  Water oozing from the bank upon a
slanting tile fastened into the earth fell into it.  After damming up the
end of the tile with my hand, and drinking some delicious water, I passed
on and presently arrived at a cottage, just inside the door of which sat
a good-looking middle-aged woman engaged in knitting, the general
occupation of Welsh females.

"Good-day," said I to her in Welsh.  "Fine weather."

"In truth, sir, it is fine weather for the harvest."

"Are you alone in the house?"

"I am, sir, my husband has gone to his labour."

"Have you any children?"

"Two, sir; but they are out at service."

"What is the name of this place?"

"Pant Paddock, sir."

"Do you get your water from the little well yonder?"

"We do, sir, and good water it is."

"I have drunk of it."

"Much good may what you have drunk do you, sir!"

"What is the name of the river near here?"

"It is called the Conway, sir."

"Dear me; is that river the Conway?"

"You have heard of it, sir?"

"Heard of it! it is one of the famous rivers of the world.  The poets are
very fond of it--one of the great poets of my country calls it the old
Conway."

"Is one river older than another, sir?"

"That's a shrewd question.  Can you read?"

"I can, sir."

"Have you any books?"

"I have the Bible, sir."

"Will you show it me?"

"Willingly, sir."

Then getting up she took a book from a shelf and handed it to me, at the
same time begging me to enter the house and sit down.  I declined, and
she again took her seat and resumed her occupation.  On opening the book
the first words which met my eye were: "Gad i mi fyned trwy dy dir!--Let
me go through your country" (Numb. XX. 22).

"I may say these words," said I, pointing to the passage.  "Let me go
through your country."

"No one will hinder you, sir, for you seem a civil gentleman."

"No one has hindered me hitherto.  Wherever I have been in Wales I have
experienced nothing but kindness and hospitality, and when I return to my
own country I will say so."

"What country is yours, sir?"

"England.  Did you not know that by my tongue?"

"I did not, sir.  I knew by your tongue that you were not from our
parts--but I did not know that you were an Englishman.  I took you for a
Cumro of the south country."

Returning the kind woman her book, and bidding her farewell I departed,
and proceeded some miles through a truly magnificent country of wood,
rock, and mountain.  At length I came to a steep mountain gorge, down
which the road ran nearly due north, the Conway to the left running with
great noise parallel with the road, amongst broken rocks, which chafed it
into foam.  I was now amidst stupendous hills, whose paps, peaks, and
pinnacles seemed to rise to the very heaven.  An immense mountain on the
right side of the road particularly struck my attention, and on inquiring
of a man breaking stones by the roadside I learned that it was called
Dinas Mawr, or the large citadel, perhaps from a fort having been built
upon it to defend the pass in the old British times.  Coming to the
bottom of the pass I crossed over by an ancient bridge, and, passing
through a small town, found myself in a beautiful valley with majestic
hills on either side.  This was the Dyffryn Conway, the celebrated Vale
of Conway, to which in the summer time fashionable gentry from all parts
of Britain resort for shade and relaxation.  When about midway down the
valley I turned to the west, up one of the grandest passes in the world,
having two immense door-posts of rock at the entrance, the northern one
probably rising to the altitude of nine hundred feet.  On the southern
side of this pass near the entrance were neat dwellings for the
accommodation of visitors with cool apartments on the ground floor, with
large windows, looking towards the precipitous side of the mighty
northern hill; within them I observed tables, and books, and young men,
probably English collegians, seated at study.

After I had proceeded some way up the pass, down which a small river ran,
a woman who was standing on the right-hand side of the way, seemingly on
the look-out, begged me in broken English to step aside and look at the
fall.

"You mean a waterfall, I suppose?" said I.

"Yes, sir."

"And how do you call it?" said I.

"The Fall of the Swallow, sir."

"And in Welsh?" said I.

"Rhaiadr y Wennol, sir."

"And what is the name of the river?" said I.

"We call the river the Lygwy, sir."

I told the woman I would go, whereupon she conducted me through a gate on
the right-hand side and down a path overhung with trees to a rock
projecting into the river.  The Fall of the Swallow is not a majestic
single fall, but a succession of small ones.  First there are a number of
little foaming torrents, bursting through rocks about twenty yards above
the promontory on which I stood.  Then come two beautiful rolls of white
water, dashing into a pool a little way above the promontory; then there
is a swirl of water round its corner into a pool below on its right,
black as death, and seemingly of great depth; then a rush through a very
narrow outlet into another pool, from which the water clamours away down
the glen.  Such is the Rhaiadr y Wennol, or Swallow Fall; called so from
the rapidity with which the waters rush and skip along.

On asking the woman on whose property the fall was, she informed me that
it was on the property of the Gwedir family.  The name of Gwedir brought
to my mind the "History of the Gwedir Family," a rare and curious book
which I had read in my boyhood, and which was written by the
representative of that family, a certain Sir John Wynne, about the
beginning of the seventeenth century.  It gives an account of the
fortunes of the family, from its earliest rise; but more particularly
after it had emigrated, in order to avoid bad neighbours, from a fair and
fertile district into rugged Snowdonia, where it found anything but the
repose it came in quest of.  The book which is written in bold graphic
English, flings considerable light on the state of society in Wales, in
the time of the Tudors, a truly deplorable state, as the book is full of
accounts of feuds, petty but desperate skirmishes, and revengeful
murders.  To many of the domestic sagas, or histories of ancient
Icelandic families, from the character of the events which it describes
and also from the manner in which it describes them, the "History of the
Gwedir Family," by Sir John Wynne, bears a striking resemblance.

After giving the woman sixpence I left the fall, and proceeded on my way.
I presently crossed a bridge under which ran the river of the fall, and
was soon in a wide valley on each side of which were lofty hills dotted
with wood, and at the top of which stood a mighty mountain, bare and
precipitous, with two paps like those of Pindus opposite Janina, but
somewhat sharper.  It was a region of fairy beauty and of wild grandeur.
Meeting an old bleared-eyed farmer I inquired the name of the mountain
and learned that it was called Moel Siabod or Shabod.  Shortly after
leaving him, I turned from the road to inspect a monticle which appeared
to me to have something of the appearance of a burial heap.  It stood in
a green meadow by the river which ran down the valley on the left.
Whether it was a grave hill or a natural monticle, I will not say; but
standing in the fair meadow, the rivulet murmuring beside it, and the old
mountain looking down upon it, I thought it looked a very meet
resting-place for an old Celtic king.

Turning round the northern side of the mighty Siabod I soon reached the
village of Capel Curig, standing in a valley between two hills, the
easternmost of which is the aforesaid Moel Siabod.  Having walked now
twenty miles in a broiling day I thought it high time to take some
refreshment, and inquired the way to the inn.  The inn, or rather the
hotel, for it was a very magnificent edifice, stood at the entrance of a
pass leading to Snowdon, on the southern side of the valley, in a totally
different direction from the road leading to Bangor, to which place I was
bound.  There I dined in a grand saloon amidst a great deal of
fashionable company, who, probably conceiving from my heated and dusty
appearance that I was some poor fellow travelling on foot from motives of
economy, surveyed me with looks of the most supercilious disdain, which,
however, neither deprived me of my appetite nor operated uncomfortably on
my feelings.

My dinner finished, I paid my bill, and having sauntered a little about
the hotel garden, which is situated on the border of a small lake and
from which, through the vista of the pass, Snowdon may be seen towering
in majesty at the distance of about six miles, I started for Bangor,
which is fourteen miles from Capel Curig.

The road to Bangor from Capel Curig is almost due west.  An hour's
walking brought me to a bleak moor, extending for a long way amidst wild
sterile hills.

The first of a chain on the left, was a huge lumpy hill with a precipice
towards the road probably three hundred feet high.  When I had come
nearly parallel with the commencement of this precipice, I saw on the
left-hand side of the road two children looking over a low wall behind
which at a little distance stood a wretched hovel.  On coming up I
stopped and looked at them; they were a boy and girl; the first about
twelve, the latter a year or two younger; both wretchedly dressed and
looking very sickly.

"Have you any English?" said I, addressing the boy in Welsh.

"Dim gair," said the boy; "not a word; there is no Saesneg near here."

"What is the name of this place?"

"The name of our house is Helyg."

"And what is the name of that hill?" said I, pointing to the hill of the
precipice.

"Allt y Gog--the high place of the cuckoo."

"Have you a father and mother?"

"We have."

"Are they in the house?"

"They are gone to Capel Curig."

"And they left you alone?"

"They did.  With the cat and the trin-wire."

"Do your father and mother make wire-work?"

"They do.  They live by making it."

"What is the wire-work for?"

"It is for hedges to fence the fields with."

"Do you help your father and mother?"

"We do; as far as we can."

"You both look unwell."

"We have lately had the cryd" (ague).

"Is there much cryd about here?"

"Plenty."

"Do you live well?"

"When we have bread we live well."

"If I give you a penny will you bring me some water?"

"We will, whether you give us a penny or not.  Come, sister, let us go
and fetch the gentleman water."

They ran into the house and presently returned, the girl bearing a pan of
water.  After I had drunk I gave each of the children a penny, and
received in return from each a diolch or thanks.

"Can either of you read?"

"Neither one nor the other."

"Can your father and mother read?"

"My father cannot, my mother can a little."

"Are there books in the house?"

"There are not."

"No Bible?"

"There is no book at all."

"Do you go to church?"

"We do not."

"To chapel?"

"In fine weather."

"Are you happy?"

"When there is bread in the house and no cryd we are all happy."

"Farewell to you, children."

"Farewell to you, gentleman!" exclaimed both.

"I have learnt something," said I, "of Welsh cottage life and feeling
from that poor sickly child."

I had passed the first and second of the hills which stood on the left,
and a huge long mountain on the right which confronted both, when a young
man came down from a gully on my left hand, and proceeded in the same
direction as myself.  He was dressed in a blue coat and corduroy
trowsers, and appeared to be of a condition a little above that of a
labourer.  He shook his head and scowled when I spoke to him in English,
but smiled on my speaking Welsh, and said: "Ah, you speak Cumraeg: I
thought no Sais could speak Cumraeg."  I asked him if he was going far.

"About four miles," he replied.

"On the Bangor road?"

"Yes," said he; "down the Bangor road."

I learned that he was a carpenter, and that he had been up the gully to
see an acquaintance--perhaps a sweetheart.  We passed a lake on our right
which he told me was called Llyn Ogwen, and that it abounded with fish.
He was very amusing, and expressed great delight at having found an
Englishman who could speak Welsh; "it will be a thing to talk of," said
he, "for the rest of my life."  He entered two or three cottages by the
side of the road, and each time he came out I heard him say: "I am with a
Sais who can speak Cumraeg."  At length we came to a gloomy-looking
valley trending due north; down this valley the road ran, having an
enormous wall of rocks on its right and a precipitous hollow on the left,
beyond which was a wall equally high as the other one.  When we had
proceeded some way down the road my guide said.  "You shall now hear a
wonderful echo," and shouting "taw, taw," the rocks replied in a manner
something like the baying of hounds.  "Hark to the dogs!" exclaimed my
companion.  "This pass is called Nant yr ieuanc gwn, the pass of the
young dogs, because when one shouts it answers with a noise resembling
the crying of hounds."

The sun was setting when we came to a small village at the bottom of the
pass.  I asked my companion its name.  "Ty yn y maes," he replied, adding
as he stopped before a small cottage that he was going no farther, as he
dwelt there.

"Is there a public-house here?" said I.

"There is," he replied, "you will find one a little farther up on the
right hand."

"Come, and take some ale," said I.

"No," said he.

"Why not?" I demanded.

"I am a teetotaler," he replied.

"Indeed," said I, and having shaken him by the hand, thanked him for his
company and bidding him farewell, went on.  He was the first person I had
ever met of the fraternity to which he belonged, who did not endeavour to
make a parade of his abstinence and self-denial.

After drinking some tolerably good ale in the public house I again
started.  As I left the village a clock struck eight.  The evening was
delightfully cool; but it soon became nearly dark.  I passed under high
rocks, by houses and by groves, in which nightingales were singing, to
listen to whose entrancing melody I more than once stopped.  On coming to
a town, lighted up and thronged with people, I asked one of a group of
young fellows its name.

"Bethesda," he replied.

"A scriptural name," said I.

"Is it?" said he; "well, if its name is scriptural the manners of its
people are by no means so."

A little way beyond the town a man came out of a cottage and walked
beside me.  He had a basket in his hand.  I quickened my pace; but he was
a tremendous walker, and kept up with me.  On we went side by side for
more than a mile without speaking a word.  At length, putting out my legs
in genuine Barclay fashion, I got before him about ten yards, then
turning round laughed and spoke to him in English.  He too laughed and
spoke, but in Welsh.  We now went on like brothers, conversing, but
always walking at great speed.  I learned from him that he was a
market-gardener living at Bangor, and that Bangor was three miles off.
On the stars shining out we began to talk about them.

Pointing to Charles's Wain I said, "A good star for travellers."

Whereupon pointing to the North star, he said:

"I forwyr da iawn--a good star for mariners."

We passed a large house on our left.

"Who lives there?" said I.

"Mr Smith," he replied.  "It is called Plas Newydd; milltir genom
etto--we have yet another mile."

In ten minutes we were at Bangor.  I asked him where the Albion Hotel
was.

"I will show it you," said he, and so he did.

As we came under it I heard the voice of my wife, for she, standing on a
balcony and distinguishing me by the lamplight, called out.  I shook
hands with the kind six-mile-an-hour market-gardener, and going into the
inn found my wife and daughter, who rejoiced to see me.  We presently had
tea.




CHAPTER XXVII


Bangor--Edmund Price--The Bridges--Bookselling--Future Pope--Wild
Irish--Southey.

Bangor is seated on the spurs of certain high hills near the Menai, a
strait separating Mona or Anglesey from Caernarvonshire.  It was once a
place of Druidical worship, of which fact, even without the testimony of
history and tradition, the name which signifies "upper circle" would be
sufficient evidence.  On the decay of Druidism a town sprang up on the
site and in the neighbourhood of the "upper circle," in which in the
sixth century a convent or university was founded by Deiniol, who
eventually became Bishop of Bangor.  This Deiniol was the son of Deiniol
Vawr, a zealous Christian prince who founded the convent of Bangor Is
Coed, or Bangor beneath the wood in Flintshire, which was destroyed, and
its inmates almost to a man put to the sword by Ethelbert, a Saxon king,
and his barbarian followers at the instigation of the monk Austin, who
hated the brethren because they refused to acknowledge the authority of
the Pope, whose delegate he was in Britain.  There were in all three
Bangors; the one at Is Coed, another in Powis, and this Caernarvonshire
Bangor, which was generally termed Bangor Vawr or Bangor the great.  The
two first Bangors have fallen into utter decay, but Bangor Vawr is still
a bishop's see, boasts of a small but venerable cathedral, and contains a
population of above eight thousand souls.

Two very remarkable men have at different periods conferred a kind of
lustre upon Bangor by residing in it, Taliesin in the old, and Edmund
Price in comparatively modern time.  Both of them were poets.  Taliesin
flourished about the end of the fifth century, and for the sublimity of
his verses was for many centuries called by his countrymen the Bardic
King.  Amongst his pieces is one generally termed "The Prophecy of
Taliesin," which announced long before it happened the entire subjugation
of Britain by the Saxons, and which is perhaps one of the most stirring
pieces of poetry ever produced.  Edmund Price flourished during the time
of Elizabeth.  He was archdeacon of Merionethshire, but occasionally
resided at Bangor for the benefit of his health.  Besides being one of
the best Welsh poets of his age he was a man of extraordinary learning,
possessing a thorough knowledge of no less than eight languages.

The greater part of his compositions, however clever and elegant, are, it
must be confessed, such as do little credit to the pen of an
ecclesiastic, being bitter poignant satires, which were the cause of much
pain and misery to individuals; one of his works, however, is not only of
a kind quite consistent with his sacred calling, but has been a source of
considerable blessing.  To him the Cambrian Church is indebted for the
version of the Psalms, which for the last two centuries it has been in
the habit of using.  Previous to the version of the Archdeacon a
translation of the Psalms had been made into Welsh by William Middleton,
an officer in the naval service of Queen Elizabeth, in the
four-and-twenty alliterative measures of the ancients bards.  It was
elegant and even faithful, but far beyond the comprehension of people in
general, and consequently by no means fitted for the use of churches,
though intended for that purpose by the author, a sincere Christian,
though a warrior.  Avoiding the error into which his predecessor had
fallen, the Archdeacon made use of a measure intelligible to people of
every degree, in which alliteration is not observed, and which is called
by the Welsh y mesur cyffredin, or the common measure.  His opinion of
the four-and-twenty measures the Archdeacon has given to the world in
four cowydd lines to the following effect:

    "I've read the master-pieces great
    Of languages no less than eight,
    But ne'er have found a woof of song
    So strict as that of Cambria's tongue."

After breakfast on the morning subsequent to my arrival, Henrietta and I
roamed about the town, and then proceeded to view the bridges which lead
over the strait to Anglesey.  One, for common traffic, is a most
beautiful suspension bridge completed in 1820, the result of the mental
and manual labours of the ingenious Telford; the other is a tubular
railroad bridge, a wonderful structure, no doubt, but anything but
graceful.  We remained for some time on the first bridge, admiring the
scenery, and were not a little delighted, as we stood leaning over the
principal arch, to see a proud vessel pass beneath us in full sail.

Satiated with gazing we passed into Anglesey, and making our way to the
tubular bridge, which is to the west of the suspension one, entered one
of its passages and returned to the main land.

The air was exceedingly hot and sultry, and on coming to a stone bench,
beneath a shady wall, we both sat down, panting, on one end of it; as we
were resting ourselves, a shabby-looking man with a bundle of books came
and seated himself at the other end, placing his bundle beside him; then
taking out from his pocket a dirty red handkerchief, he wiped his face,
which was bathed in perspiration, and ejaculated: "By Jasus, it is
blazing hot!"

"Very hot, my friend," said I; "have you travelled far to-day?"

"I have not, your hanner; I have been just walking about the dirty town
trying to sell my books."

"Have you been successful?"

"I have not, your hanner; only three pence have I taken this blessed
day."

"What do your books treat of?"

"Why, that is more than I can tell your hanner; my trade is to sell the
books not to read them.  Would your hanner like to look at them?"

"Oh dear no," said I; "I have long been tired of books; I have had enough
of them."

"I daresay, your hanner; from the state of your hanner's eyes I should
say as much; they look so weak--picking up learning has ruined your
hanner's sight."

"May I ask," said I, "from what country you are?"

"Sure your hanner may; and it is a civil answer you will get from Michael
Sullivan.  It is from ould Ireland I am, from Castlebar in the county
Mayo."

"And how came you into Wales?"

"From the hope of bettering my condition, your hanner, and a foolish hope
it was."

"You have not bettered your condition, then?"

"I have not, your hanner; for I suffer quite as much hunger and thirst as
ever I did in ould Ireland."

"Did you sell books in Ireland?"

"I did nat, yer hanner; I made buttons and clothes--that is I pieced
them.  I was several trades in ould Ireland, your hanner; but none of
them answering, I came over here."

"Where you commenced book-selling?" said I.

"I did nat, your hanner.  I first sold laces, and then I sold loocifers,
and then something else; I have followed several trades in Wales, your
hanner; at last I got into the book-selling trade, in which I now am."

"And it answers, I suppose, as badly as the others?"

"Just as badly, your hanner; divil a bit better."

"I suppose you never beg?"

"Your hanner may say that; I was always too proud to beg.  It is begging
I laves to the wife I have."

"Then you have a wife?"

"I have, your hanner; and a daughter, too; and a good wife and daughter
they are.  What would become of me without them I do not know."

"Have you been long in Wales?"

"Not very long, your hanner; only about twenty years."

"Do you travel much about?"

"All over North Wales, your hanner; to say nothing of the southern
country."

"I suppose you speak Welsh?"

"Not a word, your hanner.  The Welsh speak their language so fast, that
divil a word could I ever contrive to pick up."

"Do you speak Irish?"

"I do, yer hanner; that is when people spake to me in it."

I spoke to him in Irish; after a little discourse he said in English:

"I see your hanner is a Munster man.  Ah! all the learned men comes from
Munster.  Father Toban comes from Munster."

"I have heard of him once or twice before," said I.

"I daresay your hanner has.  Every one has heard of Father Toban; the
greatest scholar in the world, who they, say stands a better chance of
being made Pope, some day or other, than any saggart in Ireland."

"Will you take sixpence?"

"I will, your hanner; if your hanner offers it; but I never beg; I leave
that kind of work to my wife and daughter as I said before."

After giving him the sixpence, which he received with a lazy "thank your
hanner," I got up, and followed by my daughter returned to the town.

Henrietta went to the inn, and I again strolled about the town.  As I was
standing in the middle of one of the business streets I suddenly heard a
loud and dissonant gabbling, and glancing around beheld a number of
wild-looking people, male and female.  Wild looked the men, yet wilder
the women.  The men were very lightly clad, and were all barefooted and
bareheaded; they carried stout sticks in their hands.  The women were
barefooted too, but had for the most part head-dresses; their garments
consisted of blue cloaks and striped gingham gowns.  All the females had
common tin articles in their hands which they offered for sale with
violent gestures to the people in the streets, as they walked along,
occasionally darting into the shops, from which, however, they were
almost invariably speedily ejected by the startled proprietors, with
looks of disgust and almost horror.  Two ragged, red-haired lads led a
gaunt pony, drawing a creaking cart, stored with the same kind of
articles of tin, which the women bore.  Poorly clad, dusty and soiled as
they were, they all walked with a free, independent, and almost graceful
carriage.

"Are those people from Ireland?" said I to a decent-looking man,
seemingly a mechanic, who stood near me, and was also looking at them,
but with anything but admiration.

"I am sorry to say they are, sir;" said the man, who from his accent was
evidently an Irishman, "for they are a disgrace to their country."

I did not exactly think so.  I thought that in many respects they were
fine specimens of humanity.

"Every one of those wild fellows," said I to myself, "is worth a dozen of
the poor mean-spirited book-tramper I have lately been discoursing with."

In the afternoon I again passed over into Anglesey, but this time not by
the bridge but by the ferry on the north-east of Bangor, intending to go
to Beaumaris, about two or three miles distant: an excellent road, on the
left side of which is a high bank fringed with dwarf oaks, and on the
right the Menai strait, leads to it.  Beaumaris is at present a
watering-place.  On one side of it, close upon the sea, stand the ruins
of an immense castle, once a Norman stronghold, but built on the site of
a palace belonging to the ancient kings of North Wales, and a favourite
residence of the celebrated Owain Gwynedd, the father of the yet more
celebrated Madoc, the original discoverer of America.  I proceeded at
once to the castle, and clambering to the top of one of the turrets,
looked upon Beaumaris Bay, and the noble rocky coast of the mainland to
the south-east beyond it, the most remarkable object of which is the
gigantic Penman Mawr, which interpreted is "the great head-stone," the
termination of a range of craggy hills descending from the Snowdon
mountains.

"What a bay!" said I, "for beauty it is superior to the far-famed one of
Naples.  A proper place for the keels to start from, which, unguided by
the compass, found their way over the mighty and mysterious Western
Ocean."

I repeated all the Bardic lines I could remember connected with Madoc's
expedition, and likewise many from the Madoc of Southey, not the least of
Britain's four great latter poets, decidedly her best prose writer, and
probably the purest and most noble character to which she has ever given
birth; and then, after a long, lingering look, descended from my
altitude, and returned, not by the ferry, but by the suspension bridge to
the mainland.




CHAPTER XXVIII


Robert Lleiaf--Prophetic Englyn--The Second Sight--Duncan
Campbell--Nial's Saga--Family of Nial--Gunnar--The Avenger.

    "Av i dir Mon, cr dwr Menai,
    Tros y traeth, ond aros trai."

    "I will go to the land of Mona, notwithstanding the water of the
    Menai, across the sand, without waiting for the ebb."

So sang a bard about two hundred and forty years ago, who styled himself
Robert Lleiaf, or the least of the Roberts.  The meaning of the couplet
has always been considered to be, and doubtless is, that a time would
come when a bridge would be built across the Menai, over which one might
pass with safety and comfort, without waiting till the ebb was
sufficiently low to permit people to pass over the traeth, or sand,
which, from ages the most remote, had been used as the means of
communication between the mainland and the Isle of Mona or Anglesey.
Grounding their hopes upon that couplet, people were continually
expecting to see a bridge across the Menai: more than two hundred years,
however, elapsed before the expectation was fulfilled by the mighty
Telford flinging over the strait an iron suspension bridge, which, for
grace and beauty, has perhaps no rival in Europe.

The couplet is a remarkable one.  In the time of its author there was
nobody in Britain capable of building a bridge, which could have stood
against the tremendous surges which occasionally vex the Menai; yet the
couplet gives intimation that a bridge over the Menai there would be,
which clearly argues a remarkable foresight in the author, a feeling that
a time would at length arrive when the power of science would be so far
advanced, that men would be able to bridge over the terrible strait.  The
length of time which intervened between the composition of the couplet
and the fulfilment of the promise, shows that a bridge over the Menai was
no pont y meibion, no children's bridge, nor a work for common men.  Oh,
surely Lleiaf was a man of great foresight!

A man of great foresight, but nothing more; he foretold a bridge over the
Menai, when no one could have built one, a bridge over which people could
pass, aye, and carts and horses; we will allow him the credit of
foretelling such a bridge; and when Telford's bridge was flung over the
Menai, Lleiaf's couplet was verified.  But since Telford's another bridge
has been built over the Menai, which enables things to pass which the
bard certainly never dreamt of.  He never hinted at a bridge over which
thundering trains would dash, if required, at the rate of fifty miles an
hour; he never hinted at steam travelling, or a railroad bridge, and the
second bridge over the Menai is one.

That Lleiaf was a man of remarkable foresight, cannot be denied, but
there are no grounds which entitle him to be considered a possessor of
the second sight.  He foretold a bridge, but not a railroad bridge; had
he foretold a railroad bridge, or hinted at the marvels of steam, his
claim to the second sight would have been incontestable.

What a triumph for Wales; what a triumph for bardism, if Lleiaf had ever
written an englyn, or couplet, in which not a bridge for common traffic,
but a railroad bridge over the Menai was hinted at, and steam travelling
distinctly foretold!  Well, though Lleiaf did not write it, there exists
in the Welsh language an englyn, almost as old as Lleiaf's time, in which
steam travelling in Wales and Anglesea is foretold, and in which, though
the railroad bridge over the Menai is not exactly mentioned, it may be
considered to be included; so that Wales and bardism have equal reason to
be proud.  This is the englyn alluded to:--

    "Codais, ymolchais yn Mon, cyn naw awr
    Ciniewa'n Nghaer Lleon,
    Pryd gosber yn y Werddon,
    Prydnawn wrth dan mawn yn Mon."

The above englyn was printed in the Greal, 1792, p. 316; the language
shows it to be a production of about the middle of the seventeenth
century.  The following is nearly a literal translation:--

    "I got up in Mona as soon as 'twas light,
    At nine in old Chester my breakfast I took;
    In Ireland I dined, and in Mona, ere night,
    By the turf fire sat, in my own ingle nook."

Now, as sure as the couplet by Robert Lleiaf foretells that a bridge
would eventually be built over the strait, by which people would pass,
and traffic be carried on, so surely does the above englyn foreshadow the
speed by which people would travel by steam, a speed by which distance is
already all but annihilated.  At present it is easy enough to get up at
dawn at Holyhead, the point of Anglesey the most distant from Chester,
and to breakfast at that old town by nine; and though the feat has never
yet been accomplished, it would be quite possible, provided proper
preparations were made, to start from Holyhead at daybreak, breakfast at
Chester at nine, or before, dine in Ireland at two, and get back again to
Holyhead ere the sun of the longest day has set.  And as surely as the
couplet about the bridge argues great foresight in the man that wrote it,
so surely does the englyn prove that its author must have been possessed
of the faculty of second sight, as nobody without it could, in the middle
of the seventeenth century, when the powers of steam were unknown, have
written anything in which travelling by steam is so distinctly alluded
to.

Truly some old bard of the seventeenth century must in a vision of the
second sight have seen the railroad bridge across the Menai, the Chester
train dashing across it, at high railroad speed, and a figure exactly
like his own seated comfortably in a third-class carriage.

And now a few words on the second sight, a few calm, quiet words, in
which there is not the slightest wish to display either eccentricity or
book-learning.

The second sight is the power of seeing events before they happen, or of
seeing events which are happening far beyond the reach of the common
sight, or between which and the common sight barriers intervene, which it
cannot pierce.  The number of those who possess this gift or power is
limited, and perhaps no person ever possessed it in a perfect degree:
some more frequently see coming events, or what is happening at a
distance, than others; some see things dimly, others with great
distinctness.  The events seen are sometimes of great importance,
sometimes highly nonsensical and trivial; sometimes they relate to the
person who sees them, sometimes to other people.  This is all that can be
said with anything like certainty with respect to the nature of the
second sight, a faculty for which there is no accounting, which, were it
better developed, might be termed the sixth sense.

The second sight is confined to no particular country, and has at all
times existed.  Particular nations have obtained a celebrity for it for a
time, which they have afterwards lost, the celebrity being transferred to
other nations, who were previously not noted for the faculty.  The Jews
were at one time particularly celebrated for the possession of the second
sight; they are no longer so.  The power was at one time very common
amongst the Icelanders and the inhabitants of the Hebrides, but it is so
no longer.  Many and extraordinary instances of the second sight have
lately occurred in that part of England generally termed East Anglia,
where in former times the power of the second sight seldom manifested
itself.

There are various books in existence in which the second sight is treated
of or mentioned.  Amongst others there is one called "Martin's
Description of the Western Isles of Scotland," published in the year
1703, which is indeed the book from which most writers in English, who
have treated of the second sight, have derived their information.  The
author gives various anecdotes of the second sight, which he had picked
up during his visits to those remote islands, which until the publication
of his tour were almost unknown to the world.  It will not be amiss to
observe here that the term second sight is of Lowland Scotch origin, and
first made its appearance in print in Martin's book.  The Gaelic term for
the faculty is taibhsearachd, the literal meaning of which is what is
connected with a spectral appearance, the root of the word being taibhse,
a spectral appearance or vision.

Then there is the History of Duncan Campbell.  The father of this person
was a native of Shetland, who, being shipwrecked on the coast of Swedish
Lapland, and hospitably received by the natives, married a woman of the
country, by whom he had Duncan, who was born deaf and dumb.  On the death
of his mother the child was removed by his father to Scotland, where he
was educated and taught the use of the finger alphabet, by means of which
people are enabled to hold discourse with each other, without moving the
lips or tongue.  This alphabet was originally invented in Scotland, and
at the present day is much in use there, not only amongst dumb people,
but many others, who employ it as a silent means of communication.
Nothing is more usual than to see passengers in a common conveyance in
Scotland discoursing with their fingers.  Duncan at an early period gave
indications of possessing the second sight.  After various adventures he
came to London, where for many years he practised as a fortune-teller,
pretending to answer all questions, whether relating to the past or the
future, by means of the second sight.  There can be no doubt that this
man was to a certain extent an impostor; no person exists having a
thorough knowledge either of the past or future by means of the second
sight, which only visits particular people by fits and starts, and which
is quite independent of individual will; but it is equally certain that
he disclosed things which no person could have been acquainted with
without visitations of the second sight.  His papers fell into the hands
of Defoe, who wrought them up in his own peculiar manner, and gave them
to the world under the title of the Life of Mr Duncan Campbell, the Deaf
and Dumb Gentleman: with an appendix containing many anecdotes of the
second sight from Martin's tour.

But by far the most remarkable book in existence, connected with the
second sight, is one in the ancient Norse language entitled "Nial's
Saga." {3}  It was written in Iceland about the year 1200, and contains
the history of a certain Nial and his family, and likewise notices of
various other people.  This Nial was what was called a spamadr, that is,
a spaeman or a person capable of foretelling events.  He was originally a
heathen--when, however, Christianity was introduced into Iceland, he was
amongst the first to embrace it, and persuaded his family and various
people of his acquaintance to do the same, declaring that a new faith was
necessary, the old religion of Odin, Thor, and Frey, being quite unsuited
to the times.  The book is no romance, but a domestic history compiled
from tradition about two hundred years after the events which it narrates
had taken place.  Of its style, which is wonderfully terse, the following
translated account of Nial and his family will perhaps convey some
idea:--

"There was a man called Nial, who was the son of Thorgeir Gelling, the
son of Thorolf.  The mother of Nial was called Asgerdr; she was the
daughter of Ar, the Silent, the Lord of a district in Norway.  She had
come over to Iceland and settled down on land to the west of Markarfliot,
between Oldustein and Selialandsmul.  Holtathorir was her son, father of
Thorlief Krak, from whom the Skogverjars are come, and likewise of
Thorgrim the big and Skorargeir.  Nial dwelt at Bergthorshval in Landey,
but had another house at Thorolfell.  Nial was very rich in property, and
handsome to look at, but had no beard.  He was so great a lawyer, that it
was impossible to find his equal, he was very wise, and had the gift of
foretelling events, he was good at counsel, and of a good disposition,
and whatever counsel he gave people was for their best; he was gentle and
humane, and got every man out of trouble who came to him in his need.
His wife was called Bergthora; she was the daughter of Skarphethin.  She
was a bold-spirited woman who feared nobody, and was rather rough of
temper.  They had six children, three daughters and three sons, all of
whom will be frequently mentioned in this saga."

In the history many instances are given of Nial's skill in giving good
advice and his power of seeing events before they happened.  Nial lived
in Iceland during most singular times, in which though there were laws
provided for every possible case, no man could have redress for any
injury unless he took it himself, or his friends took it for him, simply
because there were no ministers of justice supported by the State,
authorised and empowered to carry the sentence of the law into effect.
For example, if a man were slain, his death would remain unpunished,
unless he had a son or a brother, or some other relation to slay the
slayer, or to force him to pay "bod," that is, amends in money, to be
determined by the position of the man who was slain.  Provided the man
who was slain had relations, his death was generally avenged, as it was
considered the height of infamy in Iceland to permit one's relations to
be murdered, without slaying their murderers, or obtaining bod from them.
The right, however, permitted to relations of taking with their own hands
the lives of those who had slain their friends, produced incalculable
mischiefs; for if the original slayer had friends, they, in the event of
his being slain in retaliation for what he had done, made it a point of
honour to avenge his death, so that by the lex talionis feuds were
perpetuated.  Nial was a great benefactor to his countrymen, by arranging
matters between people, at variance in which he was much helped by his
knowledge of the law, and by giving wholesome advice to people in
precarious situations, in which he was frequently helped by the power
which he possessed of the second sight.  On several occasions he settled
the disputes in which his friend Gunnar was involved, a noble, generous
character, and the champion of Iceland, but who had a host of foes,
envious of his renown; and it was not his fault if Gunnar was eventually
slain, for if the advice which he gave had been followed, the champion
would have died an old man; and if his own sons had followed his advice,
and not been over fond of taking vengeance on people who had wronged
them, they would have escaped a horrible death, in which he himself was
involved, as he had always foreseen he should be.

"Dost thou know by what death thou thyself wilt die?" said Gunnar to
Nial, after the latter had been warning him that if he followed a certain
course he would die by a violent death.

"I do," said Nial.

"What is it?" said Gunnar.

"What people would think the least probable," replied Nial.

He meant that he should die by fire.  The kind generous Nial, who tried
to get everybody out of difficulty, perished by fire.  His sons by their
violent conduct had incensed numerous people against them.  The house in
which they lived with their father was beset at night by an armed party,
who, unable to break into it owing to the desperate resistance which they
met with from the sons of Nial, Skarphethin, Helgi, and Grimmr and a
comrade of theirs called Kari, {4} set it in a blaze, in which perished
Nial, the lawyer and man of the second sight, his wife Bergthora, and two
of their sons, the third, Helgi, having been previously slain, and Kari,
who was destined to be the avenger of the ill-fated family, having made
his escape, after performing deeds of heroism which for centuries after
were the themes of song and tale in the ice-bound isle.




CHAPTER XXIX


Snowdon--Caernarvon--Maxen Wledig--Moel y Cynghorion--The Wyddfa--Snow of
Snowdon--Rare Plant.

On the third morning after our arrival at Bangor we set out for Snowdon.

Snowdon or Eryri is no single hill, but a mountainous region, the
loftiest part of which, called Y Wyddfa, nearly four thousand feet above
the level of the sea, is generally considered to be the highest point of
Southern Britain.  The name Snowdon was bestowed upon this region by the
early English on account of its snowy appearance in winter; Eryri by the
Britons, because in the old time it abounded with eagles, Eryri {5} in
the ancient British language signifying an eyrie or breeding-place of
eagles.

Snowdon is interesting on various accounts.  It is interesting for its
picturesque beauty.  Perhaps in the whole world there is no region more
picturesquely beautiful than Snowdon, a region of mountains, lakes,
cataracts, and, groves in which nature shows herself in her most grand
and beautiful forms.

It is interesting from its connection with history: it was to Snowdon
that Vortigern retired from the fury of his own subjects, caused by the
favour which he showed to the detested Saxons.  It was there that he
called to his counsels Merlin, said to be begotten on a hag by an
incubus, but who was in reality the son of a Roman consul by a British
woman.  It was in Snowdon that he built the castle, which he fondly
deemed would prove impregnable, but which his enemies destroyed by
flinging wild-fire over its walls; and it was in a wind-beaten valley of
Snowdon, near the sea, that his dead body decked in green armour had a
mound of earth and stones raised over it.  It was on the heights of
Snowdon that the brave but unfortunate Llywelin ap Griffith made his last
stand for Cambrian independence; and it was to Snowdon that that very
remarkable man, Owen Glendower, retired with his irregular bands before
Harry the Fourth and his numerous and disciplined armies, soon however,
to emerge from its defiles and follow the foe, retreating less from the
Welsh arrows from the crags, than from the cold, rain and starvation of
the Welsh hills.

But it is from its connection with romance that Snowdon derives its chief
interest.  Who when he thinks of Snowdon does not associate it with the
heroes of romance, Arthur and his knights? whose fictitious adventures,
the splendid dreams of Welsh and Breton minstrels, many of the scenes of
which are the valleys and passes of Snowdon, are the origin of romance,
before which what is classic has for more than half a century been
waning, and is perhaps eventually destined to disappear.  Yes, to romance
Snowdon is indebted for its interest and consequently for its celebrity;
but for romance Snowdon would assuredly not be what it at present is, one
of the very celebrated hills of the world, and to the poets of modern
Europe almost what Parnassus was to those of old.

To the Welsh, besides being the hill of the Awen or Muse, it has always
been the hill of hills, the loftiest of all mountains, the one whose snow
is the coldest, to climb to whose peak is the most difficult of all
feats; and the one whose fall will be the most astounding catastrophe of
the last day.

To view this mountain I and my little family set off in a caleche on the
third morning after our arrival at Bangor.

Our first stage was to Caernarvon.  As I subsequently made a journey to
Caernarvon on foot, I shall say nothing about the road till I give an
account of that expedition, save that it lies for the most part in the
neighbourhood of the sea.  We reached Caernarvon, which is distant ten
miles from Bangor, about eleven o'clock, and put up at an inn to refresh
ourselves and the horses.  It is a beautiful little town situated on the
southern side of the Menai Strait at nearly its western extremity.  It is
called Caernarvon, because it is opposite Mona or Anglesey: Caernarvon
signifying the town or castle opposite Mona.  Its principal feature is
its grand old castle, fronting the north, and partly surrounded by the
sea.  This castle was built by Edward the First after the fall of his
brave adversary Llewelyn, and in it was born his son Edward whom, when an
infant, he induced the Welsh chieftains to accept as their prince without
seeing, by saying that the person whom he proposed to be their sovereign
was one who was not only born in Wales, but could not speak a word of the
English language.  The town Caernarvon, however, existed long before
Edward's time, and was probably originally a Roman station.  According to
Welsh tradition it was built by Maxen Wledig or Maxentius, in honour of
his wife Ellen who was born in the neighbourhood.  Maxentius, who was a
Briton by birth, and partly by origin contested unsuccessfully the purple
with Gratian and Valentinian, and to support his claim led over to the
Continent an immense army of Britons, who never returned, but on the fall
of their leader settled down in that part of Gaul generally termed
Armorica, which means a maritime region, but which the Welsh call Llydaw,
or Lithuania, which was the name, or something like the name, which the
region bore when Maxen's army took possession of it, owing, doubtless, to
its having been the quarters of a legion composed of barbarians from the
country of Leth or Lithuania.

After staying about an hour at Caernarvon we started for Llanberis, a few
miles to the east.  Llanberis is a small village situated in a valley,
and takes its name from Peris, a British saint of the sixth century, son
of Helig ab Glanog.  The valley extends from west to east, having the
great mountain of Snowdon on its south, and a range of immense hills on
its northern side.  We entered this valley by a pass called Nant y Glo or
the ravine of the coal, and passing a lake on our left, on which I
observed a solitary corracle, with a fisherman in it, were presently at
the village.  Here we got down at a small inn, and having engaged a young
lad to serve as guide, I set out with Henrietta to ascend the hill, my
wife remaining behind, not deeming herself sufficiently strong to
encounter the fatigue of the expedition.

Pointing with my finger to the head of Snowdon towering a long way from
us in the direction of the east, I said to Henrietta:--

"Dacw Eryri, yonder is Snowdon.  Let us try to get to the top.  The Welsh
have a proverb: 'It is easy to say yonder is Snowdon; but not so easy to
ascend it.'  Therefore I would advise you to brace up your nerves and
sinews for the attempt."

We then commenced the ascent, arm-in-arm, followed by the lad, I singing
at the stretch of my voice a celebrated Welsh stanza, in which the
proverb about Snowdon is given, embellished with a fine moral, and which
may thus be rendered:--

    "Easy to say, 'Behold Eryri,'
    But difficult to reach its head;
    Easy for him whose hopes are cheery
    To bid the wretch be comforted."

We were far from being the only visitors to the hill this day; groups of
people, or single individuals, might be seen going up or descending the
path as far as the eye could reach.  The path was remarkably good, and
for some way the ascent was anything but steep.  On our left was the Vale
of Llanberis, and on our other side a broad hollow, or valley of Snowdon,
beyond which were two huge hills forming part of the body of the grand
mountain, the lowermost of which our guide told me was called Moel Elia,
and the uppermost Moel y Cynghorion.  On we went until we had passed both
these hills, and come to the neighbourhood of a great wall of rocks
constituting the upper region of Snowdon, and where the real difficulty
of the ascent commences.  Feeling now rather out of breath we sat down on
a little knoll with our faces to the south, having a small lake near us,
on our left hand, which lay dark and deep, just under the great wall.

Here we sat for some time resting and surveying the scene which presented
itself to us, the principal object of which was the north-eastern side of
the mighty Moel y Cynghorion, across the wide hollow or valley, which it
overhangs in the shape of a sheer precipice some five hundred feet in
depth.  Struck by the name of Moel y Cynghorion, which in English
signifies the hill of the counsellors, I enquired of our guide why the
hill was so called, but as he could afford me no information on the point
I presumed that it was either called the hill of the counsellors from the
Druids having held high consultation on its top, in time of old, or from
the unfortunate Llewelyn having consulted there with his chieftains,
whilst his army lay encamped in the vale below.

Getting up we set about surmounting what remained of the ascent.  The
path was now winding and much more steep than it had hitherto been.  I
was at one time apprehensive that my gentle companion would be obliged to
give over the attempt; the gallant girl, however, persevered, and in
little more than twenty minutes from the time when we arose from our
resting-place under the crags, we stood, safe and sound, though panting,
upon the very top of Snowdon, the far-famed Wyddfa.

The Wyddfa is about thirty feet in diameter and is surrounded on three
sides by a low wall.  In the middle of it is a rude cabin, in which
refreshments are sold, and in which a person resides through the year,
though there are few or no visitors to the hill's top, except during the
months of summer.  Below on all sides are frightful precipices except on
the side of the west.  Towards the east it looks perpendicularly into the
dyffrin or vale, nearly a mile below, from which to the gazer it is at
all times an object of admiration, of wonder and almost of fear.

There we stood on the Wyddfa, in a cold bracing atmosphere, though the
day was almost stiflingly hot in the regions from which we had ascended.
There we stood enjoying a scene inexpressibly grand, comprehending a
considerable part of the mainland of Wales, the whole of Anglesey, a
faint glimpse of part of Cumberland; the Irish Channel, and what might be
either a misty creation or the shadowy outline of the hills of Ireland.
Peaks and pinnacles and huge moels stood up here and there, about us and
below us, partly in glorious light, partly in deep shade.  Manifold were
the objects which we saw from the brow of Snowdon, but of all the objects
which we saw, those which filled us with delight and admiration, were
numerous lakes and lagoons, which, like sheets of ice or polished silver,
lay reflecting the rays of the sun in the deep valleys at his feet.

"Here," said I to Henrietta, "you are on the top crag of Snowdon, which
the Welsh consider, and perhaps with justice, to be the most remarkable
crag in the world; which is mentioned in many of their old wild romantic
tales, and some of the noblest of their poems, amongst others in the 'Day
of Judgment,' by the illustrious Goronwy Owen, where it is brought
forward in the following manner:

    "'Ail i'r ar ael Eryri,
    Cyfartal hoewal a hi.'

    "'The brow of Snowdon shall be levelled with the ground, and the
    eddying waters shall murmur round it.'

"You are now on the top crag of Snowdon, generally termed Y Wyddfa, {6}
which means a conspicuous place or tumulus, and which is generally in
winter covered with snow; about which snow there are in the Welsh
language two curious englynion or stanzas consisting entirely of vowels
with the exception of one consonant, namely the letter R.

    "'Oer yw'r Eira ar Eryri,--o'ryw
    Ar awyr i rewi;
    Oer yw'r ia ar riw 'r ri,
    A'r Eira oer yw 'Ryri.

    "'O Ri y'Ryri yw'r oera,--o'r ar,
    Ar oror wir arwa;
    O'r awyr a yr Eira,
    O'i ryw i roi rew a'r ia.'

    "'Cold is the snow on Snowdon's brow
    It makes the air so chill;
    For cold, I trow, there is no snow
    Like that of Snowdon's hill.

    "'A hill most chill is Snowdon's hill,
    And wintry is his brow;
    From Snowdon's hill the breezes chill
    Can freeze the very snow.'"

Such was the harangue which I uttered on the top of Snowdon; to which
Henrietta listened with attention; three or four English, who stood nigh,
with grinning scorn, and a Welsh gentleman with considerable interest.
The latter coming forward shook me by the hand exclaiming--

"Wyt ti Lydaueg?"

"I am not a Llydauan," said I; "I wish I was, or anything but what I am,
one of a nation amongst whom any knowledge save what relates to
money-making and over-reaching is looked upon as a disgrace.  I am
ashamed to say that I am an Englishman."

I then returned his shake of the hand; and bidding Henrietta and the
guide follow me, went into the cabin, where Henrietta had some excellent
coffee and myself and the guide a bottle of tolerable ale; very much
refreshed we set out on our return.

A little way from the top, on the right-hand side as you descend, there
is a very steep path running down in a zigzag manner to the pass which
leads to Capel Curig.  Up this path it is indeed a task of difficulty to
ascend to the Wyddfa, the one by which we mounted being comparatively
easy.  On Henrietta's pointing out to me a plant, which grew on a crag by
the side of this path some way down, I was about to descend in order to
procure it for her, when our guide springing forward darted down the path
with the agility of a young goat, in less than a minute returned with it
in his hand and presented it gracefully to the dear girl, who on
examining it said it belonged to a species of which she had long been
desirous of possessing a specimen.  Nothing material occurred in our
descent to Llanberis, where my wife was anxiously awaiting us.  The
ascent and descent occupied four hours.  About ten o'clock at night we
again found ourselves at Bangor.




CHAPTER XXX


Gronwy Owen--Struggles of Genius--The Stipend.

The day after our expedition to Snowdon I and my family parted; they
returning by railroad to Chester and Llangollen whilst I took a trip into
Anglesey to visit the birth-place of the great poet Goronwy Owen, whose
works I had read with enthusiasm in my early years.

Goronwy or Gronwy Owen, was born in the year 1722, at a place called
Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf in Anglesey.  He was the eldest of three
children.  His parents were peasants and so exceedingly poor that they
were unable to send him to school.  Even, however, when an unlettered
child he gave indications that he was visited by the awen or muse.  At
length the celebrated Lewis Morris chancing to be at Llanfair became
acquainted with the boy, and struck with his natural talents, determined
that he should have all the benefit which education could bestow.  He
accordingly, at his own expense sent him to school at Beaumaris, where he
displayed a remarkable aptitude for the acquisition of learning.  He
subsequently sent him to Jesus College, Oxford, and supported him there
whilst studying for the church.  Whilst at Jesus, Gronwy distinguished
himself as a Greek and Latin scholar, and gave such proofs of poetical
talent in his native language, that he was looked upon by his countrymen
of that Welsh college as the rising Bard of the age.  After completing
his collegiate course he returned to Wales, where he was ordained a
minister of the Church in the year 1745.  The next seven years of his
life were a series of cruel disappointments and pecuniary embarrassments.
The grand wish of his heart was to obtain a curacy and to settle down in
Wales.  Certainly a very reasonable wish.  To say nothing of his being a
great genius, he was eloquent, highly learned, modest, meek and of
irreproachable morals, yet Gronwy Owen could obtain no Welsh curacy, nor
could his friend Lewis Morris, though he exerted himself to the utmost,
procure one for him.  It is true that he was told that he might go to
Llanfair, his native place, and officiate there at a time when the curacy
happened to be vacant, and thither he went, glad at heart to get back
amongst his old friends, who enthusiastically welcomed him; yet scarcely
had he been there three weeks when he received notice from the Chaplain
of the Bishop of Bangor that he must vacate Llanfair in order to make
room for a Mr John Ellis, a young clergyman of large independent fortune,
who was wishing for a curacy under the Bishop of Bangor, Doctor
Hutton--so poor Gronwy the eloquent, the learned, the meek, was obliged
to vacate the pulpit of his native place to make room for the rich young
clergyman, who wished to be within dining distance of the palace of
Bangor.  Truly in this world the full shall be crammed, and those who
have little, shall have the little which they have taken away from them.
Unable to obtain employment in Wales Gronwy sought for it in England, and
after some time procured the curacy of Oswestry in Shropshire, where he
married a respectable young woman, who eventually brought him two sons
and a daughter.

From Oswestry he went to Donnington near Shrewsbury, where under a
certain Scotchman named Douglas, who was an absentee, and who died Bishop
of Salisbury, he officiated as curate and master of a grammar school for
a stipend--always grudgingly and contumeliously paid--of three-and-twenty
pounds a year.  From Donnington he removed to Walton in Cheshire, where
he lost his daughter who was carried off by a fever.  His next removal
was to Northolt, a pleasant village in the neighbourhood of London.

He held none of his curacies long, either losing them from the caprice of
his principals, or being compelled to resign them from the parsimony
which they practised towards him.  In the year 1756 he was living in a
garret in London vainly soliciting employment in his sacred calling, and
undergoing with his family the greatest privations.  At length his friend
Lewis Morris, who had always assisted him to the utmost of his ability,
procured him the mastership of a government school at New Brunswick in
North America with a salary of three hundred pounds a year.  Thither he
went with his wife and family, and there he died sometime about the year
1780.

He was the last of the great poets of Cambria and, with the exception of
Ab Gwilym, the greatest which she has produced.  His poems which for a
long time had circulated through Wales in manuscript were first printed
in the year 1819.  They are composed in the ancient Bardic measures, and
were with one exception, namely an elegy on the death of his benefactor
Lewis Morris, which was transmitted from the New World, written before he
had attained the age of thirty-five.  All his pieces are excellent, but
his masterwork is decidedly the Cywydd y Farn or "Day of Judgment."  This
poem which is generally considered by the Welsh as the brightest ornament
of their ancient language, was composed at Donnington, a small hamlet in
Shropshire on the north-west spur of the Wrekin, at which place, as has
been already said, Gronwy toiled as schoolmaster and curate under Douglas
the Scot, for a stipend of three-and-twenty pounds a year.




CHAPTER XXXI


Start for Anglesey--The Post-Master--Asking Questions--Mynydd Lydiart--Mr
Pritchard--Way to Llanfair.

When I started from Bangor, to visit the birth-place of Gronwy Owen, I by
no means saw my way clearly before me.  I knew that he was born in
Anglesey in a parish called Llanfair Mathafarn eithaf, that is St Mary's
of farther Mathafarn--but as to where this Mathafarn lay, north or south,
near or far, I knew positively nothing.  Passing through the northern
suburb of Bangor I saw a small house in front of which was written
"post-office" in white letters; before this house underneath a shrub in a
little garden sat an old man reading.  Thinking that from this person,
whom I judged to be the post-master, I was as likely to obtain
information with respect to the place of my destination as from any one,
I stopped, and taking off my hat for a moment, inquired whether he could
tell me anything about the direction of a place called Llanfair Mathafarn
eithaf.  He did not seem to understand my question, for getting up he
came towards me and asked what I wanted: I repeated what I had said,
whereupon his face became animated.

"Llanfair Mathafarn eithaf!" said he.  "Yes, I can tell you about it, and
with good reason, for it lies not far from the place where I was born."

The above was the substance of what he said, and nothing more, for he
spoke in English somewhat broken.

"And how far is Llanfair from here?" said I.

"About ten miles," he replied.

"That's nothing," said I: "I was afraid it was much farther."

"Do you call ten miles nothing," said he, "in a burning day like this?  I
think you will be both tired and thirsty before you get to Llanfair,
supposing you go there on foot.  But what may your business be at
Llanfair?" said he, looking at me inquisitively.  "It is a strange place
to go to, unless you go to buy hogs or cattle."

"I go to buy neither hogs nor cattle," said I, "though I am somewhat of a
judge of both; I go on a more important errand, namely to see the
birth-place of the great Gronwy Owen."

"Are you any relation of Gronwy Owen?" said the old man, looking at me
more inquisitively than before, through a large pair of spectacles which
he wore.

"None whatever," said I.

"Then why do you go to see his parish, it is a very poor one."

"From respect to his genius," said I; "I read his works long ago, and was
delighted with them."

"Are you a Welshman?" said the old man.

"No," said I, "I am no Welshman."

"Can you speak Welsh?" said he, addressing me in that language.

"A little," said I; "but not so well as I can read it."

"Well," said the old man, "I have lived here a great many years, but
never before did a Saxon call upon me, asking questions about Gronwy
Owen, or his birth-place.  Immortality to his memory!  I owe much to him,
for reading his writings taught me to be a poet!"

"Dear me!" said I, "are you a poet?"

"I trust I am," said he; "though the humblest of Ynys Fon."

A flash of proud fire, methought, illumined his features as he pronounced
these last words.

"I am most happy to have met you," said I; "but tell me how am I to get
to Llanfair?"

"You must go first," said he, "to Traeth Coch which in Saxon is called
the 'Red Sand.'  In the village called the Pentraeth which lies above
that sand, I was born; through the village and over the bridge you must
pass, and after walking four miles due north you will find yourself in
Llanfair eithaf, at the northern extremity of Mon.  Farewell!  That ever
Saxon should ask me about Gronwy Owen, and his birth-place!  I scarcely
believe you to be a Saxon, but whether you be or not, I repeat farewell."

Coming to the Menai Bridge I asked the man who took the penny toll at the
entrance, the way to Pentraeth Coch.

"You see that white house by the wood," said he, pointing some distance
into Anglesey; "you must make towards it till you come to a place where
there are four cross roads and then you must take the road to the right."

Passing over the bridge I made my way towards the house by the wood which
stood on the hill till I came where the four roads met, when I turned to
the right as directed.

The country through which I passed seemed tolerably well cultivated, the
hedge-rows were very high, seeming to spring out of low stone walls.  I
met two or three gangs of reapers proceeding to their work with scythes
in their hands.

In about half-an-hour I passed by a farm-house partly surrounded with
walnut trees.  Still the same high hedges on both sides of the road: are
these hedges relics of the sacrificial groves of Mona? thought I to
myself.  Then I came to a wretched village through which I hurried at the
rate of six miles an hour.  I then saw a long, lofty, craggy hill on my
right hand towards the east.

"What mountain is that?" said I to an urchin playing in the hot dust of
the road.

"Mynydd Lydiart!" said the urchin, tossing up a handful of the hot dust
into the air, part of which in descending fell into my eyes.

I shortly afterwards passed by a handsome lodge.  I then saw groves,
mountain Lydiart forming a noble background.

"Who owns this wood?" said I in Welsh to two men who were limbing a
felled tree by the road-side.

"Lord Vivian," answered one, touching his hat.

"The gentleman is our countryman," said he to the other after I had
passed.

I was now descending the side of a pretty valley, and soon found myself
at Pentraeth Coch.  The part of the Pentraeth where I now was consisted
of a few houses and a church, or something which I judged to be a church,
for there was no steeple; the houses and church stood about a little open
spot or square, the church on the east, and on the west a neat little inn
or public-house over the door of which was written "The White Horse.
Hugh Pritchard."  By this time I had verified in part the prediction of
the old Welsh poet of the post-office.  Though I was not yet arrived at
Llanfair, I was, if not tired, very thirsty, owing to the burning heat of
the weather, so I determined to go in and have some ale.  On entering the
house I was greeted in English by Mr Hugh Pritchard himself, a tall bulky
man with a weather-beaten countenance, dressed in a brown jerkin and
corduroy trowsers, with a broad low-crowned buff-coloured hat on his
head, and what might he called half shoes and half high-lows on his feet.
He had a short pipe in his mouth, which when he greeted me he took out,
but replaced as soon as the greeting was over, which consisted of
"Good-day, sir," delivered in a frank, hearty tone.  I looked Mr Hugh
Pritchard in the face and thought I had never seen a more honest
countenance.  On my telling Mr Pritchard that I wanted a pint of ale, a
buxom damsel came forward and led me into a nice cool parlour on the
right-hand side of the door, and then went to fetch the ale.

Mr Pritchard meanwhile went into a kind of tap-room, fronting the
parlour, where I heard him talking in Welsh about pigs and cattle to some
of his customers.  I observed that he spoke with some hesitation; which
circumstance I mention as rather curious, he being the only Welshman I
have ever known who, when speaking his native language, appeared to be at
a loss for words.  The damsel presently brought me the ale, which I
tasted and found excellent; she was going away when I asked her whether
Mr Pritchard was her father; on her replying in the affirmative I
inquired whether she was born in that house.

"No!" said she; "I was born in Liverpool; my father was born in this
house, which belonged to his fathers before him, but he left it at an
early age and married my mother in Liverpool, who was an Anglesey woman,
and so I was born in Liverpool."

"And what did you do in Liverpool?" said I.

"My mother kept a little shop," said the girl, "whilst my father followed
various occupations."

"And how long have you been here?" said I.

"Since the death of my grandfather," said the girl, "which happened about
a year ago.  When he died my father came here and took possession of his
birth-right."

"You speak very good English," said I; "have you any Welsh?"

"Oh yes, plenty," said the girl; "we always speak Welsh together, but
being born at Liverpool, I of course have plenty of English."

"And which language do you prefer?" said I.

"I think I like English best," said the girl, "it is the most useful
language."

"Not in Anglesey," said I.

"Well," said the girl, "it is the most genteel."

"Gentility," said I, "will be the ruin of Welsh, as it has been of many
other things--what have I to pay for the ale?"

"Three pence," said she.

I paid the money and the girl went out.  I finished my ale, and getting
up made for the door; at the door I was met by Mr Hugh Pritchard, who
came out of the tap-room to thank me for my custom, and to bid me
farewell.  I asked him whether I should have any difficulty in finding
the way to Llanfair.

"None whatever," said he, "you have only to pass over the bridge of the
Traeth, and to go due north for about four miles, and you will find
yourself in Llanfair."

"What kind of place is it?" said I.

"A poor straggling village," said Mr Pritchard.

"Shall I be able to obtain a lodging there for the night?" said I.

"Scarcely one such as you would like," said Hugh.

"And where had I best pass the night?" I demanded.

"We can accommodate you comfortably here," said Mr Pritchard, "provided
you have no objection to come back."

I told him that I should be only too happy, and forthwith departed, glad
at heart that I had secured a comfortable lodging for the night.




CHAPTER XXXII


Leave Pentraeth--Tranquil Scene--The Knoll--The Miller and his
Wife--Poetry of Gronwy--Kind Offer--Church of Llanfair--No
English--Confusion of Ideas--The Gronwy--Notable Little Girl--The
Sycamore Leaf--Home from California.

The village of Pentraeth Goch occupies two sides of a romantic dell--that
part of it which stands on the southern side, and which comprises the
church and the little inn, is by far the prettiest, that which occupies
the northern is a poor assemblage of huts, a brook rolls at the bottom of
the dell, over which there is a little bridge: coming to the bridge I
stopped, and looked over the side into the water running briskly below.
An aged man who looked like a beggar, but who did not beg of me, stood
by.

"To what place does this water run?" said I in English.

"I know no Saxon," said he in trembling accents.

I repeated my question in Welsh.

"To the sea," he said, "which is not far off, indeed it is so near, that
when there are high tides, the salt water comes up to this bridge."

"You seem feeble?" said I.

"I am so," said he, "for I am old."

"How old are you?" said I.

"Sixteen after sixty," said the old man with a sigh; "and I have nearly
lost my sight and my hearing."

"Are you poor?" said I.

"Very," said the old man.

I gave him a trifle which he accepted with thanks.

"Why is this sand called the red sand?" said I.

"I cannot tell you," said the old man, "I wish I could, for you have been
kind to me."

Bidding him farewell I passed through the northern part of the village to
the top of the hill.  I walked a little way forward and then stopped, as
I had done at the bridge in the dale, and looked to the east, over a low
stone wall.

Before me lay the sea or rather the northern entrance of the Menai
Straits.  To my right was mountain Lidiart projecting some way into the
sea; to my left, that is to the north, was a high hill, with a few white
houses near its base, forming a small village, which a woman who passed
by knitting told me was called Llan Peder Goch or the Church of Red Saint
Peter.  Mountain Lidiart and the Northern Hill formed the headlands of a
beautiful bay into which the waters of the Traeth dell, from which I had
come, were discharged.  A sandbank, probably covered with the sea at high
tide, seemed to stretch from mountain Lidiart a considerable way towards
the northern hill.  Mountain, bay and sandbank were bathed in sunshine;
the water was perfectly calm; nothing was moving upon it, nor upon the
shore, and I thought I had never beheld a more beautiful and tranquil
scene.

I went on.  The country which had hitherto been very beautiful, abounding
with yellow corn-fields, became sterile and rocky; there were stone
walls, but no hedges.  I passed by a moor on my left, then a moory
hillock on my right; the way was broken and stony; all traces of the good
roads of Wales had disappeared; the habitations which I saw by the way
were miserable hovels into and out of which large sows were stalking,
attended by their farrows.

"Am I far from Llanfair?" said I to a child.

"You are in Llanfair, gentleman," said the child.

A desolate place was Llanfair.  The sea in the neighbourhood to the
south, limekilns with their stifling smoke not far from me.  I sat down
on a little green knoll on the right-hand side of the road; a small house
was near me, and a desolate-looking mill at about a furlong's distance,
to the south.  Hogs came about me grunting and sniffing.  I felt quite
melancholy.

"Is this the neighbourhood of the birth-place of Gronwy Owen?" said I to
myself.  "No wonder that he was unfortunate through life, springing from
such a region of wretchedness."

Wretched as the region seemed, however, I soon found there were kindly
hearts close by me.

As I sat on the knoll I heard some one slightly cough very near me, and
looking to the left saw a man dressed like a miller looking at me from
the garden of the little house, which I have already mentioned.

I got up and gave him the sele of the day in English.  He was a man about
thirty, rather tall than otherwise, with a very prepossessing
countenance.  He shook his head at my English.

"What," said I, addressing him in the language of the country, "have you
no English?  Perhaps you have Welsh?"

"Plenty," said he, laughing "there is no lack of Welsh amongst any of us
here.  Are you a Welshman?"

"No," said I, "an Englishman from the far east of Lloegr."

"And what brings you here?" said the man.

"A strange errand," I replied, "to look at the birth-place of a man who
has long been dead."

"Do you come to seek for an inheritance?" said the man.

"No," said I.  "Besides the man whose birth-place I came to see, died
poor, leaving nothing behind him but immortality."

"Who was he?" said the miller.

"Did you ever hear a sound of Gronwy Owen?" said I.

"Frequently," said the miller; "I have frequently heard a sound of him.
He was born close by in a house yonder," pointing to the south.

"Oh yes, gentleman," said a nice-looking woman, who holding a little
child by the hand was come to the house-door, and was eagerly listening,
"we have frequently heard speak of Gronwy Owen; there is much talk of him
in these parts."

"I am glad to hear it," said I, "for I have feared that his name would
not be known here."

"Pray, gentleman, walk in!" said the miller; "we are going to have our
afternoon's meal, and shall be rejoiced if you will join us."

"Yes, do, gentleman," said the miller's wife, for such the good woman
was; "and many a welcome shall you have."

I hesitated, and was about to excuse myself.

"Don't refuse, gentleman!" said both, "surely you are not too proud to
sit down with us?"

"I am afraid I shall only cause you trouble," said I.

"Dim blinder, no trouble," exclaimed both at once; "pray do walk in!"

I entered the house, and the kitchen, parlour, or whatever it was, a nice
little room with a slate floor.  They made me sit down at a table by the
window, which was already laid for a meal.  There was a clean cloth upon
it, a tea-pot, cups and saucers, a large plate of bread-and-butter, and a
plate, on which were a few very thin slices of brown, watery cheese.

My good friends took their seats, the wife poured out tea for the
stranger and her husband, helped us both to bread-and-butter and the
watery cheese, then took care of herself.  Before, however, I could taste
the tea, the wife, seeming to recollect herself, started up, and hurrying
to a cupboard, produced a basin full of snow-white lump sugar, and taking
the spoon out of my hand, placed two of the largest lumps in my cup,
though she helped neither her husband nor herself; the sugar-basin being
probably only kept for grand occasions.

My eyes filled with tears; for in the whole course of my life I had never
experienced so much genuine hospitality.  Honour to the miller of Mona
and his wife; and honour to the kind hospitable Celts in general!  How
different is the reception of this despised race of the wandering
stranger from that of ---.  However, I am a Saxon myself, and the Saxons
have no doubt their virtues; a pity that they should be all uncouth and
ungracious ones!

I asked my kind host his name.

"John Jones," he replied, "Melinydd of Llanfair."

"Is the mill which you work your own property?" I inquired.

"No," he answered, "I rent it of a person who lives close by."

"And how happens it," said I, "that you speak no English?"

"How should it happen," said he, "that I should speak any?  I have never
been far from here; my wife who has lived at service at Liverpool can
speak some."

"Can you read poetry?" said I.

"I can read the psalms and hymns that they sing at our chapel," he
replied.

"Then you are not of the Church?" said I.

"I am not," said the miller; "I am a Methodist."

"Can you read the poetry of Gronwy Owen?" said I.

"I cannot," said the miller, "that is with any comfort; his poetry is in
the ancient Welsh measures, which make poetry so difficult that few can
understand it."

"I can understand poetry in those measures," said I.

"And how much time did you spend," said the miller, "before you could
understand the poetry of the measures?"

"Three years," said I.

The miller laughed.

"I could not have afforded all that time," said he, "to study the songs
of Gronwy.  However, it is well that some people should have time to
study them.  He was a great poet as I have been told, and is the glory of
our land--but he was unfortunate; I have read his life in Welsh and part
of his letters; and in doing so have shed tears."

"Has his house any particular name?" said I.

"It is called sometimes Ty Gronwy," said the miller; "but more frequently
Tafarn Goch."

"The Red Tavern?" said I.  "How is it that so many of your places are
called Goch? there is Pentraeth Goch; there is Saint Pedair Goch, and
here at Llanfair is Tafarn Goch."

The miller laughed.

"It will take a wiser man than I," said he, "to answer that question."

The repast over I rose up, gave my host thanks, and said, "I will now
leave you, and hunt up things connected with Gronwy."

"And where will you find a lletty for night, gentleman?" said the
miller's wife.  "This is a poor place, but if you will make use of our
home you are welcome."

"I need not trouble you," said I, "I return this night to Pentraeth Goch
where I shall sleep."

"Well," said the miller, "whilst you are at Llanfair I will accompany you
about.  Where shall we go to first?"

"Where is the church?" said I.  "I should like to see the church where
Gronwy worshipped God as a boy."

"The church is at some distance," said the man; "it is past my mill, and
as I want to go to the mill for a moment, it will be perhaps well to go
and see the church, before we go to the house of Gronwy."

I shook the miller's wife by the hand, patted a little yellow-haired girl
of about two years old on the head, who during the whole time of the meal
had sat on the slate floor looking up into my face, and left the house
with honest Jones.

We directed our course to the mill, which lay some way down a declivity,
towards the sea.  Near the mill was a comfortable-looking house, which my
friend told me belonged to the proprietor of the mill.  A rustic-looking
man stood in the mill-yard, who he said was the proprietor.  The honest
miller went into the mill, and the rustic-looking proprietor greeted me
in Welsh, and asked me if I was come to buy hogs.

"No," said I; "I am come to see the birth-place of Gronwy Owen;" he
stared at me for a moment, then seemed to muse, and at last walked away
saying, "Ah! a great man."

The miller presently joined me, and we proceeded farther down the hill.
Our way lay between stone walls, and sometimes over them.  The land was
moory and rocky, with nothing grand about it, and the miller described it
well when he said it was tir gwael--mean land.  In about a quarter of an
hour we came to the churchyard into which we got, the gate being locked,
by clambering over the wall.

The church stands low down the descent, not far distant from the sea.  A
little brook, called in the language of the country a frwd, washes its
yard-wall on the south.  It is a small edifice with no spire, but to the
south-west there is a little stone erection rising from the roof, in
which hangs a bell--there is a small porch looking to the south.  With
respect to its interior I can say nothing, the door being locked.  It is
probably like the outside, simple enough.  It seemed to be about two
hundred and fifty years old, and to be kept in tolerable repair.  Simple
as the edifice was, I looked with great emotion upon it; and could I do
else, when I reflected that the greatest British poet of the last century
had worshipped God within it, with his poor father and mother, when a
boy?

I asked the miller whether he could point out to me any tombs or
grave-stones of Gronwy's family, but he told me that he was not aware of
any.  On looking about I found the name of Owen in the inscription on the
slate slab of a respectable-looking modern tomb, on the north-east side
of the church.  The inscription was as follows:

                             Er cof am JANE OWEN
                             Gwraig Edward Owen,
                     Monachlog Llanfair Mathafam eithaf,
                          A fu farw Chwefror 28 1842
                                  Yn 51 Oed.

    _i.e._ "To the memory of JANE OWEN Wife of Edward Owen, of the
    monastery of St Mary of farther Mathafarn, who died February 28,
    1842, aged fifty-one."

Whether the Edward Owen mentioned here was any relation to the great
Gronwy, I had no opportunity of learning.  I asked the miller what was
meant by the monastery, and he told that it was the name of a building to
the north-east near the sea, which had once been a monastery but had been
converted into a farm-house, though it still retained its original name.
"May all monasteries be converted into farm-houses," said I, "and may
they still retain their original names in mockery of popery!"

Having seen all I could well see of the church and its precincts I
departed with my kind guide.  After we had retraced our steps some way,
we came to some stepping-stones on the side of a wall, and the miller
pointing to them said:

"The nearest way to the house of Gronwy will be over the llamfa."

I was now become ashamed of keeping the worthy fellow from his business,
and begged him to return to his mill.  He refused to leave me, at first,
but on my pressing him to do so, and on my telling him that I could find
the way to the house of Gronwy very well by myself, he consented.  We
shook hands, the miller wished me luck, and betook himself to his mill,
whilst I crossed the llamfa.  I soon, however, repented having left the
path by which I had come.  I was presently in a maze of little fields
with stone walls over which I had to clamber.  At last I got into a lane
with a stone wall on each side.  A man came towards me and was about to
pass me--his look was averted, and he was evidently one of those who have
"no English."  A Welshman of his description always averting his look
when he sees a stranger who he thinks has "no Welsh," lest the stranger
should ask him a question and he be obliged to confess that he has "no
English."

"Is this the way to Llanfair?" said I to the man.  The man made a kind of
rush in order to get past me.

"Have you any Welsh?" I shouted as loud as I could bawl.

The man stopped, and turning a dark sullen countenance half upon me said,
"Yes, I have Welsh."

"Which is the way to Llanfair?" said I.

"Llanfair, Llanfair?" said the man, "what do you mean?"

"I want to get there," said I.

"Are you not there already?" said the fellow stamping on the ground, "are
you not in Llanfair?

"Yes, but I want to get to the town."

"Town, town!  Oh, I have no English," said the man; and off he started
like a frighted bullock.  The poor fellow was probably at first terrified
at seeing an Englishman, then confused at hearing an Englishman speak
Welsh, a language which the Welsh in general imagine no Englishman can
speak, the tongue of an Englishman as they say not being long enough to
pronounce Welsh; and lastly utterly deprived of what reasoning faculties
he had still remaining by my asking him for the town of Llanfair, there
being properly no town.

I went on, and at last getting out of the lane, found myself upon the
road, along which I had come about two hours before; the house of the
miller was at some distance on my right.  Near me were two or three
houses and part of the skeleton of one, on which some men, in the dress
of masons, seemed to be occupied.  Going up to these men I said in Welsh
to one, whom I judged to be the principal, and who was rather a tall
fine-looking fellow:

"Have you heard a sound of Gronwy Owain?"

Here occurred another instance of the strange things people do when their
ideas are confused.  The man stood for a moment or two, as if transfixed,
a trowel motionless in one of his hands, and a brick in the other; at
last giving a kind of gasp, he answered in very tolerable Spanish:

"Si, senor! he oido."

"Is his house far from here?" said I in Welsh.

"No, senor!" said the man, "no esta muy lejos."

"I am a stranger here, friend, can anybody show me the way?"

"Si senor! este mozo luego--acompanara usted."

Then turning to a lad of about eighteen, also dressed as a mason, he said
in Welsh:

"Show this gentleman instantly the way to Tafarn Goch."

The lad flinging a hod down, which he had on his shoulder, instantly set
off, making me a motion with his head to follow him.  I did so, wondering
what the man could mean by speaking to me in Spanish.  The lad walked by
my side in silence for about two furlongs till we came to a range of
trees, seemingly sycamores, behind which was a little garden, in which
stood a long low house with three chimneys.  The lad stopping flung open
a gate which led into the garden, then crying to a child which he saw
within: "Gad roi tro"--let the man take a turn; he was about to leave me,
when I stopped him to put sixpence into his hand.  He received the money
with a gruff "Diolch!" and instantly set off at a quick pace.  Passing
the child who stared at me, I walked to the back part of the house, which
seemed to be a long mud cottage.  After examining the back part I went in
front, where I saw an aged woman with several children, one of whom was
the child I had first seen.  She smiled and asked me what I wanted.

I said that I had come to see the house of Gronwy.  She did not
understand me, for shaking her head she said that she had no English, and
was rather deaf.  Raising my voice to a very high tone I said:

"Ty Gronwy!"

A gleam of intelligence flashed now in her eyes.

"Ty Gronwy," she said, "ah!  I understand.  Come in sir."

There were three doors to the house; she led me in by the midmost into a
common cottage room, with no other ceiling, seemingly, than the roof.
She bade me sit down by the window by a little table, and asked me
whether I would have a cup of milk and some bread-and-butter; I declined
both, but said I should be thankful for a little water.

This she presently brought me in a teacup, I drank it, the children
amounting to five standing a little way from me staring at me.  I asked
her if this was the house in which Gronwy was born.  She said it was, but
that it had been altered very much since his time--that three families
had lived in it, but that she believed he was born about where we were
now.

A man now coming in who lived at the next door, she said I had better
speak to him and tell him what I wanted to know, which he could then
communicate to her, as she could understand his way of speaking much
better than mine.  Through the man I asked her whether there was any one
of the blood of Gronwy Owen living in the house.  She pointed to the
children and said they had all some of his blood.  I asked in what
relationship they stood to Gronwy.  She said she could hardly tell, that
tri priodas, three marriages stood between, and that the relationship was
on the mother's side.  I gathered from her that the children had lost
their mother, that their name was Jones, and that their father was her
son.  I asked if the house in which they lived was their own; she said
no, that it belonged to a man who lived at some distance.  I asked if the
children were poor.

"Very," said she.

I gave them each a trifle, and the poor old lady thanked me with tears in
her eyes.

I asked whether the children could read; she said they all could, with
the exception of the two youngest.  The eldest she said could read
anything, whether Welsh or English; she then took from the window-sill a
book, which she put into my hand, saying the child could read it and
understand it.  I opened the book; it was an English school-book treating
on all the sciences.

"Can you write?" said I to the child, a little stubby girl of about
eight, with a broad flat red face and grey eyes, dressed in a chintz
gown, a little bonnet on her head, and looking the image of notableness.

The little maiden, who had never taken her eyes off of me for a moment
during the whole time I had been in the room, at first made no answer;
being, however, bid by her grandmother to speak, she at length answered
in a soft voice, "Medraf, I can."

"Then write your name in this book," said I, taking out a pocket-book and
a pencil, "and write likewise that you are related to Gronwy Owen--and be
sure you write in Welsh."

The little maiden very demurely took the book and pencil, and placing the
former on the table wrote as follows:

"Ellen Jones yn perthyn o bell i gronow owen."

That is, "Ellen Jones belonging from afar to Gronwy Owen."

When I saw the name of Ellen I had no doubt that the children were
related to the illustrious Gronwy.  Ellen is a very uncommon Welsh name,
but it seems to have been a family name of the Owens; it was borne by an
infant daughter of the poet whom he tenderly loved, and who died whilst
he was toiling at Walton in Cheshire,--

    "Ellen, my darling,
    Who liest in the Churchyard at Walton."

says poor Gronwy in one of the most affecting elegies ever written.

After a little farther conversation I bade the family farewell and left
the house.  After going down the road a hundred yards I turned back in
order to ask permission to gather a leaf from one of the sycamores.
Seeing the man who had helped me in my conversation with the old woman
standing at the gate, I told him what I wanted, whereupon he instantly
tore down a handful of leaves and gave them to me.  Thrusting them into
my coat-pocket I thanked him kindly and departed.

Coming to the half-erected house, I again saw the man to whom I had
addressed myself for information.  I stopped, and speaking Spanish to
him, asked how he had acquired the Spanish language.

"I have been in Chili, sir," said he in the same tongue, "and in
California, and in those places I learned Spanish."

"What did you go to Chili for?" said I; "I need not ask you on what
account you went to California."

"I went there as a mariner," said the man; "I sailed out of Liverpool for
Chili."

"And how is it," said I, "that being a mariner and sailing in a Liverpool
ship you do not speak English?"

"I speak English, senor," said the man, "perfectly well."

"Then how in the name of wonder," said I, speaking English, "came you to
answer me in Spanish?  I am an Englishman thorough bred."

"I can scarcely tell you how it was, sir," said the man scratching his
head, "but I thought I would speak to you in Spanish."

"And why not English?" said I.

"Why, I heard you speaking Welsh," said the man; "and as for an
Englishman speaking Welsh--"

"But why not answer me in Welsh?" said I.

"Why, I saw it was not your language, sir," said the man, "and as I had
picked up some Spanish I thought it would be but fair to answer you in
it."

"But how did you know that I could speak Spanish?" said I.

"I don't know indeed, sir," said the man; "but I looked at you, and
something seemed to tell me that you could speak Spanish.  I can't tell
you how it was sir," said he, looking me very innocently in the face,
"but I was forced to speak Spanish to you.  I was indeed!"

"The long and the short of it was," said I, "that you took me for a
foreigner, and thought that it would be but polite to answer me in a
foreign language."

"I daresay it was so, sir," said the man.  "I daresay it was just as you
say."

"How did you fare in California?" said I.

"Very fairly indeed, sir," said the man.  "I made some money there, and
brought it home, and with part of it I am building this house."

"I am very happy to hear it," said I, "you are really a remarkable
man--few return from California speaking Spanish as you do, and still
fewer with money in their pockets."

The poor fellow looked pleased at what I said, more especially at that
part of the sentence which touched upon his speaking Spanish well.
Wishing him many years of health and happiness in the house he was
building, I left him, and proceeded on my path towards Pentraeth Goch.

After walking some way, I turned round in order to take a last look of
the place which had so much interest for me.  The mill may be seen from a
considerable distance; so may some of the scattered houses, and also the
wood which surrounds the house of the illustrious Gronwy.  Prosperity to
Llanfair! and may many a pilgrimage be made to it of the same character
as my own.




CHAPTER XXXIII


Boxing Harry--Mr Bos--Black Robin--Drovers--Commercial Travellers.

I arrived at the hostelry of Mr Pritchard without meeting any adventure
worthy of being marked down.  I went into the little parlour, and,
ringing the bell, was presently waited upon by Mrs Pritchard, a nice
matronly woman, whom I had not before seen, of whom I inquired what I
could have for dinner.

"This is no great place for meat," said Mrs Pritchard, "that is fresh
meat, for sometimes a fortnight passes without anything being killed in
the neighbourhood.  I am afraid at present there is not a bit of fresh
meat to be had.  What we can get you for dinner I do not know, unless you
are willing to make shift with bacon and eggs."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said I, "I will have the bacon and eggs
with tea and bread-and-butter, not forgetting a pint of ale--in a word, I
will box Harry."

"I suppose you are a commercial gent," said Mrs Pritchard.

"Why do you suppose me a commercial gent?" said I.  "Do I look one?"

"Can't say you do much," said Mrs Pritchard; "you have no rings on your
fingers, nor a gilt chain at your waistcoat-pocket, but when you said
'box Harry,' I naturally took you to be one of the commercial gents, for
when I was at Liverpool I was told that that was a word of theirs."

"I believe the word properly belongs to them," said I.  "I am not one of
them; but I learnt it from them, a great many years ago, when I was much
amongst them.  Those whose employers were in a small way of business, or
allowed them insufficient salaries, frequently used to 'box Harry,' that
is, have a beaf-steak, or mutton-chop, or perhaps bacon and eggs, as I am
going to have, along with tea and ale, instead of the regular dinner of a
commercial gentleman, namely, fish, hot joint, and fowl, pint of sherry,
tart, ale and cheese, and bottle of old port, at the end of all."

Having made arrangements for "boxing Harry" I went into the tap-room,
from which I had heard the voice of Mr Pritchard proceeding during the
whole of my conversation with his wife.  Here I found the worthy landlord
seated with a single customer; both were smoking.  The customer instantly
arrested my attention.  He was a man, seemingly about forty years of age
with a broad red face, with certain somethings, looking very much like
incipient carbuncles, here and there, upon it.  His eyes were grey and
looked rather as if they squinted; his mouth was very wide, and when it
opened displayed a set of strong, white, uneven teeth.  He was dressed in
a pepper-and-salt coat of the Newmarket cut, breeches of corduroy and
brown top boots, and had on his head a broad, black, coarse, low-crowned
hat.  In his left hand he held a heavy whale-bone whip with a brass head.
I sat down on a bench nearly opposite to him and the landlord.

"Well," said Mr Pritchard; "did you find your way to Llanfair?"

"Yes," said I.

"And did you execute the business satisfactorily which led you there?"
said Mr Pritchard.

"Perfectly," said I.

"Well, what did you give a stone for your live pork?" said his companion
glancing up at me, and speaking in a gruff voice.

"I did not buy any live pork," said I; "do you take me for a pig-jobber?"

"Of course," said the man, in pepper-and-salt; "who but a pig jobber
could have business at Llanfair?"

"Does Llanfair produce nothing but pigs?" said I.

"Nothing at all," said the man in the pepper-and-salt, "that is, nothing
worth mentioning.  You wouldn't go there for runts, that is, if you were
in your right senses; if you were in want of runts you would have gone to
my parish and have applied to me, Mr Bos; that is if you were in your
senses.  Wouldn't he, John Pritchard?"

Mr Pritchard thus appealed to took the pipe out of his mouth, and with
some hesitations said that he believed the gentleman neither went to
Llanfair for pigs nor black cattle but upon some particular business.

"Well," said Mr Bos, "it may be so, but I can't conceive how any person,
either gentle or simple, could have any business in Anglesey save that
business was pigs or cattle."

"The truth is," said I, "I went to Llanfair to see the birth-place of a
great man--the cleverest Anglesey ever produced."

"Then you went wrong," said Mr Bos, "you went to the wrong parish, you
should have gone to Penmynnydd; the clebber man of Anglesey was born and
buried at Penmynnydd, you may see his tomb in the church."

"You are alluding to Black Robin," said I, "who wrote the ode in praise
of Anglesey--yes, he was a very clever young fellow, but excuse me, he
was not half such a poet as Gronwy Owen."

"Black Robin," said Mr Bos, "and Gronow Owen, who the Devil were they?  I
never heard of either.  I wasn't talking of them, but of the clebberest
man the world ever saw.  Did you never hear of Owen Tiddir?  If you
didn't, where did you get your education?"

"I have heard of Owen Tudor," said I, "but never understood that he was
particularly clever; handsome he undoubtedly was--but clever--"

"How not clebber?" interrupted Mr Bos.  "If he wasn't clebber, who was
clebber?  Didn't he marry a great queen, and was not Harry the Eighth his
great grandson?"

"Really," said I, "you know a great deal of history."

"I should hope I do," said Mr Bos.  "Oh, I wasn't at school at Blewmaris
for six months for nothing; and I haven't been in Northampton, and in
every town in England, without learning something of history.  With
regard to history I may say that few--Won't you drink?" said he,
patronizingly, as he pushed a jug of ale which stood before him on a
little table towards me.

Begging politely to be excused on the plea that I was just about to take
tea, I asked him in what capacity he had travelled all over England.

"As a drover to be sure," said Mr Bos, "and I may say that there are not
many in Anglesey better known in England than myself--at any rate I may
say that there is not a public-house between here and Worcester at which
I am not known."

"Pray excuse me," said I, "but is not droving rather a low-lifed
occupation?"

"Not half so much as pig-jobbing," said Bos, "and that that's your trade
I am certain, or you would never have gone to Llanfair."

"I am no pig-jobber," said I, "and when I asked you that question about
droving, I merely did so because one Ellis Wynn, in a book he wrote,
gives the drovers a very bad character, and puts them in Hell for their
mal-practices."

"Oh, he does," said Mr Bos, "well, the next time I meet him at Corwen
I'll crack his head for saying so.  Mal-practices--he had better look at
his own, for he is a pig-jobber too.  Written a book has he? then I
suppose he has been left a legacy, and gone to school after middle-age,
for when I last saw him, which is four years ago, he could neither read
nor write."

I was about to tell Mr Bos that the Ellis Wynn that I meant was no more a
pig-jobber than myself, but a respectable clergyman, who had been dead
considerably upwards of a hundred years, and that also, notwithstanding
my respect for Mr Bos's knowledge of history, I did not believe that Owen
Tudor was buried at Penmynnydd, when I was prevented by the entrance of
Mrs Pritchard, who came to inform me that my repast was ready in the
other room, whereupon I got up and went into the parlour to "box Harry."

Having dispatched my bacon and eggs, tea and ale, I fell into deep
meditation.  My mind reverted to a long past period of my life, when I
was to a certain extent fixed up with commercial travellers, and had
plenty of opportunities of observing their habits, and the terms employed
by them in conversation.  I called up several individuals of the two
classes into which they used to be divided, for commercial travellers in
my time were divided into two classes, those who ate dinners and drank
their bottle of port, and those who "boxed Harry."  What glorious fellows
the first seemed!  What airs they gave themselves!  What oaths they
swore! and what influence they had with hostlers and chambermaids! and
what a sneaking-looking set the others were! shabby in their apparel; no
fine ferocity in their countenances; no oaths in their mouths, except
such a trumpery apology for an oath as an occasional "confounded hard;"
with little or no influence at inns, scowled at by hostlers, and never
smiled at by chambermaids--and then I remembered how often I had bothered
my head in vain to account for the origin of the term "box Harry," and
how often I had in vain applied both to those who did box and to those
who did not "box Harry," for a clear and satisfactory elucidation of the
expression--and at last found myself again bothering my head as of old in
a vain attempt to account for the origin of the term "boxing Harry."




CHAPTER XXXIV


Northampton--Horse--Breaking--Snoring.

Tired at length with my vain efforts to account for the term which in my
time was so much in vogue amongst commercial gentlemen I left the little
parlour, and repaired to the common room.  Mr Pritchard and Mr Bos were
still there smoking and drinking, but there was now a candle on the table
before them, for night was fast coming on.  Mr Bos was giving an account
of his travels in England, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in English, to
which Mr Pritchard was listening with the greatest attention,
occasionally putting in a "see there now," and "what a fine thing it is
to have gone about."  After some time Mr Bos exclaimed:

"I think, upon the whole, of all the places I have seen in England I like
Northampton best."

"I suppose," said I, "you found the men of Northampton good-tempered,
jovial fellows?"

"Can't say I did," said Mr Bos; "they are all shoe-makers, and of course
quarrelsome and contradictory, for where was there ever a shoemaker who
was not conceited and easily riled?  No, I have little to say in favour
of Northampton as far as the men are concerned.  It's not the men but the
women that make me speak in praise of Northampton.  The men all are
ill-tempered, but the women quite the contrary.  I never saw such a place
for merched anladd as Northampton.  I was a great favourite with them,
and could tell you such tales."

And then Mr Bos, putting his hat rather on one side of his head, told us
two or three tales of his adventures with the merched anladd of
Northampton, which brought powerfully to my mind part of what Ellis Wynn
had said with respect to the practices of drovers in his day, detestation
for which had induced him to put the whole tribe into Hell.

All of a sudden I heard a galloping down the road, and presently a mighty
plunging, seemingly of a horse, before the door of the inn.  I rushed out
followed by my companions, and lo, on the open space before the inn was a
young horse, rearing and kicking, with a young man on his back.  The
horse had neither bridle nor saddle, and the young fellow merely rode him
with a rope passed about his head--presently the horse became tolerably
quiet, and his rider jumping off led him into the stable, where he made
him fast to the rack and then came and joined us, whereupon we all went
into the room from which I and the others had come on hearing the noise
of the struggle.

"How came you on the colt's back, Jenkins?" said Mr Pritchard, after we
had all sat down and Jenkins had called for some cwrw.  "I did not know
that he was broke in."

"I am breaking him in myself," said Jenkins speaking Welsh.  "I began
with him to-night."

"Do you mean to say," said I, "that you have begun breaking him in by
mounting his back?"

"I do," said the other.

"Then depend upon it," said I, "that it will not be long before he will
either break his neck or knees or he will break your neck or crown.  You
are not going the right way to work."

"Oh, myn Diawl!" said Jenkins, "I know better.  In a day or two I shall
have made him quite tame, and have got him into excellent paces and shall
have saved the money I must have paid away, had I put him into a jockey's
hands."

Time passed, night came on, and other guests came in.  There was much
talking of first-rate Welsh and very indifferent English, Mr Bos being
the principal speaker in both languages; his discourse was chiefly on the
comparative merits of Anglesey runts and Scotch bullocks, and those of
the merched anladd of Northampton and the lasses of Wrexham.  He
preferred his own country runts to the Scotch kine, but said upon the
whole, though a Welshman, he must give the preference to the merched of
Northampton over those of Wrexham, for free and easy demeanour,
notwithstanding that in that point which he said was the most desirable
point in females, the lasses of Wrexham were generally considered
out-and-outers.

Fond as I am of listening to public-house conversation, from which I
generally contrive to extract both amusement and edification, I became
rather tired of this, and getting up, strolled about the little village
by moonlight till I felt disposed to retire to rest, when returning to
the inn, I begged to be shown the room in which I was to sleep.  Mrs
Pritchard forthwith taking a candle conducted me to a small room
upstairs.  There were two beds in it.  The good lady pointing to one,
next the window, in which there were nice clean sheets, told me that was
the one which I was to occupy, and bidding me good-night, and leaving the
candle, departed.  Putting out the light I got into bed, but instantly
found that the bed was not long enough by at least a foot.  "I shall pass
an uncomfortable night," said I, "for I never yet could sleep comfortably
in a bed too short.  However, as I am on my travels, I must endeavour to
accommodate myself to circumstances."  So I endeavoured to compose myself
to sleep; before, however, I could succeed, I heard the sound of stumping
steps coming upstairs, and perceived a beam of light through the crevices
of the door, and in a moment more the door opened and in came two loutish
farming lads whom I had observed below, one of them bearing a rushlight
stuck into an old blacking-bottle.  Without saying a word they flung off
part of their clothes, and one of them having blown out the rushlight,
they both tumbled into bed, and in a moment were snoring most sonorously.
"I am in a short bed," said I, "and have snorers close by me; I fear I
shall have a sorry night of it."  I determined, however, to adhere to my
resolution of making the best of circumstances, and lay perfectly quiet,
listening to the snorings as they rose and fell; at last they became more
gentle and I fell asleep, notwithstanding my feet were projecting some
way from the bed.  I might have lain ten minutes or a quarter of an hour
when I suddenly started up in the bed broad awake.  There was a great
noise below the window of plunging and struggling interspersed with Welsh
oaths.  Then there was a sound as if of a heavy fall, and presently a
groan.  "I shouldn't wonder," said I, "if that fellow with the horse has
verified my words, and has either broken his horse's neck or his own.
However, if he has, he has no one to blame but himself.  I gave him fair
warning, and shall give myself no further trouble about the matter, but
go to sleep," and so I did.




CHAPTER XXXV


Brilliant Morning--Travelling with Edification--A Good Clergyman--Gybi.

I awoke about six o'clock in the morning, having passed the night much
better than I anticipated.  The sun was shining bright and gloriously
into the apartment.  On looking into the other bed I found that my chums,
the young farm-labourers, had deserted it.  They were probably already in
the field busy at labour.  After lying a little time longer I arose,
dressed myself and went down.  I found my friend honest Pritchard smoking
his morning pipe at the front door, and after giving him the sele of the
day, I inquired of him the cause of the disturbance beneath my window the
night before, and learned that the man of the horse had been thrown by
the animal off its back, that the horse almost immediately after had
slipped down, and both had been led home very much hurt.  We then talked
about farming and the crops, and at length got into a discourse about
Liverpool.  I asked him how he liked that mighty seaport; he said very
well, but that he did not know much about it--for though he had a house
there where his family had resided, he had not lived much at Liverpool
himself, his absences from that place having been many and long.

"Have you travelled then much about England?" said I.

"No," he replied.  "When I have travelled it has chiefly been across the
sea to foreign places."

"But what foreign places have you visited?" said I.

"I have visited," said Pritchard, "Constantinople, Alexandria, and some
other cities in the south latitudes."

"Dear me," said I, "you have seen some of the most celebrated places in
the world--and yet you were silent, and said nothing about your travels
whilst that fellow Bos was pluming himself at having been at such places
as Northampton and Worcester, the haunts of shoe-makers and pig-jobbers."

"Ah," said Pritchard, "but Mr Bos has travelled with edification; it is a
fine thing to have travelled when one has done so with edification, but I
have not.  There is a vast deal of difference between me and him--he is
considered the 'cutest man in these parts, and is much looked up to."

"You are really," said I, "the most modest person I have ever known and
the least addicted to envy.  Let me see whether you have travelled
without edification."

I then questioned him about the places which he had mentioned, and found
he knew a great deal about them, amongst other things he described
Cleopatra's needle, and the At Maidan at Constantinople with surprising
exactness.

"You put me out," said I; "you consider yourself inferior to that droving
fellow Bos, and to have travelled without edification, whereas you know a
thousand times more than he, and indeed much more than many a person who
makes his five hundred a year by going about lecturing on foreign places,
but as I am no flatterer I will tell you that you have a fault which will
always prevent your rising in this world, you have modesty; those who
have modesty shall have no advancement, whilst those who can blow their
own horn lustily, shall be made governors.  But allow me to ask you in
what capacity you went abroad?"

"As engineer to various steamships," said Pritchard.

"A director of the power of steam," said I, "and an explorer of the
wonders of Iscander's city willing to hold the candle to Mr Bos.  I will
tell you what, you are too good for this world, let us hope you will have
your reward in the next."

I breakfasted and asked for my bill; the bill amounted to little or
nothing--half-a-crown I think for tea-dinner, sundry jugs of ale, bed and
breakfast.  I defrayed it, and then inquired whether it would be possible
for me to see the inside of the church.

"Oh yes," said Pritchard.  "I can let you in, for I am churchwarden and
have the key."

The church was a little edifice of some antiquity, with a little wing and
without a spire; it was situated amidst a grove of trees.  As we stood
with our hats off in the sacred edifice, I asked Pritchard if there were
many Methodists in those parts.

"Not so many as there were," said Pritchard, "they are rapidly
decreasing, and indeed dissenters in general.  The cause of their
decrease is that a good clergyman has lately come here, who visits the
sick and preaches Christ, and in fact does his duty.  If all our
clergymen were like him there would not be many dissenters in Ynis Fon."

Outside the church, in the wall, I observed a tablet with the following
inscription in English.

    Here lieth interred the body of Ann, wife of Robert Paston, who
    deceased the sixth day of October, Anno Domini.

                                    1671.

                                      P.
                                    R.  A.

"You seem struck with that writing?" said Pritchard, observing that I
stood motionless, staring at the tablet.

"The name of Paston," said I, "struck me; it is the name of a village in
my own native district, from which an old family, now almost extinct,
derived its name.  How came a Paston into Ynys Fon?  Are there any people
bearing that name at present in these parts?"

"Not that I am aware," said Pritchard,

"I wonder who his wife Ann was?" said I, "from the style of that tablet
she must have been a considerable person."

"Perhaps she was the daughter of the Lewis family of Llan Dyfnant," said
Pritchard; "that's an old family and a rich one.  Perhaps he came from a
distance and saw and married a daughter of the Lewis of Dyfnant--more
than one stranger has done so.  Lord Vivian came from a distance and saw
and married a daughter of the rich Lewis of Dyfnant."

I shook honest Pritchard by the hand, thanked him for his kindness and
wished him farewell, whereupon he gave mine a hearty squeeze, thanking me
for my custom.

"Which is my way," said I, "to Pen Caer Gybi?"

"You must go about a mile on the Bangor road, and then turning to the
right pass through Penmynnydd, but what takes you to Holyhead?"

"I wish to see," said I, "the place where Cybi the tawny saint preached
and worshipped.  He was called tawny because from his frequent walks in
the blaze of the sun his face had become much sun-burnt.  This is a
furiously hot day, and perhaps by the time I get to Holyhead, I may be so
sun-burnt as to be able to pass for Cybi himself."




CHAPTER XXXVI


Moelfre--Owain Gwynedd--Church of Penmynnydd--The Rose of Mona.

Leaving Pentraeth Coch I retraced my way along the Bangor road till I
came to the turning on the right.  Here I diverged from the aforesaid
road, and proceeded along one which led nearly due west; after travelling
about a mile I stopped, on the top of a little hill; cornfields were on
either side, and in one an aged man was reaping close to the road; I
looked south, west, north and east; to the south was the Snowdon range
far away, with the Wyddfa just discernible; to the west and north was
nothing very remarkable, but to the east or rather north-east, was
mountain Lidiart and the tall hill confronting it across the bay.

"Can you tell me," said I to the old reaper, "the name of that bald hill,
which looks towards Lidiart?"

"We call that hill Moelfre," said the old man desisting from his labour,
and touching his hat.

"Dear me," said I; "Moelfre, Moelfre!"

"Is there anything wonderful in the name, sir?" said the old man smiling.

"There is nothing wonderful in the name," said I, "which merely means the
bald hill, but it brings wonderful recollections to my mind.  I little
thought when I was looking from the road near Pentraeth Coch yesterday on
that hill, and the bay and strand below it, and admiring the tranquillity
which reigned over all, that I was gazing upon the scene of one of the
most tremendous conflicts recorded in history or poetry."

"Dear me," said the old reaper; "and whom may it have been between? the
French and English, I suppose."

"No," said I; "it was fought between one of your Welsh kings, the great
Owain Gwynedd, and certain northern and Irish enemies of his."

"Only think," said the old man, "and it was a fierce battle, sir?"

"It was, indeed," said I; "according to the words of a poet, who
described it, the Menai could not ebb on account of the torrent of blood
which flowed into it, slaughter was heaped upon slaughter, shout followed
shout, and around Moelfre a thousand war flags waved."

"Well, sir," said the old man, "I never before heard anything about it,
indeed I don't trouble my head with histories, unless they be Bible
histories."

"Are you a Churchman?" said I.

"No," said the old man, shortly; "I am a Methodist."

"I belong to the Church," said I.

"So I should have guessed, sir, by your being so well acquainted with
pennillion and histories.  Ah, the Church. . . . ."

"This is dreadfully hot weather," said I, "and I should like to offer you
sixpence for ale, but as I am a Churchman I suppose you would not accept
it from my hands."

"The Lord forbid, sir," said the old man, "that I should be so
uncharitable!  If your honour chooses to give me sixpence, I will receive
it willingly.  Thank your honour!  Well, I have often said there is a
great deal of good in the Church of England."

I once more looked at the hill which overlooked the scene of Owen
Gwynedd's triumph over the united forces of the Irish Lochlanders and
Normans, and then after inquiring of the old man whether I was in the
right direction for Penmynnydd, and finding that I was, I set off at a
great pace, singing occasionally snatches of Black Robin's ode in praise
of Anglesey, amongst others the following stanza:--

    "Bread of the wholesomest is found
    In my mother-land of Anglesey;
    Friendly bounteous men abound
    In Penmynnydd of Anglesey."

I reached Penmynnydd, a small village consisting of a few white houses
and a mill.  The meaning of Penmynnydd is literally the top of a hill.
The village does not stand on a hill, but the church which is at some
distance, stands on one, or rather on a hillock.  And it is probable from
the circumstance of the church standing on a hillock, that the parish
derives its name.  Towards the church after a slight glance at the
village, I proceeded with hasty steps, and was soon at the foot of the
hillock.  A house, that of the clergyman, stands near the church, on the
top of the hill.  I opened a gate, and entered a lane which seemed to
lead up to the church.

As I was passing some low buildings, probably offices pertaining to the
house, a head was thrust from a doorway, which stared at me.  It was a
strange hirsute head, and probably looked more strange and hirsute than
it naturally was, owing to its having a hairy cap upon it.

"Good day," said I.

"Good day, sar," said the head, and in a moment more a man of middle
stature, about fifty, in hairy cap, shirt-sleeves, and green apron round
his waist, stood before me.  He looked the beau-ideal of a servant of all
work.

"Can I see the church?" said I.

"Ah, you want to see the church," said honest Scrub.  "Yes, sar! you
shall see the church.  You go up road there past church--come to house,
knock at door--say what you want--and nice little girl show you church.
Ah, you quite right to come and see church--fine tomb there and clebber
man sleeping in it with his wife, clebber man that--Owen Tiddir; married
great queen--dyn clebber iawn."

Following the suggestions of the man of the hairy cap I went round the
church and knocked at the door of the house, a handsome parsonage.  A
nice little servant-girl presently made her appearance at the door, of
whom I inquired whether I could see the church.

"Certainly, sir," said she; "I will go for the key and accompany you."

She fetched the key and away we went to the church.  It is a venerable
chapel-like edifice, with a belfry towards the west; the roof sinking by
two gradations, is lower at the eastern or altar end, than at the other.
The girl, unlocking the door, ushered me into the interior.

"Which is the tomb of Tudor?" said I to the pretty damsel.

"There it is, sir," said she, pointing to the north side of the church;
"there is the tomb of Owen Tudor."

Beneath a low-roofed arch lay sculptured in stone on an altar tomb, the
figures of a man and woman; that of the man in armour; that of the woman
in graceful drapery.  The male figure lay next the wall.

"And you think," said I to the girl; "that yonder figure is that of Owen
Tudor?"

"Yes, sir," said the girl; "yon figure is that of Owen Tudor; the other
is that of his wife, the great queen; both their bodies rest below."

I forbore to say that the figures were not those of Owen Tudor and the
great queen, his wife; and I forbore to say that their bodies did not
rest in that church, nor anywhere in the neighbourhood, for I was
unwilling to dispel a pleasing delusion.  The tomb is doubtless a tomb of
one of the Tudor race, and of a gentle partner of his, but not of the
Rose of Mona and Catherine of France.  Her bones rest in some corner of
Westminster's noble abbey; his moulder amongst those of thousands of
others, Yorkists and Lancastrians, under the surface of the plain, where
Mortimer's Cross once stood, that plain on the eastern side of which
meanders the murmuring Lug; that noble plain, where one of the hardest
battles which ever blooded English soil was fought; where beautiful young
Edward gained a crown, and old Owen lost a head, which when young had
been the most beautiful of heads, which had gained for him the
appellation of the Rose of Anglesey, and which had captivated the glances
of the fair daughter of France, the widow of Monmouth's Harry, the
immortal victor of Agincourt.

Nevertheless, long did I stare at that tomb which though not that of the
Rose of Mona and his queen, is certainly the tomb of some mighty one of
the mighty race of Theodore.  Then saying something in Welsh to the
pretty damsel, at which she started, and putting something into her hand,
at which she curtseyed, I hurried out of the church.




CHAPTER XXXVII


Mental Excitation--Land of Poets--The Man in Grey--Drinking Healths--The
Greatest Prydydd--Envy--Welshmen not Hogs--Gentlemanly Feeling--What
Pursuit?--Tell him to Walk Up--Editor of the _Times_--Careful
Wife--Departure.

I regained the high road by a short cut, which I discovered, across a
field.  I proceeded rapidly along for some time.  My mind was very much
excited: I was in the birthplace of the mighty Tudors--I had just seen
the tomb of one of them; I was also in the land of the bard; a country
which had produced Gwalchmai who sang the triumphs of Owain, and him who
had sung the Cowydd of Judgment, Gronwy Owen.  So no wonder I was
excited.  On I went reciting bardic snatches connected with Anglesey.  At
length I began repeating Black Robin's ode in praise of the island, or
rather my own translation of it, executed more than thirty years before,
which amongst others, contains the following lines:--

    "Twelve sober men the muses woo,
    Twelve sober men in Anglesey,
    Dwelling at home, like patriots true,
    In reverence for Anglesey."

"Oh," said I, after I had recited that stanza, "what would I not give to
see one of those sober patriotic bards, or at least one of their
legitimate successors, for by this time no doubt, the sober poets,
mentioned by Black Robin, are dead.  That they left legitimate successors
who can doubt? for Anglesey is never to be without bards.  Have we not
the words, not of Robin the Black, but Huw the Red to that effect?

    "'Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd;
    Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.'

"That is: a hospitable country, in which a poet is a thing of course.  It
has never been and will never be without song."

Here I became silent, and presently arrived at the side of a little dell
or ravine, down which the road led, from east to west.  The northern and
southern sides of this dell were precipitous.  Beneath the southern one
stood a small cottage.  Just as I began to descend the eastern side, two
men began to descend the opposite one, and it so happened that we met at
the bottom of the dingle, just before the house, which bore a sign, and
over the door of which was an inscription to the effect that ale was sold
within.  They saluted me; I returned their salutation, and then we all
three stood still, looking at one another.  One of the men was rather a
tall figure, about forty, dressed in grey, or pepper-and-salt, with a cap
of some kind on his head, his face was long and rather good-looking,
though slightly pock-broken.  There was a peculiar gravity upon it.  The
other person was somewhat about sixty--he was much shorter than his
companion, and much worse dressed--he wore a hat that had several holes
in it, a dusty rusty black coat, much too large for him; ragged yellow
velveteen breeches, indifferent fustian gaiters, and shoes, cobbled here
and there, one of which had rather an ugly bulge by the side near the
toes.  His mouth was exceedingly wide, and his nose remarkably long; its
extremity of a deep purple; upon his features was a half-simple smile or
leer; in his hand was a long stick.  After we had all taken a full view
of one another I said in Welsh, addressing myself to the man in grey,
"Pray may I take the liberty of asking the name of this place."

"I believe you are an Englishman, sir," said the man in grey, speaking
English, "I will therefore take the liberty of answering your question in
the English tongue.  The name of this place is Dyffryn Gaint."

"Thank you," said I; "you are quite right with regard to my being an
Englishman, perhaps you are one yourself?"

"Sir," said the man in grey, "I have not the honour to be so.  I am a
native of the small island in which we are."

"Small," said I, "but famous, particularly for producing illustrious
men."

"That's very true indeed, sir," said the man in grey, drawing himself up;
"it is particularly famous for producing illustrious men."

"There was Owen Tudor?" said I.

"Very true," said the man in grey, "his tomb is in the church a little
way from hence."

"Then," said I, "there was Gronwy Owen, one of the greatest bards that
ever lived.  Out of reverence to his genius I went yesterday to see the
place of his birth."

"Sir," said the man in grey, "I should be sorry to leave you without
enjoying your conversation at some length.  In yonder house they sell
good ale, perhaps you will not be offended if I ask you to drink some
with me and my friend?"

"You are very kind," said I, "I am fond of good ale and fonder still of
good company--suppose we go in?"

We went into the cottage, which was kept by a man and his wife, both of
whom seemed to be perfectly well acquainted with my two new friends.  We
sat down on stools, by a clean white table in a little apartment with a
clay floor--notwithstanding the heat of the weather, the little room was
very cool and pleasant owing to the cottage being much protected from the
sun by its situation.  The man in grey called for a jug of ale, which was
presently placed before us along with three glasses.  The man in grey
having filled the glasses from the jug which might contain three pints,
handed one to me, another to his companion, and then taking the third
drank to my health.  I drank to his and that of his companion; the
latter, after nodding to us both, emptied his at a draught, and then with
a kind of half-fatuous leer, exclaimed, "Da iawn, very good."

The ale, though not very good, was cool and neither sour nor bitter; we
then sat for a moment or two in silence, my companions on one side of the
table, and I on the other.  After a little time the man in grey looking
at me said:

"Travelling I suppose in Anglesey for pleasure?"

"To a certain extent," said I; "but my chief object in visiting Anglesey
was to view the birth-place of Gronwy Owen; I saw it yesterday, and am
now going to Holyhead chiefly with a view to see the country."

"And how came you, an Englishman, to know anything of Gronwy Owen?"

"I studied Welsh literature when young," said I, "and was much struck
with the verses of Gronwy: he was one of the great bards of Wales, and
certainly the most illustrious genius that Anglesey ever produced."

"A great genius, I admit," said the man in grey, "but pardon me, not
exactly the greatest Ynis Fon has produced.  The race of the bards is not
quite extinct in the island, sir.  I could name one or two--however, I
leave others to do so--but I assure you the race of bards is not quite
extinct here."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," said I, "and make no doubt that you
speak correctly, for the Red Bard has said that Mona is never to be
without a poet--but where am I to find one? just before I saw you I was
wishing to see a poet; I would willingly give a quart of ale to see a
genuine Anglesey poet."

"You would, sir, would you?" said the man in grey, lifting his head on
high, and curling his upper lip.

"I would, indeed," said I, "my greatest desire at present is to see an
Anglesey poet, but where am I to find one?"

"Where is he to find one?" said he of the tattered hat; "where's the gwr
boneddig to find a prydydd?   No occasion to go far, he, he, he."

"Well" said I, "but where is he?"

"Where is he? why, there," said he, pointing to the man in grey--"the
greatest prydydd in tir Fon or the whole world."

"Tut, tut, hold your tongue," said the man in grey.

"Hold my tongue, myn Diawl, not I--I speak the truth," then filling his
glass he emptied it exclaiming, "I'll not hold, my tongue.  The greatest
prydydd in the whole world."

"Then I have the honour to be seated with a bard of Anglesey?" said I,
addressing the man in grey.

"Tut, tut," said he of the grey suit.

"The greatest prydydd in the whole world," iterated he of the bulged
shoe, with a slight hiccup, as he again filled his glass.

"Then," said I, "I am truly fortunate."

"Sir," said the man in grey, "I had no intention of discovering myself,
but as my friend here has betrayed my secret, I confess that I am a bard
of Anglesey--my friend is an excellent individual but indiscreet, highly
indiscreet, as I have frequently told him," and here he looked most
benignantly reproachful at him of the tattered hat.

"The greatest prydydd," said the latter, "the greatest prydydd that--"
and leaving his sentence incomplete he drank off the ale which he had
poured into his glass.

"Well," said I, "I cannot sufficiently congratulate myself for having met
an Anglesey bard--no doubt a graduate one.  Anglesey, was always famous
for graduate bards, for what says Black Robin?

    "'Though Arvon graduate bards can boast,
    Yet more canst thou, O Anglesey.'"

"I suppose by graduate bard you mean one who has gained the chair at an
eisteddfod?" said the man in grey.  "No, I have never gained the silver
chair--I have never had an opportunity.  I have been kept out of the
eisteddfodau.  There is such a thing as envy, sir--but there is one
comfort, that envy will not always prevail."

"No," said I; "envy will not always prevail--envious scoundrels may
chuckle for a time at the seemingly complete success of the dastardly
arts to which they have recourse, in order to crush merit--but Providence
is not asleep.  All of a sudden they see their supposed victim on a
pinnacle far above their reach.  Then there is weeping, and gnashing of
teeth with a vengeance, and the long, melancholy howl.  Oh, there is
nothing in this world which gives one so perfect an idea of retribution
as the long melancholy howl of the disappointed envious scoundrel when he
sees his supposed victim smiling on an altitude far above his reach."

"Sir," said the man in grey, "I am delighted to hear you.  Give me your
hand, your honourable hand.  Sir, you have now felt the hand-grasp of a
Welshman, to say nothing of an Anglesey bard, and I have felt that of a
Briton, perhaps a bard, a brother, sir?  Oh, when I first saw your face
out there in the dyffryn, I at once recognised in it that of a kindred
spirit, and I felt compelled to ask you to drink.  Drink, sir! but how is
this? the jug is empty--how is this?--Oh, I see--my friend sir, though an
excellent individual, is indiscreet, sir--very indiscreet.  Landlord,
bring this moment another jug of ale!"

"The greatest prydydd," stuttered he of bulged shoe--"the greatest
prydydd--Oh--"

"Tut, tut," said the man in grey.

"I speak the truth and care for no one," said he of the tattered hat.  "I
say the greatest prydydd.  If any one wishes to gainsay me let him show
his face and Myn Diawl--"

The landlord brought the ale, placed it on the table, and then stood as
if waiting for something.

"I suppose you are waiting to be paid," said I; "what is your demand?"

"Sixpence for this jug, and sixpence for the other," said the landlord.

I took out a shilling and said: "It is but right that I should pay half
of the reckoning, and as the whole affair is merely a shilling matter, I
should feel obliged in being permitted to pay the whole, so, landlord,
take the shilling and remember you are paid."  I then delivered the
shilling to the landlord, but had no sooner done so than the man in grey,
starting up in violent agitation, wrested the money from the other, and
flung it down on the table before me saying:--

"No, no, that will never do.  I invited you in here to drink, and now you
would pay for the liquor which I ordered.  You English are free with your
money, but you are sometimes free with it at the expense of people's
feelings.  I am a Welshman, and I know Englishmen consider all Welshmen
hogs.  But we are not hogs, mind you! for we have little feelings which
hogs have not.  Moreover, I would have you know that we have money,
though perhaps not so much as the Saxon."  Then putting his hand into his
pocket, he pulled out a shilling, and giving it to the landlord, said in
Welsh: "Now thou art paid, and mayst go thy ways till thou art again
called for.  I do not know why thou didst stay after thou hadst put down
the ale.  Thou didst know enough of me to know that thou didst run no
risk of not being paid."

"But," said I, after the landlord had departed, "I must insist on being
my share.  Did you not hear me say that I would give a quart of ale to
see a poet?"

"A poet's face," said the man in grey, "should be common to all, even
like that of the sun.  He is no true poet, who would keep his face from
the world."

"But," said I, "the sun frequently hides his head from the world, behind
a cloud."

"Not so," said the man in grey.  "The sun does not hide his face, it is
the cloud that hides it.  The sun is always glad enough to be seen, and
so is the poet.  If both are occasionally hid, trust me it is no fault of
theirs.  Bear that in mind; and now pray take up your money."

"The man is a gentleman," thought I to myself, "whether a poet or not;
but I really believe him to be a poet; were he not he could hardly talk
in the manner I have just heard him."

The man in grey now filled my glass, his own, and that of his companion.
The latter emptied his in a minute, not forgetting first to say "the best
prydydd in all the world!" the man in grey was also not slow to empty his
own.  The jug now passed rapidly between my two friends, for the poet
seemed determined to have his full share of the beverage.  I allowed the
ale in my glass to remain untasted, and began to talk about the bards,
and to quote from their works.  I soon found that the man in grey knew
quite as much of the old bards and their works as myself.  In one
instance he convicted me of a mistake.

I had quoted those remarkable lines in which an old bard, doubtless
seeing the Menai Bridge by means of second sight, says:--"I will pass to
the land of Mona notwithstanding the waters of the Menai, without waiting
for the ebb"--and was feeling not a little proud of my erudition, when
the man in grey after looking at me for a moment fixedly, asked me the
name of the bard who composed them.  "Sion Tudor," I replied.

"There you are wrong," said the man in grey; "his name was not Sion Tudor
but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob.  Sion Tudor wrote an englyn on
the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little Bob who wrote the
stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai is hinted at."

"You are right," said I, "you are right.  Well, I am glad that all song
and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon."

"Dead," said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather flushed,
"they are neither dead nor ever will be.  There are plenty of poets in
Anglesey--why, I can mention twelve, and amongst them and not the
least--pooh, what was I going to say? twelve there are, genuine Anglesey
poets, born there, and living there for the love they bear their native
land.  When I say they all live in Anglesey, perhaps I am not quite
accurate, for one of the dozen does not exactly live in Anglesey, but
just over the bridge.  He is an elderly man, but his awen, I assure you,
is as young and vigorous as ever."

"I shouldn't be at all surprised," said I, "if he was a certain ancient
gentleman, from whom I obtained information yesterday, with respect to
the birth-place of Gronwy Owen."

"Very likely," said the man in grey; "well, if you have seen him consider
yourself fortunate, for he is a genuine bard, and a genuine son of
Anglesey, notwithstanding he lives across the water."

"If he is the person I allude to," said I, "I am doubly fortunate, for I
have seen two bards of Anglesey."

"Sir," said the man in grey, "I consider myself quite as fortunate, in
having met such a Saxon as yourself, as it is possible for you to do, in
having seen two bards of Ynis Fon."

"I suppose you follow some pursuit besides bardism?" said I; "I suppose
you farm?"

"I do not farm," said the man in grey, "I keep an inn."

"Keep an inn?" said I.

"Yes," said the man in grey.  "The --- Arms at L---."

"Sure," said I, "inn-keeping and bardism are not very cognate pursuits?"

"You are wrong," said the man in grey; "I believe the awen, or
inspiration, is quite as much at home in the bar as in the barn, perhaps
more.  It is that belief which makes me tolerably satisfied with my
position and prevents me from asking Sir Richard to give me a farm
instead of an inn."

"I suppose," said I, "that Sir Richard is your landlord?"

"He is," said the man in grey, "and a right noble landlord too."

"I suppose," said I, "that he is right proud of his tenant?"

"He is," said the man in grey, "and I am proud of my landlord, and will
here drink his health.  I have often said that if I were not what I am, I
should wish to be Sir Richard."

"You consider yourself his superior?" said I.

"Of course," said the man in grey--"a baronet is a baronet; but a bard,
is a bard you know--I never forget what I am, and the respect due to my
sublime calling.  About a month ago I was seated in an upper apartment in
a fit of rapture.  There was a pen in my hand, and paper before me on the
table, and likewise a jug of good ale, for I always find that the awen is
most prodigal of her favours when a jug of good ale is before me.  All of
a sudden my wife came running up, and told me that Sir Richard was below,
and wanted to speak to me.  'Tell him to walk up,' said I.  'Are you
mad?' said my wife.  'Don't you know who Sir Richard is?'  'I do,' said
I, 'a baronet is a baronet, but a bard is a bard.  Tell him to walk up.'
Well, my wife went and told Sir Richard that I was writing, and could not
come down, and that she hoped he would not object to walk up.  'Certainly
not; certainly not,' said Sir Richard.  'I shall be only too happy to
ascend to a genius on his hill.  You may be proud of such a husband, Mrs
W.'  And here it will be as well to tell you that my name is W.--J. W. of
---.  Sir Richard then came up, and I received him with gravity and
politeness.  I did not rise of course, for I never forget myself a
moment, but I told him to sit down, and added, that after I had finished
the pennill I was engaged upon, I would speak to him.  Well, Sir Richard
smiled and sat down, and begged me not to hurry myself, for that he could
wait.  So I finished the pennill, deliberately, mind you, for I did not
forget who I was, and then turning to Sir Richard entered upon business
with him."

"I suppose Sir Richard is a very good-tempered man?" said I.

"I don't know," said the man in grey.  "I have seen Sir Richard in a
devil of a passion, but never with me--no, no!  Trust Sir Richard for not
riding the high horse with me--a baronet is a baronet, but a bard is a
bard; and that Sir Richard knows."

"The greatest prydydd," said the man of the tattered hat, emptying the
last contents of the jug into his glass, "the greatest prydydd that--"

"Well," said I, "you appear to enjoy very great consideration, and yet
you were talking just now of being ill-used."

"So I have been," said the man in grey, "I have been kept out of the
eisteddfoddau--and then--what do you think?  That fellow, the editor of
the _Times_--"

"Oh," said I, "if you have anything to do with the editor of the _Times_
you may, of course, expect nothing but shabby treatment, but what
business could you have with him?"

"Why I sent him some pennillion for insertion, and he did not insert
them."

"Were they in Welsh or English?"

"In Welsh, of course."

"Well, then the man had some excuse for disregarding them--because you
know the _Times_ is written in English."

"Oh, you mean the London _Times_," said the man in grey.  "Pooh!  I did
not allude to that trumpery journal, but the Liverpool _Times_, the
Amserau.  I sent some pennillion to the editor for insertion and he did
not insert them.  Peth a clwir cenfigen yn Saesneg?"

"We call cenfigen in English envy," said I; "but as I told you before,
envy will not always prevail."

"You cannot imagine how pleased I am with your company," said the man in
grey.  "Landlord, landlord!"

"The greatest prydydd," said the man of the tattered hat, "the greatest
prydydd."

"Pray don't order any more on my account," said I, "as you see my glass
is still full.  I am about to start for Caer Gybi.  Pray, where are you
bound for?"

"For Bangor," said the man in grey.  "I am going to the market."

"Then I would advise you to lose no time," said I, "or you will
infallibly be too late; it must now be one o'clock."

"There is no market to-day," said the man in grey, "the market is
to-morrow, which is Saturday.  I like to take things leisurely, on which
account, when I go to market, I generally set out the day before, in
order that I may enjoy myself upon the road.  I feel myself so happy here
that I shall not stir till the evening.  Now pray stay with me and my
friend till then."

"I cannot," said I, "if I stay longer here I shall never reach Caer Gybi
to-night.  But allow me to ask whether your business at L--- will not
suffer by your spending so much time on the road to market?"

"My wife takes care of the business whilst I am away," said the man in
grey, "so it won't suffer much.  Indeed it is she who chiefly conducts
the business of the inn.  I spend a good deal of time from home, for
besides being a bard and inn-keeper, I must tell you I am a horse-dealer
and a jobber, and if I go to Bangor it is in the hope of purchasing a
horse or pig worth the money."

"And is your friend going to market too?" said I.

"My friend goes with me to assist me and bear me company.  If I buy a pig
he will help me to drive it home; if a horse, he will get up upon its
back behind me.  I might perhaps do without him, but I enjoy his company
highly.  He is sometimes rather indiscreet, but I do assure you he is
exceedingly clever."

"The greatest prydydd," said the man of the bulged shoe, "the greatest
prydydd in the world."

"Oh, I have no doubt of his cleverness," said I, "from what I have
observed of him.  Now before I go allow me to pay for your next jug of
ale."

"I will do no such thing," said the man in grey.  "No farthing do you pay
here for me or my friend either.  But I will tell you what you may do.  I
am, as I have told you, an inn-keeper as well as a bard.  By the time you
get to L--- you will be hot and hungry and in need of refreshment, and if
you think proper to patronise my house, the --- Arms, by taking your chop
and pint there, you will oblige me.  Landlord, some more ale."

"The greatest prydydd," said he of the bulged shoe, "the greatest
prydydd--"

"I will most certainly patronise your house," said I to the man in grey,
and shaking him heartily by the hand I departed.




CHAPTER XXXVIII


Inn at L-----The Handmaid--The Decanter--Religious Gentleman--Truly
Distressing--Sententiousness--Way to Pay Bills.

I proceeded on my way in high spirits indeed, having now seen not only
the tomb of the Tudors, but one of those sober poets for which Anglesey
has always been so famous.  The country was pretty, with here and there a
hill, a harvest-field, a clump of trees or a grove.

I soon reached L---, a small but neat town.  "Where is the --- Arms?"
said I to a man whom I met.

"Yonder, sir, yonder," said he, pointing to a magnificent structure on
the left.

I went in and found myself in a spacious hall.  A good-looking young
woman in a white dress with a profusion of pink ribbons confronted me
with a curtsey.  "A pint and a chop!" I exclaimed, with a flourish of my
hand and at the top of my voice.  The damsel gave a kind of start, and
then, with something like a toss of the head, led the way into a very
large room, on the left, in which were many tables, covered with
snowy-white cloths, on which were plates, knives and forks, the latter
seemingly of silver, tumblers, and wine-glasses.

"I think you asked for a pint and a chop, sir?" said the damsel,
motioning me to sit down at one of the tables.

"I did," said I, as I sat down, "let them be brought with all convenient
speed, for I am in something of a hurry."

"Very well, sir," said the damsel, and then with another kind of toss of
the head, she went away, not forgetting to turn half round, to take a
furtive glance at me, before she went out of the door.

"Well," said I, as I looked at the tables, with their snowy-white cloths,
tumblers, wine-glasses and what not, and at the walls of the room
glittering with mirrors, "surely a poet never kept so magnificent an inn
before; there must be something in this fellow besides the awen, or his
house would never exhibit such marks of prosperity and good taste--there
must be something in this fellow; though he pretends to be a wild erratic
son of Parnassus, he must have an eye to the main chance, a genius for
turning the penny, or rather the sovereign, for the accommodation here is
no penny accommodation, as I shall probably find.  Perhaps, however, like
myself, he has an exceedingly clever wife who, whilst he is making
verses, or running about the country swigging ale with people in bulged
shoes, or buying pigs or glandered horses, looks after matters at home,
drives a swinging trade, and keeps not only herself, but him
respectable--but even in that event he must have a good deal of
common-sense in him, even like myself, who always allows my wife to buy
and sell, carry money to the bank, draw cheques, inspect and pay
tradesmen's bills, and transact all my real business, whilst I myself
pore over old books, walk about shires, discoursing with gypsies, under
hedgerows, or with sober bards--in hedge ale-houses."  I continued musing
in this manner until the handmaid made her appearance with a tray, on
which were covers and a decanter, which she placed before me.  "What is
that?" said I, pointing to a decanter.

"Only a pint of sherry, sir," said she of the white dress and ribbons.

"Dear me," said I, "I ordered no sherry, I wanted some ale--a pint of
ale."

"You called for a pint, sir," said the handmaid, "but you mentioned no
ale, and I naturally supposed that a gentleman of your appearance"--here
she glanced at my dusty coat--"and speaking in the tone you did, would
not condescend to drink ale with his chop; however, as it seems I have
been mistaken, I can take away the sherry and bring you the ale."

"Well, well," said I, "you can let the sherry remain; I do not like
sherry, and am very fond of ale, but you can let the wine remain; upon
the whole I am glad you brought it--indeed I merely came to do a good
turn to the master of the house."

"Thank you, sir," said the handmaid.

"Are you his daughter?" said I.

"Oh no, sir," said the handmaid reverently; "only his waiter."

"You may be proud to wait on him," said I.

"I am, sir," said the handmaid, casting down her eyes.

"I suppose he is much respected in the neighbourhood?" said I.

"Very much so, sir," said the damsel, "especially amidst the connection."

"The connection," said I.  "Ah, I see, he has extensive consanguinity,
most Welsh have.  But," I continued, "there is such a thing as envy in
the world, and there are a great many malicious people in the world, who
speak against him."

"A great many, sir, but we take what they say from whence it comes."

"You do quite right," said I.  "Has your master written any poetry
lately?"

"Sir!" said the damsel staring at me.

"Any poetry," said I, "any pennillion?"

"No, sir," said the damsel; "my master is a respectable man, and would
scorn to do anything of the kind."

"Why," said I, "is not your master a bard as well as an innkeeper?"

"My master, sir, is an innkeeper," said the damsel; "but as for the
other, I don't know what you mean."

"A bard," said I, "is a prydydd, a person who makes verses--pennillion;
does not your master make them?"

"My master make them?  No, sir; my master is a religious gentleman, and
would scorn to make such profane stuff."

"Well," said I, "he told me he did within the last two hours.  I met him
at Dyffrin Gaint, along with another man, and he took me into the
public-house, where we had a deal of discourse."

"You met my master at Dyffryn Gaint?" said the damsel.

"Yes," said I, "and he treated me with ale, told me that he was a poet,
and that he was going to Bangor to buy a horse or a pig."

"I don't see how that could be, sir," said the damsel; "my master is at
present in the house, rather unwell, and has not been out for the last
three days--there must be some mistake."

"Mistake," said I.  "Isn't this the --- Arms?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"And isn't your master's name W---?"

"No, sir, my master's name is H---, and a more respectable man--"

"Well," said I interrupting her--"all I can say is that I met a man in
Dyffryn Gaint, who treated me with ale, told me that his name was W---,
that he was a prydydd and kept the --- Arms at L---."

"Well," said the damsel, "now I remember, there is a person of that name
in L---, and he also keeps a house which he calls the --- Arms, but it is
only a public-house."

"But," said I, "is he not a prydydd, an illustrious poet; does he not
write pennillion which everybody admires?"

"Well," said the damsel, "I believe he does write things which he calls
pennillions, but everybody laughs at them."

"Come, come," said I, "I will not hear the productions of a man who
treated me with ale, spoken of with disrespect.  I am afraid that you are
one of his envious maligners, of which he gave me to understand that he
had a great many."

"Envious, sir! not I indeed; and if I were disposed to be envious of
anybody it would not be of him; oh dear, why he is--"

"A bard of Anglesey," said I, interrupting her, "such a person as Gronwy
Owen describes in the following lines, which by-the-bye were written upon
himself:--

    "'Where'er he goes he's sure to find
    Respectful looks and greetings kind.'

"I tell you that it was out of respect to that man that I came to this
house.  Had I not thought that he kept it, I should not have entered it
and called for a pint and chop--how distressing! how truly distressing!"

"Well, sir," said the damsel, "if there is anything distressing you have
only to thank your acquaintance who chooses to call his mug-house by the
name of a respectable hotel, for I would have you know that this is an
hotel, and kept by a respectable and a religious man, and not kept
by--However, I scorn to say more, especially as I might be
misinterpreted.  Sir, there's your pint and chop, and if you wish for
anything else you can ring.  Envious, indeed, of such--Marry come up!"
and with a toss of her head, higher than any she had hitherto given, she
bounced out of the room.

Here was a pretty affair!  I had entered the house and ordered the chop
and pint in the belief that by so doing I was patronising the poet, and
lo, I was not in the poet's house, and my order would benefit a person
for whom, however respectable and religious, I cared not one rush.
Moreover, the pint which I had ordered appeared in the guise not of ale,
which I am fond of, but of sherry, for which I have always entertained a
sovereign contempt, as a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will
transform a nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a race of
sketchers, scribblers, and punsters, in fact into what Englishmen are at
the present day.  But who was to blame?  Why, who but the poet and
myself?  The poet ought to have told me that there were two houses in
L--- bearing the sign of the --- Arms, and that I must fight shy of the
hotel and steer for the pot-house, and when I gave the order I certainly
ought to have been a little more explicit; when I said a pint I ought to
have added--of ale.  Sententiousness is a fine thing sometimes, but not
always.  By being sententious here, I got sherry, which I dislike,
instead of ale which I like, and should have to pay more for what was
disagreeable, than I should have had to pay for what was agreeable.  Yet
I had merely echoed the poet's words in calling for a pint and chop, so
after all the poet was to blame for both mistakes.  But perhaps he meant
that I should drink sherry at his house, and when he advised me to call
for a pint, he meant a pint of sherry.  But the maid had said he kept a
pot-house, and no pot-houses have wine-licences; but the maid after all
might be an envious baggage, and no better than she should be.  But what
was now to be done?  Why, clearly make the best of the matter, eat the
chop and leave the sherry.  So I commenced eating the chop, which was by
this time nearly cold.  After eating a few morsels I looked at the
sherry: "I may as well take a glass," said I.  So with a wry face I
poured myself out a glass.

"What detestable stuff!" said I, after I had drunk it.  "However, as I
shall have to pay for it I may as well go through with it."  So I poured
myself out another glass, and by the time I had finished the chop I had
finished the sherry also.

And now what was I to do next?  Why, my best advice seemed to be to pay
my bill and depart.  But I had promised the poet to patronize his house,
and had by mistake ordered and despatched a pint and chop in a house
which was not the poet's.  Should I now go to his house and order a pint
and chop there?  Decidedly not!  I had patronised a house which I
believed to be the poet's; if I patronised the wrong one, the fault was
his, not mine--he should have been more explicit.  I had performed my
promise, at least in intention.

Perfectly satisfied with the conclusion I had come to, I rang the bell.
"The bill?" said I to the handmaid.

"Here it is!" said she, placing a strip of paper in my hand.

I looked at the bill, and, whether moderate or immoderate, paid it with a
smiling countenance, commanded the entertainment highly, and gave the
damsel something handsome for her trouble in waiting on me.

Reader, please to bear in mind that as all bills must be paid, it is much
more comfortable to pay them with a smile than with a frown, and that it
is much better by giving sixpence, or a shilling to a poor servant, which
you will never miss at the year's end, to be followed from the door of an
inn by good wishes, than by giving nothing to be pursued by cutting
silence, or the yet more cutting Hm!

"Sir," said the good-looking, well-ribboned damsel, "I wish you a
pleasant journey, and whenever you please again to honour our
establishment with your presence, both my master and myself shall be
infinitely obliged to you."




CHAPTER XXXIX


Oats and Methodism--The Little Girl--Ty Gwyn--Bird of the Roof--Purest
English--Railroads--Inconsistency--The Boots.

It might be about four in the afternoon when I left L--- bound for Pen
Caer Gybi, or Holyhead, seventeen miles distant.  I reached the top of
the hill on the west of the little town, and then walked briskly forward.
The country looked poor and mean--on my right was a field of oats, on my
left a Methodist chapel--oats and Methodism! what better symbols of
poverty and meanness?

I went onward a long way, the weather was broiling hot, and I felt
thirsty.  On the top of a long ascent stood a house by the roadside.  I
went to the door and knocked--no answer--"Oes neb yn y ty?" said I.

"Oes!" said an infantine voice.

I opened the door and saw a little girl.  "Have you any water?" said I.

"No," said the child, "but I have this," and she brought me some
butter-milk in a basin.  I just tasted it, gave the child a penny and
blessed her.

"Oes genoch tad?"

"No," said she; "but I have a mam."  Tad in mam; blessed sounds; in all
languages expressing the same blessed things.

After walking for some hours I saw a tall blue hill in the far distance
before me.  "What is the name of that hill?" said I to a woman whom I
met.

"Pen Caer Gybi," she replied.

Soon after I came to a village near to a rocky gully.  On inquiring the
name of the village, I was told it was Llan yr Afon, or the church of the
river.  I passed on; the country was neither grand nor pretty--it
exhibited a kind of wildness, however, which did not fail to interest
me--there were stones, rocks and furze in abundance.  Turning round the
corner of a hill, I observed through the mists of evening, which began to
gather about me, what seemed to be rather a genteel house on the
roadside; on my left, and a little way behind it a strange kind of
monticle, on which I thought I observed tall upright stones.  Quickening
my pace, I soon came parallel with the house, which as I drew nigh,
ceased to look like a genteel house, and exhibited an appearance of great
desolation.  It was a white, or rather grey structure of some antiquity.
It was evidently used as a farm-house, for there was a yard adjoining to
it, in which were stacks and agricultural implements.  Observing two men
in the yard, I went in.  They were respectable, farm-looking men, between
forty and fifty; one had on a coat and hat, the other a cap and jacket.
"Good evening," I said in Welsh.

"Good evening," they replied in the same language, looking inquiringly at
me.

"What is the name of this place?" said I.

"It is called Ty gwyn," said the man of the hat.

"On account of its colour, I suppose?" said I.

"Just so," said the man of the hat.

"It looks old," said I.

"And it is old," he replied.  "In the time of the Papists it was one of
their chapels."

"Does it belong to you?" I demanded.

"Oh no, it belongs to one Mr Sparrow from Liverpool.  I am his bailiff,
and this man is a carpenter who is here doing a job for him."

Here ensued a pause, which was broken by the man of the hat saying in
English, to the man of the cap:

"Who can this strange fellow be? he has not a word of English, and though
he speaks Welsh his Welsh sounds very different from ours.  Who can he
be?"

"I am sure I don't know," said the other.

"I know who he is," said the first, "he comes from Llydaw, or Armorica,
which was peopled from Britain estalom, and where I am told the real old
Welsh language is still spoken."

"I think I heard you mention the word Llydaw?" said I, to the man of the
hat.

"Ah," said the man of the hat, speaking Welsh, "I was right after all;
oh, I could have sworn you were Llydaweg.  Well, how are the descendants
of the ancient Britons getting on in Llydaw?"

"They are getting on tolerably well," said I, "when I last saw them,
though all things do not go exactly as they could wish."

"Of course not," said he of the hat.  "We too have much to complain of
here; the lands are almost entirely taken possession of by Saxons,
wherever you go you will find them settled, and a Saxon bird of the roof
must build its nest in Gwyn dy."

"You call a sparrow in your Welsh a bird of the roof, do you not?" said
I.

"We do," said he of the hat.  "You speak Welsh very well considering you
were not born in Wales.  It is really surprising that the men of Llydaw
should speak the iaith so pure as they do."

"The Welsh when they went over there," said I, "took effectual means that
their descendants should speak good Welsh, if all tales be true."

"What means?" said he of the hat.

"Why," said I; "after conquering the country they put all the men to
death, and married the women, but before a child was born they cut out
all the women's tongues, so that the only language the children heard
when they were born was pure Cumraeg.  What do you think of that?"

"Why, that it was a cute trick," said he of the hat.

"A more clever trick I never heard," said the man of the cap.

"Have you any memorials in the neighbourhood of the old Welsh?" said I.

"What do you mean?" said the man of the hat.

"Any altars of the Druids?" said I; "any stone tables?"

"None," said the man of the hat.

"What may those stones be?" said I, pointing to the stones which had
struck my attention.

"Mere common rocks," said the man.

"May I go and examine them?" said I.

"Oh yes!" said he of the hat, "and we will go with you."

We went to the stones, which were indeed common rocks, and which when I
reached them presented quite a different appearance from that which they
presented to my eye when I viewed them from afar.

"Are there many altars of the Druids in Llydaw?" said the man of the hat.

"Plenty," said I, "but those altars are older than the time of the Welsh
colonists, and were erected by the old Gauls."

"Well," said the man of the cap, "I am glad I have seen the man of
Llydaw."

"Whom do you call a man of Llydaw?" said I.

"Whom but yourself?" said he of the hat.

"I am not a man of Llydaw," said I in English, "but Norfolk, where the
people eat the best dumplings in the world, and speak the purest English.
Now a thousand thanks for your civility.  I would have some more chat
with you, but night is coming on, and I am bound to Holyhead."

Then leaving the men staring after me, I bent my steps towards Holyhead.

I passed by a place called Llan something, standing lonely on its hill.
The country round looked sad and desolate.  It is true night had come on
when I saw it.

On I hurried.  The voices of children sounded sweetly at a distance
across the wild champaign on my left.

It grew darker and darker.  On I hurried along the road; at last I came
to lone, lordly groves.  On my right was an open gate and a lodge.  I
went up to the lodge.  The door was open, and in a little room I beheld a
nice-looking old lady sitting by a table, on which stood a lighted
candle, with her eyes fixed on a large book.

"Excuse me," said I; "but who owns this property?"

The old lady looked up from her book, which appeared to be a Bible,
without the slightest surprise, though I certainly came upon her
unawares, and answered:

"Mr John Wynn."

I shortly passed through a large village, or rather town, the name of
which I did not learn.  I then went on for a mile or two, and saw a red
light at some distance.  The road led nearly up to it, and then diverged
towards the north.  Leaving the road I made towards the light by a lane,
and soon came to a railroad station.

"You won't have long to wait, sir," said a man, "the train to Holyhead
will be here presently."

"How far is it to Holyhead?" said I.

"Two miles, sir, and the fare is only sixpence."

"I despise railroads," said I, "and those who travel by them," and
without waiting for an answer returned to the road.  Presently I heard
the train--it stopped for a minute at the station, and then continuing
its course passed me on my left hand, voiding fierce sparks, and making a
terrible noise--the road was a melancholy one; my footsteps sounded
hollow upon it.  I seemed to be its only traveller--a wall extended for a
long, long way on my left.  At length I came to a turnpike.  I felt
desolate and wished to speak to somebody.  I tapped at the window, at
which there was a light; a woman opened it.  "How far to Holyhead?" said
I in English.

"Dim Saesneg," said the woman.

I repeated my question in Welsh.

"Two miles," said she.

"Still two miles to Holyhead by the road," thought I.  "Nos da," said I
to the woman and sped along.  At length I saw water on my right,
seemingly a kind of bay, and presently a melancholy ship.  I doubled my
pace, which was before tolerably quick, and soon saw a noble-looking
edifice on my left, brilliantly lighted up.  "What a capital inn that
would make," said I, looking at it wistfully, as I passed it.  Presently
I found myself in the midst of a poor, dull, ill-lighted town.

"Where is the inn?" said I to a man.

"The inn, sir; you have passed it.  The inn is yonder," he continued,
pointing towards the noble-looking edifice.

"What, is that the inn?" said I.

"Yes, sir, the railroad hotel--and a first-rate hotel it is."

"And are there no other inns?"

"Yes, but they are all poor places.  No gent puts up at them--all the
gents by the railroad put up at the railroad hotel."

What was I to do? after turning up my nose at the railroad, was I to put
up at its hotel?  Surely to do so would be hardly acting with
consistency.  "Ought I not rather to go to some public-house, frequented
by captains of fishing smacks, and be put in a bed a foot too short for
me," said I, as I reflected on my last night's couch at Mr Pritchard's.
"No, that won't do--I shall go to the hotel, I have money in my pocket,
and a person with money in his pocket has surely a right to be
inconsistent if he pleases."

So I turned back and entered the railroad hotel with lofty port and with
sounding step, for I had twelve sovereigns in my pocket, besides a half
one, and some loose silver, and feared not to encounter the gaze of any
waiter or landlord in the land.  "Send boots!" I roared to the waiter, as
I flung myself down in an arm-chair in a magnificent coffee-room.  "What
the deuce are you staring at? send boots can't you, and ask what I can
have for dinner."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter, and with a low bow departed.

"These boots are rather dusty," said the boots, a grey-haired,
venerable-looking man, after he had taken off my thick, solid,
square-toed boots.  "I suppose you came walking from the railroad?"

"Confound the railroad!" said I.  "I came walking from Bangor.  I would
have you know that I have money in my pocket, and can afford to walk.  I
am fond of the beauties of nature; now it is impossible to see much of
the beauties of nature unless you walk.  I am likewise fond of poetry,
and take especial delight in inspecting the birth-places and haunts of
poets.  It is because I am fond of poetry, poets and their haunts, that I
am come to Anglesey.  Anglesey does not abound in the beauties of nature,
but there never was such a place for poets; you meet a poet, or the
birth-place of a poet, everywhere."

"Did your honour ever hear of Gronwy Owen?" said the old man.

"I have," I replied, "and yesterday I visited his birth-place; so you
have heard of Gronwy Owen?"

"Heard of him, your honour; yes, and read his works.  That 'Cowydd y
Farn' of his is a wonderful poem."

"You say right," said I; "the 'Cowydd of Judgment' contains some of the
finest things ever written--that description of the toppling down of the
top crag of Snowdon, at the day of Judgment, beats anything in Homer."

"Then there was Lewis Morris, your honour," said the old man, "who gave
Gronwy his education and wrote 'The Lasses of Meirion'--and--"

"And 'The Cowydd to the Snail,'" said I, interrupting him--"a wonderful
man he was."

"I am rejoiced to see your honour in our house," said boots; "I never saw
an English gentleman before who knew so much about Welsh poetry, nor a
Welsh one either.  Ah, if your honour is fond of poets and their places
you did right to come to Anglesey--and your honour was right in saying
that you can't stir a step without meeting one; you have an example of
the truth of that in me--for to tell your honour the truth, I am a poet
myself, and no bad one either."

Then tucking the dusty boots under his arm, the old man with a low
congee, and a "Good-night, your honour!" shuffled out of the room.




CHAPTER XL


Caer Gyby--Lewis Morris--Noble Character.

I dined or rather supped well at the Railroad Inn--I beg its pardon,
Hotel, for the word Inn at the present day is decidedly vulgar.  I
likewise slept well; how could I do otherwise, passing the night, as I
did, in an excellent bed in a large, cool, quiet room?  I arose rather
late, went down to the coffee-room and took my breakfast leisurely, after
which I paid my bill and strolled forth to observe the wonders of the
place.

Caer Gybi or Cybi's town is situated on the southern side of a bay on the
north-western side of Anglesey.  Close to it on the south-west is a very
high headland called in Welsh Pen Caer Gybi, or the head of Cybi's city,
and in English Holy Head.  On the north, across the bay, is another
mountain of equal altitude, which if I am not mistaken bears in Welsh the
name of Mynydd Llanfair, or Saint Mary's Mount.  It is called Cybi's town
from one Cybi, who about the year 500 built a college here to which
youths noble and ignoble resorted from far and near.  He was a native of
Dyfed or Pembrokeshire, and was a friend and for a long time a
fellow-labourer of Saint David.  Besides being learned, according to the
standard of the time, he was a great walker, and from bronzing his
countenance by frequent walking in the sun was generally called Cybi
Velin, which means tawny or yellow Cybi.

So much for Cybi, and his town!  And now something about one whose memory
haunted me much more than that of Cybi during my stay at Holyhead.

Lewis Morris was born at a place called Tref y Beirdd, in Anglesey, in
the year 1700.  Anglesey, or Mona, has given birth to many illustrious
men, but few, upon the whole, entitled to more honourable mention than
himself.  From a humble situation in life, for he served an
apprenticeship to a cooper at Holyhead, he raised himself by his industry
and talents to affluence and distinction, became a landed proprietor in
the county of Cardigan, and inspector of the royal domains and mines in
Wales.  Perhaps a man more generally accomplished never existed; he was a
first-rate mechanic, an expert navigator, a great musician, both in
theory and practice, and a poet of singular excellence.  Of him it was
said, and with truth, that he could build a ship and sail it, frame a
harp and make it speak, write an ode and set it to music.  Yet that
saying, eulogistic as it is, is far from expressing all the vast powers
and acquirements of Lewis Morris.  Though self-taught, he was confessedly
the best Welsh scholar of his age, and was well-versed in those cognate
dialects of the Welsh--the Cornish, Armoric, Highland Gaelic and Irish.
He was likewise well acquainted with Hebrew, Greek and Latin, had studied
Anglo-Saxon with some success, and was a writer of bold and vigorous
English.  He was besides a good general antiquary, and for knowledge of
ancient Welsh customs, traditions, and superstitions, had no equal.  Yet
all has not been said which can be uttered in his praise; he had
qualities of mind which entitled him to higher esteem than any
accomplishment connected with intellect or skill.  Amongst these were his
noble generosity and sacrifice of self for the benefit of others.  Weeks
and months he was in the habit of devoting to the superintendence of the
affairs of the widow and fatherless: one of his principal delights was to
assist merit, to bring it before the world and to procure for it its
proper estimation: it was he who first discovered the tuneful genius of
blind Parry; it was he who first put the harp into his hand; it was he
who first gave him scientific instruction; it was he who cheered him with
encouragement and assisted him with gold.  It was he who instructed the
celebrated Evan Evans in the ancient language of Wales, enabling that
talented but eccentric individual to read the pages of the Red Book of
Hergest as easily as those of the Welsh Bible; it was he who corrected
his verses with matchless skill, refining and polishing them till they
became well worthy of being read by posterity; it was he who gave him
advice, which, had it been followed, would have made the Prydydd Hir, as
he called himself, one of the most illustrious Welshmen of the last
century; and it was he who first told his countrymen that there was a
youth of Anglesey whose genius, if properly encouraged, promised fair to
rival that of Milton: one of the most eloquent letters ever written is
one by him, in which he descants upon the beauties of certain poems of
Gronwy Owen, the latent genius of whose early boyhood he had observed,
whom he had clothed, educated and assisted up to the period when he was
ordained a minister of the Church, and whom he finally rescued from a
state bordering on starvation in London, procuring for him an honourable
appointment in the New World.  Immortality to Lewis Morris!  But
immortality he has won, even as his illustrious pupil has said, who in
his elegy upon his benefactor, written in America, in the four-and-twenty
measures, at a time when Gronwy had not heard the Welsh language spoken
for more than twenty years, has words to the following effect:--

    "As long as Bardic lore shall last, science and learning be
    cherished, the language and blood of the Britons undefiled, song be
    heard on Parnassus, heaven and earth be in existence, foam be on the
    surge, and water in the river, the name of Lewis of Mon shall be held
    in grateful remembrance."




CHAPTER XLI


The Pier--Irish Reapers--Wild Irish Face--Father Toban--The Herd of
Swine--Latin Blessing.

The day was as hot as the preceding one.  I walked slowly towards the
west, and presently found myself upon a pier, or breakwater, at the mouth
of the harbour.  A large steamer lay at a little distance within the
pier.  There were fishing-boats on both sides, the greater number on the
outer side, which lies towards the hill of Holy Head.  On the shady side
of the breakwater under the wall were two or three dozen of Irish
reapers; some were lying asleep, others in parties of two or three were
seated with their backs against the wall, and were talking Irish; these
last all appeared to be well-made middle-sized young fellows, with rather
a ruffianly look; they stared at me as I passed.  The whole party had
shillealahs either in their hands or by their sides.  I went to the
extremity of the pier, where was a little lighthouse, and then turned
back.  As I again drew near the Irish, I heard a hubbub and observed a
great commotion amongst them.  All, whether those whom I had seen
sitting, or those whom I had seen reclining, had got, or were getting on
their legs.  As I passed them they were all standing up, and their eyes
were fixed upon me with a strange kind of expression, partly of wonder,
methought, partly of respect.  "Yes, 'tis he, sure enough," I heard one
whisper.  On I went, and at about thirty yards from the last I stopped,
turned round and leaned against the wall.  All the Irish were looking at
me--presently they formed into knots and began to discourse very eagerly
in Irish, though in an undertone.  At length I observed a fellow going
from one knot to the other, exchanging a few words with each.  After he
had held communication with all he nodded his head, and came towards me
with a quick step; the rest stood silent and motionless with their eyes
turned in the direction in which I was, and in which he was advancing.
He stopped within a yard of me and took off his hat.  He was an athletic
fellow of about twenty-eight, dressed in brown frieze.  His features were
swarthy, and his eyes black; in every lineament of his countenance was a
jumble of savagery and roguishness.  I never saw a more genuine wild
Irish face--there he stood looking at me full in the face, his hat in one
hand and his shillealah in the other.

"Well, what do you want?" said I, after we had stared at each other about
half a minute.

"Sure, I'm just come on the part of the boys and myself to beg a bit of a
favour of your reverence."

"Reverence," said I, "what do you mean by styling me reverence?"

"Och sure, because to be styled your reverence is the right of your
reverence."

"Pray what do you take me for?"

"Och sure, we knows your reverence very well."

"Well, who am I?"

"Och, why Father Toban to be sure."

"And who knows me to be Father Toban?"

"Och, a boy here knows your reverence to be Father Toban."

"Where is that boy?"

"Here he stands, your reverence."

"Are you that boy?"

"I am, your reverence."

"And you told the rest that I was Father Toban?"

"I did, your reverence."

"And you know me to be Father Toban?"

"I do, your reverence."

"How do you know me to be Father Toban?"

"Och, why because many's the good time that I have heard your reverence,
Father Toban, say mass."

"And what is it you want me to do?"

"Why, see here, your reverence, we are going to embark in the dirty
steamer yonder for ould Ireland, which starts as soon as the tide serves,
and we want your reverence to bless us before we goes."

"You want me to bless you?"

"We do, your reverence, we want you to spit out a little bit of a
blessing upon us before we goes on board."

"And what good would my blessing do you?"

"All kinds of good, your reverence; it would prevent the dirty steamer
from catching fire, your reverence, or from going down, your reverence,
or from running against the blackguard Hill of Howth in the mist,
provided there should be one."

"And suppose I were to tell you that I am not Father Toban?"

"Och, your reverence, will never think of doing that."

"Would you believe me if I did?"

"We would not, your reverence."

"If I were to swear that I am not Father Toban?"

"We would not, your reverence."

"On the evangiles?"

"We would not, your reverence."

"On the Cross?"

"We would not, your reverence."

"And suppose I were to refuse to give you a blessing?"

"Och, your reverence will never refuse to bless the poor boys."

"But suppose I were to refuse?"

"Why, in such a case, which by-the-bye is altogether impossible, we
should just make bould to give your reverence a good big bating."

"You would break my head?"

"We would, your reverence."

"Kill me?"

"We would, your reverence."

"You would really put me to death?"

"We would not, your reverence."

"And what's the difference between killing and putting to death?"

"Och, sure there's all the difference in the world.  Killing manes only a
good big bating, such as every Irishman is used to, and which your
reverence would get over long before matins, whereas putting your
reverence to death would prevent your reverence from saying mass for ever
and a day."

"And you are determined on having a blessing?"

"We are, your reverence."

"By hook or by crook?"

"By crook or by hook, your reverence."

"Before I bless you, will you answer me a question or two?"

"I will, your reverence."

"Are you not a set of great big blackguards?"

"We are, your reverence."

"Without one good quality?"

"We are, your reverence."

"Would it not be quite right to saddle and bridle you all, and ride you
violently down Holyhead or the Giant's Causeway into the waters, causing
you to perish there, like the herd of swine of old?"

"It would, your reverence."

"And knowing and confessing all this, you have the cheek to come and ask
me for a blessing?"

"We have, your reverence."

"Well, how shall I give the blessing?"

"Och, sure your reverence knows very well how to give it."

"Shall I give it in Irish?"

"Och, no, your reverence--a blessing in Irish is no blessing at all."

"In English?"

"Och, murder, no, your reverence, God preserve us all from an English
blessing!"

"In Latin?"

"Yes, sure, your reverence; in what else should you bless us but in holy
Latin?"

"Well then prepare yourselves."

"We will, your reverence--stay one moment whilst I whisper to the boys
that your reverence is about to bestow your blessing upon us."

Then turning to the rest who all this time had kept their eyes fixed
intently upon us, he bellowed with the voice of a bull:

"Down on your marrow bones, ye sinners, for his reverence Toban is about
to bless us all in holy Latin."

He then flung himself on his knees on the pier, and all his countrymen,
baring their heads, followed his example--yes, there knelt thirty
bare-headed Eirionaich on the pier of Caer Gybi beneath the broiling sun.
I gave them the best Latin blessing I could remember, out of two or three
which I had got by memory out of an old Popish book of devotion, which I
bought in my boyhood at a stall.  Then turning to the deputy I said,
"Well, now are you satisfied?"

"Sure, I have a right to be satisfied, your reverence; and so have we
all--sure we can now all go on board the dirty steamer, without fear of
fire or water, or the blackguard Hill of Howth either."

"Then get up, and tell the rest to get up, and please to know and let the
rest know, that I do not choose to receive farther trouble, either by
word or look, from any of ye, as long as I remain here."

"Your reverence shall be obeyed in all things," said the fellow, getting
up.  Then walking away to his companions he cried, "Get up, boys, and
plase to know that his reverence Toban is not to be farther troubled by
being looked at or spoken to by any one of us as long as he remains upon
this dirty pier."

"Divil a bit farther trouble shall he have from us!" exclaimed many a
voice, as the rest of the party arose from their knees.

In half a minute they disposed themselves in much the same manner as that
in which they were when I first saw them--some flung themselves again to
sleep under the wall, some seated themselves with their backs against it,
and laughed and chatted, but without taking any notice of me; those who
sat and chatted took, or appeared to take, as little notice as those who
lay and slept of his reverence Father Toban.




CHAPTER XLII


Gage of Suffolk--Fellow in a Turban--Town of Holyhead--Father Boots--An
Expedition--Holy Head and Finisterrae--Gryffith ab Cynan--The Fairies'
Well.

Leaving the pier I turned up a street to the south, and was not long
before I arrived at a kind of market-place, where were carts and stalls,
and on the ground, on cloths, apples and plums, and abundance of
greengages,--the latter, when good, decidedly the finest fruit in the
world, a fruit, for the introduction of which into England, the English
have to thank one Gage of an ancient Suffolk family, at present extinct,
after whose name the fruit derives the latter part of its appellation.
Strolling about the market-place I came in contact with a fellow dressed
in a turban and dirty blue linen robes and trowsers.  He bore a bundle of
papers in his hand, one of which he offered to me.  I asked him who he
was.

"Arap," he replied.

He had a dark, cunning, roguish countenance, with small eyes, and had all
the appearance of a Jew.  I spoke to him in what Arabic I could command
on a sudden, and he jabbered to me in a corrupt dialect, giving me a
confused account of a captivity which he had undergone amidst savage
Mahometans.  At last I asked him what religion he was of.

"The Christian," he replied.

"Have you ever been of the Jewish?" said I.

He returned no answer save by a grin.

I took the paper, gave him a penny, and then walked away.  The paper
contained an account in English of how the bearer, the son of Christian
parents, had been carried into captivity by two Mahometan merchants, a
father and son, from whom he had escaped with the greatest difficulty.

"Pretty fools," said I, "must any people have been who ever stole you;
but oh what fools if they wished to keep you after they had got you!"

The paper was stuffed with religious and anti-slavery cant, and merely
wanted a little of the teetotal nonsense to be a perfect specimen of
humbug.

I strolled forward, encountering more carts and more heaps of greengages;
presently I turned to the right by a street, which led some way up the
hill.  The houses were tolerably large and all white.  The town, with its
white houses placed by the seaside, on the skirt of a mountain, beneath a
blue sky and a broiling sun, put me something in mind of a Moorish
piratical town, in which I had once been.  Becoming soon tired of walking
about, without any particular aim, in so great a heat, I determined to
return to the inn, call for ale, and deliberate on what I had best next
do.  So I returned and called for ale.  The ale which was brought was not
ale which I am particularly fond of.  The ale which I am fond of is ale
about nine or ten months old, somewhat hard, tasting well of malt and
little of the hop--ale such as farmers, and noblemen too, of the good old
time, when farmers' daughters did not play on pianos and noblemen did not
sell their game, were in the habit of offering to both high and low, and
drinking themselves.  The ale which was brought me was thin washy stuff,
which though it did not taste much of hop, tasted still less of malt,
made and sold by one Allsopp, who I am told calls himself a squire and a
gentleman--as he certainly may with quite as much right as many a lord
calls himself a nobleman and a gentleman; for surely it is not a fraction
more trumpery to make and sell ale than to fatten and sell game.  The ale
of the Saxon squire, for Allsopp is decidedly an old Saxon name, however
unakin to the practice of old Saxon squires the selling of ale may be,
was drinkable for it was fresh, and the day, as I have said before,
exceedingly hot; so I took frequent draughts out of the shining metal
tankard in which it was brought, deliberating both whilst drinking, and
in the intervals of drinking, on what I had next best do.  I had some
thoughts of crossing to the northern side of the bay, then, bearing the
north-east, wend my way to Amlwch, follow the windings of the sea-shore
to Mathafarn eithaf and Pentraeth Coch, and then return to Bangor, after
which I could boast that I had walked round the whole of Anglesey, and
indeed trodden no inconsiderable part of the way twice.  Before coming,
however, to any resolution, I determined to ask the advice of my friend
the boots on the subject.  So I finished my ale, and sent word by the
waiter that I wished to speak to him; he came forthwith, and after
communicating my deliberations to him in a few words I craved his
counsel.  The old man, after rubbing his right forefinger behind his
right ear for about a quarter of a minute, inquired if I meant to return
to Bangor, and on my telling him that it would be necessary for me to do
so, as I intended to walk back to Llangollen by Caernarvon and Beth
Gelert, strongly advised me to return to Bangor by the railroad train,
which would start at seven in the evening, and would convey me thither in
an hour and a half.  I told him that I hated railroads, and received for
answer that he had no particular liking for them himself, but that he
occasionally made use of them on a pinch, and supposed that I likewise
did the same.  I then observed, that if I followed his advice I should
not see the north side of the island nor its principal town Amlwch, and
received for answer that if I never did, the loss would not be
great--that as for Amlwch it was a poor poverty-stricken place--the inn a
shabby affair--the master a very so-so individual, and the boots a fellow
without either wit or literature.  That upon the whole he thought I might
be satisfied with what I had seen for after having visited Owen Tudor's
tomb, Caer Gybi and his hotel, I had in fact seen the cream of Mona.  I
then said that I had one objection to make, which was that I really did
not know how to employ the time till seven o'clock, for that I had seen
all about the town.

"But has your honour ascended the Head?" demanded Father Boots.

"No," said I; "I have not."

"Then," said he, "I will soon find your honour ways and means to spend
the time agreeably till the starting of the train.  Your honour shall
ascend the Head under the guidance of my nephew, a nice intelligent lad,
your honour, and always glad to earn a shilling or two.  By the time your
honour has seen all the wonders of the Head and returned, it will be five
o'clock.  Your honour can then dine, and after dinner trifle away the
minutes over your wine or brandy-and-water till seven, when your honour
can step into a first-class for Bangor."

I was struck with the happy manner in which he had removed the difficulty
in question, and informed him that I was determined to follow his advice.
He hurried away, and presently returned with his nephew, to whom I
offered half-a-crown provided he would show me all about Pen Caer Gyby.
He accepted my offer with evident satisfaction, and we lost no time in
setting out upon our expedition.

We had to pass over a great deal of broken ground, sometimes ascending,
sometimes descending, before we found ourselves upon the side of what may
actually be called the headland.  Shaping our course westward we came to
the vicinity of a lighthouse standing on the verge of a precipice, the
foot of which was washed by the sea.

Leaving the lighthouse on our right we followed a steep winding path
which at last brought us to the top of the pen or summit, rising,
according to the judgment which I formed, about six hundred feet from the
surface of the sea.  Here was a level spot some twenty yards across, in
the middle of which stood a heap of stones or cairn.  I asked the lad
whether this cairn bore a name, and received for answer that it was
generally called Bar-cluder y Cawr Glas, words which seem to signify the
top heap of the Grey Giant.

"Some king, giant, or man of old renown lies buried beneath this cairn,"
said I.  "Whoever he may be, I trust he will excuse me for mounting it,
seeing that I do so with no disrespectful spirit."  I then mounted the
cairn, exclaiming:--

    "Who lies 'neath the cairn on the headland hoar,
    His hand yet holding his broad claymore,
    Is it Beli, the son of Benlli Gawr?"

There stood I on the cairn of the Grey Giant, looking around me.  The
prospect, on every side, was noble: the blue interminable sea to the west
and north; the whole stretch of Mona to the east; and far away to the
south the mountainous region of Eryri, comprising some of the most
romantic hills in the world.  In some respects this Pen Santaidd, this
holy headland, reminded me of Finisterrae, the Gallegan promontory which
I had ascended some seventeen years before, whilst engaged in battling
the Pope with the sword of the gospel in his favourite territory.  Both
are bold, bluff headlands looking to the west, both have huge rocks in
their vicinity, rising from the bosom of the brine.  For a time, as I
stood on the cairn, I almost imagined myself on the Gallegan hill; much
the same scenery presented itself as there, and a sun equally fierce
struck upon my head as that which assailed it on the Gallegan hill.  For
a time all my thoughts were of Spain.  It was not long, however, before I
bethought me that my lot was now in a different region, that I had done
with Spain for ever, after doing for her all that lay in the power of a
lone man, who had never in this world anything to depend upon, but God
and his own slight strength.  Yes, I had done with Spain, and was now in
Wales; and, after a slight sigh, my thoughts became all intensely Welsh.
I thought on the old times when Mona was the grand seat of Druidical
superstition, when adoration was paid to Dwy Fawr, and Dwy Fach, the sole
survivors of the apocryphal Deluge; to Hu the Mighty and his plough; to
Ceridwen and her cauldron; to Andras the Horrible; to Wyn ab Nudd, Lord
of Unknown, and to Beli, Emperor of the Sun.  I thought on the times when
the Beal fire blazed on this height, on the neighbouring promontory, on
the cope-stone of Eryri, and on every high hill throughout Britain on the
eve of the first of May.  I thought on the day when the bands of
Suetonius crossed the Menai strait in their broad-bottomed boats, fell
upon the Druids and their followers, who with wild looks and brandished
torches lined the shore, slew hundreds with merciless butchery upon the
plains, and pursued the remainder to the remotest fastnesses of the isle.
I figured to myself long-bearded men with white vestments toiling up the
rocks, followed by fierce warriors with glittering helms and short broad
two-edged swords; I thought I heard groans, cries of rage, and the dull,
awful sound of bodies precipitated down rocks.  Then as I looked towards
the sea I thought I saw the fleet of Gryffith Ab Cynan steering from
Ireland to Aber Menai, Gryffith, the son of a fugitive king, born in
Ireland, in the Commot of Columbcille, Gryffith the frequently baffled,
the often victorious; once a manacled prisoner sweating in the sun, in
the market-place of Chester, eventually king of North Wales; Gryffith,
who "though he loved well the trumpet's clang loved the sound of the harp
better"; who led on his warriors to twenty-four battles, and presided
over the composition of the twenty-four measures of Cambrian song.  Then
I thought--.  But I should tire the reader were I to detail all the
intensely Welsh thoughts which crowded into my head as I stood on the
Cairn of the Grey Giant.

Satiated with looking about and thinking, I sprang from the cairn and
rejoined my guide.  We now descended the eastern side of the hill till we
came to a singular looking stone, which had much the appearance of a
Druid's stone.  I inquired of my guide whether there was any tale
connected with this stone.

"None," he replied; "but I have heard people say that it was a strange
stone, and on that account I brought you to look at it."

A little farther down he showed me part of a ruined wall.

"What name does this bear?" said I.

"Clawdd yr Afalon," he replied.  "The dyke of the orchard."

"A strange place for an orchard," I replied.  "If there was ever an
orchard on this bleak hill, the apples must have been very sour."

Over rocks and stones we descended till we found ourselves on a road, not
very far from the shore, on the south-east side of the hill.

"I am very thirsty," said I, as I wiped the perspiration from my face;
"how I should like now to drink my fill of cool spring water."

"If your honour is inclined for water," said my guide, "I can take you to
the finest spring in all Wales."

"Pray do so," said I, "for I really am dying of thirst."

"It is on our way to the town," said the lad, "and is scarcely a hundred
yards off."

He then led me to the fountain.  It was a little well under a stone wall,
on the left side of the way.  It might be about two feet deep, was fenced
with rude stones, and had a bottom of sand.

"There," said the lad, "is the fountain.  It is called the Fairies' Well,
and contains the best water in Wales."

I lay down and drank.  Oh, what water was that of the Fairies' Well!  I
drank and drank, and thought I could never drink enough of that delicious
water; the lad all the time saying that I need not be afraid to drink, as
the water of the Fairies' Well had never done harm to anybody.  At length
I got up, and standing by the fountain repeated the lines of a bard on a
spring, not of a Welsh but a Gaelic bard, which are perhaps the finest
lines ever composed on the theme.  Yet MacIntyre, for such was his name,
was like myself an admirer of good ale, to say nothing of whiskey, and
loved to indulge in it at a proper time and place.  But there is a time
and place for everything, and sometimes the warmest admirer of ale would
prefer the lymph of the hill-side fountain to the choicest ale that ever
foamed in tankard from the cellars of Holkham.  Here are the lines most
faithfully rendered:--

    "The wild wine of nature,
    Honey-like in its taste,
    The genial, fair, thin element
    Filtering through the sands,
    Which is sweeter than cinnamon,
    And is well known to us hunters.
    O, that eternal, healing draught,
    Which comes from under the earth,
    Which contains abundance of good
    And costs no money!"

Returning to the hotel I satisfied my guide and dined.  After dinner I
trifled agreeably with my brandy-and-water till it was near seven
o'clock, when I paid my bill, thought of the waiter and did not forget
Father Boots.  I then took my departure, receiving and returning bows,
and walking to the station got into a first-class carriage and soon found
myself at Bangor.




CHAPTER XLIII


The Inn at Bangor--Port Dyn Norwig--Sea Serpent--Thoroughly Welsh
Place--Blessing of Health.

I went to the same inn at Bangor at which I had been before.  It was
Saturday night and the house was thronged with people who had arrived by
train from Manchester and Liverpool, with the intention of passing the
Sunday in the Welsh town.  I took tea in an immense dining or ball-room,
which was, however, so crowded with guests that its walls literally
sweated.  Amidst the multitude I felt quite solitary--my beloved ones had
departed for Llangollen, and there was no one with whom I could exchange
a thought or a word of kindness.  I addressed several individuals, and in
every instance repented; from some I got no answers, from others what was
worse than no answers at all--in every countenance near me suspicion,
brutality, or conceit, was most legibly imprinted--I was not amongst
Welsh, but the scum of manufacturing England.

Every bed in the house was engaged--the people of the house, however,
provided me a bed at a place which they called the cottage, on the side
of a hill in the outskirts of the town.  There I passed the night
comfortably enough.  At about eight in the morning I arose, returned to
the inn, breakfasted, and departed for Beth Gelert by way of Caernarvon.

It was Sunday, and I had originally intended to pass the day at Bangor,
and to attend divine service twice at the Cathedral, but I found myself
so very uncomfortable, owing to the crowd of interlopers, that I
determined to proceed on my journey without delay; making up my mind,
however, to enter the first church I should meet in which service was
being performed; for it is really not good to travel on the Sunday
without going into a place of worship.

The day was sunny and fiercely hot, as all the days had lately been.  In
about an hour I arrived at Port Dyn Norwig: it stood on the right side of
the road.  The name of this place, which I had heard from the coachman
who drove my family and me to Caernarvon and Llanberis a few days before,
had excited my curiosity with respect to it, as it signifies the Port of
the Norway man, so I now turned aside to examine it.  "No doubt," said I
to myself, "the place derives its name from the piratical Danes and Norse
having resorted to it in the old time."  Port Dyn Norwig seems to consist
of a creek, a staithe, and about a hundred houses: a few small vessels
were lying at the staithe.  I stood about ten minutes upon it staring
about, and then feeling rather oppressed by the heat of the sun, I bent
my way to a small house which bore a sign, and from which a loud noise of
voices proceeded.  "Have you good ale?" said I in English to a
good-looking buxom dame of about forty, whom I saw in the passage.

She looked at me but returned no answer.

"Oes genoch cwrw da?" said I.

"Oes!" she replied with a smile, and opening the door of a room on the
left-hand bade me walk in.

I entered the room; six or seven men, seemingly sea-faring people, were
seated drinking and talking vociferously in Welsh.  Their conversation
was about the sea-serpent: some believed in the existence of such a
thing, others did not.  After a little time one said, "Let us ask this
gentleman for his opinion."