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Title: Wild Wales - The People, Laguage & Scenery
Author: Borrow, George Henry, 1803-1881
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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Transcribed from the June 1906 J. M. Dent edition by David Price, email

                               WILD WALES:
                               _The_ PEOPLE
                                & SCENERY

                             by GEORGE BORROW


                         TALK ABOUT “WILD WALES”
                          THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON


I have been invited by the editor of this series to say a few words upon
Borrow’s “Wild Wales.”  The invitation has come to me, he says, partly
because during the latter days of Borrow’s life I had the privilege as a
very young man of enjoying his friendship, and partly because in my
story, “Aylwin,” and in my poem, “The Coming of Love,” I have shown
myself to be a true lover of Wales—a true lover, indeed, of most things

Let me begin by saying that although the book is an entirely worthy
compeer of “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” and although like them it is
written in the autobiographic form, it belongs, as I propose to show
further on, to an entirely different form of narrative from those two
famous books.  And it differs in this respect even from “The Bible in
Spain.”  Unlike that splendid book, it is just a simple, uncoloured
record of a walking tour through the Principality.  As in any other
itinerary, events in “Wild Wales” are depicted as they actually occurred,
enriched by none of that glamour in which Borrow loved to disport
himself.  I remember once asking him why in this book he wrote an
autobiographic narrative so fundamentally different from “Lavengro” and
“The Romany Rye”—why he had made in this book none of those excursions
into the realms of fancy which form so charming a part of his famous
quasi-autobiographic narratives.  It was entirely characteristic of him
that he remained silent as he walked rather sulkily by my side.  To find
an answer to the queries, however, is not very difficult.  Making a tour
as he did on this occasion in the company of eye-witnesses—eye-witnesses
of an extremely different temper from his own, eye-witnesses, moreover,
whom he specially wished to satisfy and please—his wife and
stepdaughter—he found it impossible to indulge in his bohemian
proclivities and equally impossible to give his readers any of those
romantic coincidences, those quaint arrangements of incidents to
illustrate theories of life, which illuminate his other works.  The tour
was made in the summer and autumn of 1854; during the two or three years
following, he seems to have been working upon this record of it.  The
book was announced for publication in 1857, but it was not until 1862
that his publisher, who had been so greatly disappointed by the reception
given to “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” took courage to offer it to the


In 1860 Borrow’s interest in Wales and Welsh literature had specially
been shown by the publication of his English version of “Gweledigaethau y
Bardd Cwsg,” a curious kind of allegory in the form of a vision, written
in the early years of the eighteenth century by a Welsh clergyman named
Ellis Wynne.  The English reader of Borrow’s works will remember the
allusion made to this book.  As might have been expected, Borrow’s
translation of this Welsh prose classic is not very trustworthy, and it
has been superseded by the translation of Mr. R. Gwyneddon Davies,
published in 1897.  A characteristic matter connected with Borrow’s
translation is that in the _Quarterly Review_ for January 1861 he himself
reviewed it anonymously, and not without appreciation of its merits—a
method which may be recommended to those authors who are not in sympathy
with their reviewers.  The article showed a great deal of what may be
called Borrovian knowledge of the Welsh language and Welsh literature,
and perhaps it is not ungenerous to say a good deal of Borrovian
ignorance too.  For never was Nature’s love of whim in the fashioning of
individuals more delightfully exemplified than in the case of Borrow’s
irresistible desire for scholarship.  Nothing whatever had he of the
temperament of the true scholar—nothing whatever of the philologist’s
endowment, and yet to be recognized as a scholar was the great ambitious
dream of his life.  I wish I had time to compare his disquisitions upon
the Welsh language and literature in this article with a very rare little
book on the same subject, the “Sketch of the History of the Welsh
Language and Literature,” by a remarkable man as entirely forgotten now
as Borrow is well remembered—Thomas Watts of the British Museum.  In the
one case we get nebulous speculation and fanciful induction based upon
Borrovian knowledge; in the other, a solid mass of real learning
accompanied by the smallest possible amount of speculation or fanciful

Borrow had a certain something of Mezzofanti’s prodigious memory for
words, accompanied by the great Italian’s lack of philological science.
It may be remembered in this connection that Mr. Thomas St. E. Hake in
his reminiscences in _Notes and Queries_ of a relation of mine, the late
Mr. James Orlando Watts, says that the learned recluse used to express a
good deal of humorous contempt of Borrow’s “method of learning languages
from dictionaries only,” without any grammatical knowledge.  And these
strictures, if we consider them, will explain much in regard to the
philological disquisitions in “Lavengro,” “The Romany Rye,” and “Wild
Wales,” where the knowledge is all “dictionary knowledge.”  But it was
not the shaky philology that caused “Wild Wales” to fall almost dead from
the press.  What, then, was the cause?  It arose from the fact, as I
hinted above, that “Wild Wales” belongs to a different kind of
autobiographic narrative from “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” and also,
if the truth must be said, from “The Bible in Spain.”

At the period when Borrow wrote this book the great and vigorous
renascence of the Cymric idea, the new and deep interest that Welshmen
are now taking in the preservation of the Welsh tongue, had not begun.
That Borrow did not live to this day, when Welsh is much more spoken
among the cultivated class than in his time, is to be lamented.  With
regard to this revival, whatever may become of it (whether the Welsh
language can really be made to survive in the great linguistic struggle
for life, which will be one of the principal features of the twentieth
century), no one will deny that it is a language which from the poetic
side as well as from the historic ought to survive.  If I tread here upon
dangerous ground, I may yet venture to say that one great obstacle
against the spread of the Welsh language beyond Wales is the strange
orthography.  It is difficult for a person unacquainted with Welsh to
believe that the sounds represented by such awkward arrangements of
consonants as Welsh displays are otherwise than unmusical.  And yet as a
matter of fact those sounds are very musical.  It may be remarked here
that there is another language spoken in Europe which suffers from the
same misfortune in regard to phonetics—the Magyar language.  I have
elsewhere in a novel, whose scene is partly laid in Hungary, made a
character speak of the disappointment expressed by the traveller in
Central Europe, when crossing the Austrian frontier into Hungary by rail,
at the sight of the Hungarian names with which the stations become
suddenly placarded.  German is an ugly-looking language enough, but in
this respect it is nothing to the Hungarian.  And yet it would be hard to
find in the whole of Europe a more musical tongue than that which is
represented by the uncouth consonantal syllables.  It is not a little
striking too that between the Cymric race and the Magyar race there are
many points of likeness; one of these is the intense love of music
displayed by the two, another is the blending of poetic imagination with
practical sagacity.  The Magyars have been called a race of lawyers, but
their love of law-points and litigation is not greater than that of the
Welsh, and yet how poetical is each race to the core!

With regard to languages—to survive will in the present century mean to
spread.  Languages that do not spread will be crushed out.  People who
talk glibly about the vast expansion of the English language all over the
world do not seem to realize that it is not the excellence of a tongue
which makes it survive and causes it to spread over the earth, but the
energy, military or commercial, of the people who speak it.  It is not
the excellence of the tongue of Shakespeare and Milton that has carried
it all round the globe, but the busy energy of the commonplace people who
migrated for the most commonplace ends imaginable, and took the language
with them, and then increased and multiplied, building up new
English-speaking communities.  It is for this reason that the English
language seems destined to become, if not the “universal language,” at
least the _lingua franca_ of the world.  And nothing is more pathetic
than to observe the dread among Continental nations that this will be the
case in the future; and nothing is more humorous than the passionate
attempts to invent artificial languages, Volapük, Esperanto and what not,
to do the work that the English language is already doing all over the
sea, and will, apparently, soon be doing all over the land.

I dwell here upon this interesting subject in order to say that if Welsh
does not survive it will not be because it is not a fine language, but
simply because Destiny has decreed that it shall share the fate of many
another language spoken at present much more widely than Welsh.


In speaking of any one of Borrow’s books it is always necessary to say a
good deal about Borrow as a man.  Besides being the very child of
Nature’s fantasy, he was the prince of literary egotists.  Everything in
human life and everything in nature upon which he looked was enveloped in
a coloured atmosphere shed by the eccentric ego.  That his love of Wales
was genuine there can be no doubt whatever.  For this there was perhaps a
very special reason—a reason quite unrecognized by himself.  I have
somewhere—but I forget where—remarked upon a curious and common mistake
in regard to Borrow—I mean the mistake of speaking of him as an East
Anglian.  Very gratifying was this mistake to Borrow himself.  When
walking with me in Richmond Park, or elsewhere, he would frequently stop,
look round and murmur, “Beautiful England!” and then begin to declare
eloquently that there was not in the world a country to be compared with
it, and that the race which lived in this beloved land was equally
incomparable in most things, especially in what he valued so
much—athleticism in all its forms.  This was merely because England was
his place of birth.  Born in East Anglia he was, to be sure; but Dr.
Johnson long ago held to the opinion that a man born in a stable need not
necessarily be described as a horse.  When a man’s father is pure Cornish
(Celtic) and when his mother is mainly French, the fact of his having
been born in Norfolk is not enough to make him an East Anglian.  By an
accident the regiment to which his father belonged was located in Norfolk
at the time of his birth, just as by an accident it might have been
located in Ireland or Scotland.  In either of these cases he would have
been George Borrow the Celt, or rather, George Borrow the Unique, but not
a Scotsman—not an Irishman.  It is the blood in a man’s veins, it is not
the spot in which he is born, that decides the question of his race.
Does one call the daughters of the Irishman, Patrick Bronte, who were
Celtic to the marrow, Yorkshire girls because they were born at Thornton?
Does one call Mr. Swinburne a Londoner because he, a Northumbrian by a
long line of ancestors, chanced to be born within a stone’s-throw of
Belgrave Square?  Does one call the Rossettis Londoners, because it was
in London, and not in Italy, that they were born?  To imagine any man
more Celtic than Borrow is impossible.  Not a single East Anglian
characteristic exhibited by him do I remember—except perhaps his Norfolk
accent, and his very worthy and exemplary passion for “boiled leg of
mutton with turnips and caper sauce,” which he pronounced to be “food for
the gods.”  It was his own way of writing and talking about himself,
however, that fostered if it did not originate the conception that Borrow
was an East Anglian.  There is no more unreasonable, as there is no more
winsome, trait in human nature than the form of egotism which I will call
provincial patriotism—a quality of which Borrow was so full.  No matter
what unlovely spot in any country had given Borrow birth, it would have
become in his eyes sanctified because of the all-important fact that it
gave birth to George Borrow, the “word-master.”  Rest assured that had he
been a fenman he would have been as proud of his treeless, black-earthed
fen as he would have been proud of the Swiss mountains had his birthplace
chanced to be Switzerland.  Rest assured that had he been born upon the
barren soil of Damaraland he would have been proud of his desert, as
proud as he would have been of any hilly district that had chanced to
have the honour of giving him birth.  But being born in East Anglia, to
feel that he was the typical Anglo-Saxon of all Anglo-Saxons around him,
gave him a mighty joy.  At “The Bald-faced Stag” his eloquent addresses,
to me and the little band of friends who loved him, about Norfolk ale
were inspired by the same cause.  Compared to that East Anglian nectar
all other nectars were “swipes.”  I know East Anglia well; few men know
it better—few men love it better.  I say emphatically that a man more out
of sympathy with the East Anglian temperament never lived than he who
wished to be taken, and was taken, as the representative East Anglian.
Moreover, one very potent reason why he was such a failure in Norfolk—one
very potent reason why he was such a failure in his contact with the
Anglo-Saxon race generally—was this: he was a Celtic duckling hatched at
Dereham, who took himself for a veritable Norfolk chicken.  It is no
wonder, therefore, that, without knowing it, his sympathy with the Celt,
especially the Cymric Celt, which he himself fully believed to be
philological, was racial.

The scenery of Wales had a very especial appeal for him, and no wonder;
for there is nothing like it in the world.  Although I am familiar with
the Alps and the other mountain ranges of Europe in their wildest and
most beautiful recesses, it is with me as it was with Borrow: no hill
scenery has the peculiar witchery of that around Eryri.  It is unique in
the scenery of Europe.  Grander scenery there is on the Continent, no
doubt—much grander—and scenery more soft and lovely; but none in which
grandeur and loveliness meet and mingle in so fascinating a way as in
Wales.  Moreover, to Borrow, as to all lovers of Wild Wales, beautiful as
its scenery is, it is the romantic associations of that scenery which
form so large a portion of its charm.  For what race in Europe has a
story so poetic, so romantic, so pathetic as the Welsh?  Over every inch
of the Principality hovers that great Spirit who walks the earth hand in
hand with his brother, the Spirit of Poetry, and throws a rainbow
radiance over it—the Spirit of Antiquity.  Upon this Borrow and the
writer of these lines have often talked.  No man ever felt more deeply
than he that part and parcel of the very life of man is the atmosphere in
which the Spirit of Antiquity lives.  Irrational the sentiment about this
Spirit may be, if you will, but stifled it will never be.  Physical
science strengthens rather than weakens the magical glamour of the Spirit
of Antiquity.  Even the most advanced social science, try to hate him as
it may, cannot dim his glory.  To the beloved poet of the
socialists—William Morris—he was as dear, as great and as strong as to
the most conservative poet that has ever lived.  Those who express
wonderment that in these days there should be the old human playthings as
bright and captivating as ever—those who express wonderment at the
survival of all the delightful features of the old European
raree-show—have not realized the power of this Spirit and the power of
the sentiment about him.  What is the use of telling us that even in
Grecian annals there is no kind of heroism recorded which you cannot
match in the histories of modern countries—even of new countries, such as
the United States and the Australias and Canada?  What is the use of
telling us that the travels of Ulysses and of Jason are as nothing in
point of real romance compared with Captain Phillip’s voyage to the other
side of the world, when he led his little convict-laden fleet to Botany
Bay—a bay then as unknown almost as any bay in Laputa—that voyage which
resulted in the founding of a cluster of great nations any one of whose
mammoth millionaires could now buy up Ilium and the golden fleece
combined?  The Spirit of Antiquity knows not that captain, and hence the
Spirit of Poetry has nothing to say about him.  In a thousand years’
time, no doubt, these things may be as ripe for poetic treatment as the
voyage of the Argonauts, or the voyage of the Cymric Prince Madoc, who
the romantic lover of Wales, in spite of the arguments of Thomas
Stephens, will still believe sailed westward with his fleet and
discovered America before Columbus,—returned, and then sailed westward
again into eternity.  Now every peak and cliff of Snowdonia, and every
matchless valley and dale of the land of the Druids, is very specially
beloved by the Spirit of Antiquity.  The land of Druidism—the land of
that mysterious poetic religion which more than any other religion
expresses the very voice of Nature, is the land painted in this
delightful volume—Wild Wales.  Compared with Druidism, all other
religious systems have a sort of commonplace and modern ring, even those
which preceded it by centuries.  The scenic witchery of Wild Wales is
great, no doubt, but it is enormously intensified by the memory of the
heroic struggle of the unconquerable remnant of the ancient Britons with
the brutal, physical power of Roman and Saxon.  The history of Wales is
an epic not to be surpassed for poetry and for romance.  And even these
things did not comprise all the points in connection with Wild Wales that
delighted Borrow.  For when the student of Welsh history and the lover of
Welsh scenery is brought into contact with the contemporary Welsh people,
the charm of the land does not fade, it is not fingered away by personal
contact: it is, indeed, augmented tenfold.  I have in “Aylwin” dwelt upon
the poetry of Welsh common life, the passionate love of the Welsh people
for a tiny strip of Welsh soil, the religion of hearth and home, the
devotion to wife and children.  In the Arvon edition of that book,
dedicated to a Welsh poet, I have said what I had previously often said
to Borrow, that, “although I have seen a good deal of the races of
Europe, I put the Cymric race in many ways at the top of them all.  They
combine, as I think, the poetry, the music, the instinctive love of the
fine arts, and the humour of the other Celtic peoples with the
practicalness and bright-eyed sagacity of the very different race to
which they were so closely linked by circumstance—the race whom it is the
fashion to call the Anglo-Saxon.  And as to the charm of the Welsh girls,
no one who knows them as you and I do, can fail to be struck by it
continually.  Winifred Wynne I meant to be the typical Welsh girl as I
have found her—affectionate, warm-hearted, self-sacrificing and brave.”


It seems almost necessary that in this desultory talk upon “Wild Wales” I
should, before proceeding any further, say a few words upon the book in
its relations to two of Borrow’s other autobiographic narratives,
“Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” and I do not know any literary subject
more suggestive of interesting criticism.

Although Borrow always acknowledged Defoe as his master, he had, of
course, qualities of his own that were as unlike Defoe’s qualities as
they were unlike those of any other writer.  And as this speciality of
his has, so far as I know, never been discussed, I should have liked, had
space permitted, to give interest to my remarks upon “Wild Wales” by a
thorough comparison between Borrow’s imaginative works and Defoe’s
“Robinson Crusoe.”  This is impossible in the space at my command.  And
yet a few words upon the subject I cannot resist indulging in, for it
relates to the very core and central light of Borrow’s genius; and I may
now never have another opportunity of touching upon it.

I remember a long talk I once had with him upon the method of Defoe as
contrasted and compared with his own method in “Lavengro,” “The Romany
Rye,” and “Wild Wales,” and the method of other writers who adopt the
autobiographic form of fiction.  He agreed with me that the most
successful of all stories in the autobiographic form is “Robinson
Crusoe,” although “Jane Eyre,” “David Copperfield” and “Great
Expectations” among English novels, and “Gil Blas” and “Manon Lescaut”
among French novels, are also autobiographic in form.  It is of all forms
the most difficult.  But its advantages, if they can be secured without
making too many artistic sacrifices, are enormous.  Flexibility is, of
course, the one quality it lacks, but, lacking that, it cannot secure the
variety of picture and the breadth of movement which is the special
strength of the historic form.

The great pupils of Defoe—and by pupils I mean those writers who try to
give as much commonplace ἀπάτη as possible to new and striking
incidents—Edgar Poe, Wilkie Collins, Gaboriau and others, recognize the
immense aid given to illusion by adopting the autobiographic form.

The conversation upon this subject occurred in one of my rambles with
Borrow and Dr. Gordon Hake in Richmond Park, when I had been pointing out
to the former certain passages in “Robinson Crusoe” where Defoe adds
richness and piquancy to the incidents by making the reader believe that
these incidents will in the end have some deep influence, spiritual or
physical, upon the narrator himself.

Borrow was not a theorizer, and yet he took a quaint interest in other
people’s theorizings.  He asked me to explain myself more fully.  My
reply in substance was something like this: Although in “Robinson Crusoe”
the autobiographer is really introduced only to act as eye-witness for
the purpose of bringing out and authenticating the incidents of the
dramatic action, Defoe had the artistic craftiness to make it appear that
this was not so—to make it appear that the incidents are selected by
Crusoe in such a way as to exhibit and develop the emotions moving within
his own breast.  Defoe’s _apparent_ object in writing the story was to
show the effect of a long solitude upon the human heart and mind; but it
was not so—it was simply to bring into fiction a series of incidents and
adventures of extraordinary interest and picturesqueness—incidents such
as did in part happen to Alexander Selkirk.  But Defoe was a much greater
artist than he is generally credited with being, and he had sufficient of
the artistic instinct to know that, interesting as these external
incidents were in themselves, they could be made still more interesting
by humanizing them—by making it appear that they worked as a great
life-lesson for the man who experienced them, and that this was why the
man recorded them.  Those moralizings of Crusoe upon the way in which the
disasters of his life came upon him as “judgments,” on account of his
running away from his parents, seem to humanize the wheels of
circumstance.  They create in the reader’s mind the interest in the man’s
personality which Defoe wished to create.

In reply to my criticism, Borrow said, “May not the same be said of Le
Sage’s ‘Gil Blas’?”

And when I pointed out to him that there was a kind of kinship between
the two writers in this particular he asked me to indicate in “Lavengro”
and “The Romany Rye” such incidents in which Defoe’s method had been
followed by himself as had struck me.  I pointed out several of them.
Borrow, as a rule, was not at all given to frank discussion of his own
artistic methods, indeed, he had a great deal of the instinct of the
literary _histrio_—more than I have ever seen in any other writer—but he
admitted that he had consciously in part and in part unconsciously
adopted Defoe’s method.  The fact is, as I said to Borrow on that
occasion, and as I have since had an opportunity of saying more fully in
print, there are two kinds of autobiographic stories, and these two kinds
are, if properly examined, really more unlike each other than the
autobiographic form is unlike what is generally supposed to be its
antithesis—the historic form.  In one kind of autobiographic story, of
which “Rob Roy” is a typical example, the narrator, though nominally the
protagonist, is really not much more than the passive eye-witness of the
dramatic action—not much more than the chorus to other characters who
govern, or at least influence, the main issue.  Inasmuch as he is an
eye-witness of the dramatic action, he gives to it the authenticity of
direct testimony.  Through him the narrative gains a commonplace ἀπάτη
such as is beyond the scope of the scattered forces of the historic form,
howsoever powerfully handled.  By the first-hand testimony of the
eye-witness Frank Osbaldistone in Scott’s fascinating novel, the more
active characters, those who really control the main issue, Di Vernon,
Rashleigh Osbaldistone, Rob, and Bailie Nicol Jarvie, are painted in much
more vivid and much more authentic colours than the method of the
historic form would allow.

It is in the nature of things that this kind of autobiographic fiction,
howsoever strong may be the incidents, is not nearly so absorbing as is
the other kind I am going to instance, the psychological, to which
“Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye” belong; for in literature, as in life,
the more interest we feel in the character, the more interest we feel in
what befalls the character.  Unlike the kind of autobiographic fiction
typified by “Rob Roy,” in which, as I have said, the main issue is little
influenced and not at all controlled by the narrator but by other
characters, or, if not by other characters, by the wheels of
circumstance;—in the psychological kind of autobiographic fiction, the
personality of the narrator controls, or largely controls, the main issue
of the dramatic action.  In other words, the incidents in the latter kind
of autobiographic fiction are selected and marshalled for the purpose of
declaring the character of the narrator.  The most superb exemplars of
this kind of autobiographic narrative are stories which in all other
respects are extremely unlike Borrow’s—“Caleb Williams,” “Manon Lescaut,”
“Jane Eyre,” and “Villette.”

A year or two ago I recurred to this subject in some comments I made upon
some judgments of a well-known and admirable critic.  I will take the
liberty of referring here to one or two of the remarks I then made, for
they seem to bear very directly upon Borrow’s method as compared with
Defoe’s.  The same artistic instinct which we see in Defoe and in
Borrow’s quasi autobiographic work is exhibited by the Abbé Prévost in
“Manon Lescaut.”  The real object of the last-mentioned story (which, it
will be remembered, is an episode in a much longer story) was to paint
vivid pictures of the careless life of Paris at the period of the story,
and especially to paint in vivid colours a kind of character which is
essentially peculiar to Paris, the light-hearted, good-natured, unheeding
_grisette_.  But by making it appear that the incidents in Chevalier des
Grieux’s life are selected by him in order to show the effect of the
life-lesson upon himself, Prévost gives to every incident the piquancy
which properly belongs to this, the psychological form of autobiographic
fiction.  It must, however, be admitted that at its best the
autobiographic form of fiction is rarely, very rarely, broad enough to be
a satisfactory form of art, even when, as in “The Woman in White,” the
story consists of a series of autobiographic narratives stitched
together.  It was this difficulty which confronted Dickens when he wrote
“Bleak House.”  When he was writing “David Copperfield” he had felt the
sweetness and fascination of writing in the autobiographic form, and had
seen the sweetness and fascination of reading it; but he also felt how
constricted the form is in regard to breadth, and it occurred to him that
he could combine the two forms—that he could give in the same book the
sweetness and the fascination and the authenticity of the autobiographic
form and the breadth and variety of the historic form.  To bring into an
autobiographic narrative the complex and wide-spreading net that forms
the story of “Bleak House” was, of course, impossible, and so he mixed up
the chapters of Esther Summerson’s autobiographic narrative with chapters
of the history of the great Chancery suit and all that flowed from it.
In order to minimize as much as possible the confusion of so very
confused a scheme as this, he wrote the historic part of the book in the
present tense; and the result is the most oppressively-laboured novel
that was ever produced by a great novelist.

I have dwelt at length upon this subject because if I were asked to name
one of the greatest masters of the autobiographic form, in any language,
I should, I think, have to name Borrow.  In one variety of that form he
gave us “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” in the other, “Wild Wales.”


“Wild Wales” seems to have disappointed Borrovians because it ignores the
Welsh gypsies, the most superior branch of all the Romany race, except,
perhaps, the gypsy musicians of Hungary.  And certainly it is curious to
speculate as to why he ignores them in that fashion.  Readers of “The
Romany Rye” wonder why, after his adventure with Mrs. Herne and her
granddaughter, and his rescue by the Welshman, Peter Williams, on
reaching the Welsh border, Borrow kept his mouth closed.  Several reasons
have occurred to me, one of which is that his knowledge of Welsh Romany
was of the shakiest kind.  Another reason might have been that in “The
Romany Rye,” as much of his story as could be told in two volumes being
told, he abruptly broke off as he had broken off at the end of the third
volume of “Lavengro.”  Or did the same reason that caused him to write,
in “Wild Wales,” an autobiographic narrative without any of the fantasies
and romantic ornamentation which did so much to win popularity for his
previous books, govern him when he decided to ignore the gypsies—the
presence of his wife and stepdaughter?  There is a very wide class,
including indeed the whole of British Philistia, that cherishes a
positive racial aversion to the Romany—an aversion as strong as the
Russian aversion to the Jew.

Anyhow, it was very eccentric to write a book upon Wales and to ignore so
picturesque a feature of the subject as the Welsh gypsies.  For, beyond
doubt, the finest specimens of the Romany race are—or were in Borrow’s
time—to be found in Wales.  And here I cannot help saying
parenthetically, that as Borrow gave us no word about the Welsh Romanies
and their language, the work of Mr. Sampson, the greatest master of the
Welsh Romany that ever lived, is especially precious.  So great is the
work of that admirable scholar upon the subject that he told me when I
last saw him that he was actually translating Omar Khayyam into Welsh
Romany!  Although the Welsh gypsies have a much greater knowledge of
Welsh Romany than English gypsies have of English Romany, and are more
intelligent, I am a little sceptical, as I told him, as to the Welsh
Romanies taking that deep interest in the immortal quatrains which, it
seems, atheists and Christians agree in doing among the gorgios.


Those who have seen much of the writing fraternity of London or Paris,
know that the great mass of authors, whether in prose or in verse, have
just as much and just as little individuality—have just as much and just
as little of any new and true personal accent, as the vast flock of human
sheep whose bleatings will soon drown all other voices over land and sea.
They have the peculiar instinct for putting their thoughts into written
words—that is all.  This it is that makes Borrow such a memorable figure.
If ever a man had an accent of his own that man was he.  What that accent
was I have tried to indicate here, in the remarks upon his method of
writing autobiographic fiction.  Vanity can make all, even the most
cunning, simple on one side of their characters, but it made of Borrow a
veritable child.

If Tennyson may be accepted as the type of the man without guile, what
type does Borrow represent?  In him guile and simplicity were blent in
what must have been the most whimsical amalgam of opposite qualities ever
seen on this planet.  Let me give one instance out of a thousand of this.

Great as was his love of Wales and the Welsh, the Anglo-Saxonism—the John
Bullism which he fondly cherished in that Celtic bosom of his, was so
strong that whenever it came to pitting the prowess and the glories of
the Welshman against those of the Englishman, his championship of the
Cymric race would straightway vanish, and the claim of the Anglo-Saxon to
superiority would be proclaimed against all the opposition of the world.
This was especially so in regard to athletics, as was but natural, seeing
that he always felt himself to be an athlete first, a writing man

A favourite quotation of his was from Byron—

    “One hates an author that’s _all author_—fellows
    In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink.”

Frederick Sandys, a Norfolk man who knew him well, rarely spoke of Borrow
save as a master in the noble art of self-defence.

It was as a swimmer I first saw him—one of the strongest and hardiest
that ever rejoiced to buffet with wintry billows on the Norfolk coast.
And to the very last did his interest in swimming, sparring, running,
wrestling, jumping remain.  If the Welshman would only have admitted that
in athletics the Englishman stands first—stands easily first among the
competitors of the world, he would have cheerfully admitted that the
Welshman made a good second.  General Picton used to affirm that the
ideal—the topmost soldier in the world is a Welshman of five feet, eight
inches in height.  Such a man as the six-feet-three giant of Dereham knew
well how to scorn such an assertion even though made by the great Picton
himself.  But suppose Borrow had been told, as we have lately been told,
that the so-called “English archers” at Crecy and Agincourt were mainly
made up of Welshmen, what a flush would have overspread his hairless
cheek, what an indignant fire would have blazed from his eyes!  Not even
his indignation on being told, as we would sometimes tell him at “The
Bald-faced Stag,” that Scottish Highlanders had proved themselves
superior to their English brothers-in-arms would have equalled his scorn
of such talk about Crecy and Agincourt—scenes of English prowess that he
was never tired of extolling.

But you had only to admit that Welshmen were superior to all others save
Englishmen in physical prowess, and Borrow’s championship of the Cymric
athlete could be as enthusiastic and even as aggressive as the best and
most self-assertive Welshman ever born in Arvon.  Consequently I can but
regret that he did not live to see the great recrudescence of Cymric
energy which we are seeing at the present moment in “Cymru, gwlad y
gân,”—an energy which is declaring itself more vigorously every day, and
not merely in pure intellectual matters, not merely in political matters,
but equally in those same athletics which to Borrow were so important.
Sparring has gone out of fashion as much in the Principality as in
England and Scotland; but that which has succeeded it, football, has
taken a place in athleticism such as would have bewildered Borrow, as it
would have bewildered most of his contemporaries.  What would he have
said, I wonder, had he been told that in this favourite twentieth-century
game the Welsh would surpass all others in these islands, and save the
honour of Great Britain?  No one would have enjoyed witnessing the great
contest between the Welsh and the New Zealand athletes at the Cardiff
Arms Park on the 16th of last December with more gusto than the admirer
of English sparring and of the English pugilistic heroes, from Big Ben
Bryan to Tom Spring.  No one would have been more exhilarated than he by
the song with which it opened—

    “Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn anwyl i mi.” {0}

But one wonders what he would have said after the struggle was over—after
Wales’s latest triumph over the Saxon record of physical prowess.  One
can imagine, perhaps, his mixed feelings had he been a witness of that
great athletic struggle which is going to be historic—the immortal
contest in which after England had succumbed entirely to the Colonials,
the honour of the old country was saved by Wales at the eleventh hour.
His cheek would have glowed with admiration of the exploits of the only
footballers whose names will be historic, and being historic must be
mentioned in connection with his own Welsh pages,—I mean the names of
Travers, of Bush, of Winfield, of Owen, of Jones, of Llewellyn, of Gabe,
of Nicholls, of Morgan, of Williams, of Hodges, of Harding, of Joseph,
and the names of the two Pritchards.  Whatsoever might have been his
after-emotions when provincial patriotism began to assert itself, Borrow
would in that great hour of Cymric triumph have frankly admitted, I
think, that for once England’s honour was saved by Wales.

                                * * * * *

The following is a list of the works of George Borrow—

Faustus, His Life, Death [from the German of F. M. von Klinger], 1825;
Romantic Ballads [from the Danish of Öhlenschläger, and from the Kiempé
Viser], and miscellaneous pieces [from the Danish of Ewald and others],
1826; Targum, or Metrical Translations from Thirty Languages and
Dialects, 1835; The Talisman of A. Pushkin, with other pieces [from
Russian and Polish], 1835; New Testament (Luke), Embéo e Majaró Lucas . . .
El Evangelio segun S. Lucas, traducido al Romani, 1837; The Bible in
Spain, 3 vols., 1843; The Zincali (Gypsies in Spain), 2 vols., 1841;
Lavengro, 1851; The Romany Rye, 2 vols., 1857; The Sleeping Bard,
translated from the Cambrian British, 1860; Wild Wales, 3 vols., 1862;
Romano Lavo-Lil: Word-Book of the Romany, 1874; Násr Al-Din, Khwājah, The
Turkish Jester [from the Turkish], 1884; Death of Balder [from the Danish
of Ewald], 1889.

The Life, Writings, and Correspondence of George Borrow, by Knapp (W.
I.), appeared in 1899.


CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
            I.  Proposed Excursion                                   5
           II.  The Start, Peterborough, Birmingham                 10
          III.  Chester                                             14
           IV.  Chester, Camp-meeting                               19
            V.  Chester, Book-Stall, Wrexham                        24
           VI.  Llangollen, the Dee                                 30
          VII.  Llangollen, Lodgings                                34
         VIII.  The Robber’s Leap                                   37
           IX.  Llangollen, Pengwern                                43
            X.  The Berwyn                                          48
           XI.  Pont Fadog                                          50
          XII.  Pont y Cysswllt                                     58
         XIII.  Llangollen, the Abbey of the Vale of the            64
          XIV.  Expedition to Ruthyn, the Column                    69
           XV.  The Turf Tavern, Ruthyn                             74
          XVI.  Return from Ruthyn, Agricola’s Hill                 80
         XVII.  Llangollen, Plas Newydd, Llyn Ceiriog               84
        XVIII.  Llangollen, the Parish Clerk                        92
          XIX.  Llangollen, the Vicar, the Pool of                 100
                Catherine Lingo, Robber’s Leap
           XX.  The Valley of Ceiriog, Huw Morris’s Chair,         107
                Pont y Meibion
          XXI.  Pandy Teirw                                        116
         XXII.  Llangollen Fair                                    124
        XXIII.  Pont y Pandy, Glendower’s Mount, Corwen            125
         XXIV.  The Rock of Heroes, the Italian at the Inn         134
          XXV.  On the way to Bangor, the Irishman                 142
         XXVI.  Pentre Voelas, the Conway, Swallow Falls,          149
                Capel Curig
        XXVII.  Bangor                                             159
       XXVIII.  Menai bridges                                      165
         XXIX.  Snowdon, the Wyddfa                                172
          XXX.  Gronwy Owen                                        179
         XXXI.  Anglesea, Pentraeth Coch                           181
        XXXII.  Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf, the Birthplace          186
                of Gronwy Owen
       XXXIII.  The Inn at Pentraeth Coch                          199
        XXXIV.  Conversation at the Inn                            203
         XXXV.  A Brilliant Morning                                206
        XXXVI.  Leaving Pentraeth Coch, Penmynnydd, Tomb           209
                of Owen Tudor
       XXXVII.  Dyffryn Gaint                                      213
      XXXVIII.  The Inn at L—                                      225
        XXXIX.  Bound for Holy Head                                231
           XL.  Caer Gybi                                          237
          XLI.  The Pier                                           240
         XLII.  Town of Holy Head, Pen Caer Gybi                   244
        XLIII.  Bangor, Port Dyn Norwig, Caernarvon                251
         XLIV.  Pont Bettws, Llyn Cwellyn                          255
          XLV.  Inn at Bethgelert                                  265
         XLVI.  The Valley of Gelert                               267
        XLVII.  Tan y Bwlch, Festiniog                             273
       XLVIII.  Mynydd Mawr and Mynydd Bach, Tref y Talcot         279
         XLIX.  Bala                                               288
            L.  The Tomen Bala                                     298
           LI.  Back at Llangollen                                 300
          LII.  Llangollen, Attempted Murder                       304
         LIII.  Pen y Coed                                         308
          LIV.  Chirk                                              310
           LV.  Llangollen, Some of the Inhabitants                320
          LVI.  Llangollen, News of the Fall of Sebastopol         324
         LVII.  Pentré y Dwr                                       329
        LVIII.  Sunday at Llangollen                               334
          LIX.  Llangollen, History of Twm O’r Nant                338
           LX.  Twm O’r Nant, his Interludes                       348
          LXI.  Walk to Wrexham, Methodistical Volume              354
         LXII.  Rhiwabon Road                                      360
        LXIII.  Last Night at Llangollen                           364
         LXIV.  Departure for South Wales                          367
          LXV.  Inn at Llan Rhyadr                                 373
         LXVI.  Sycharth                                           378
        LXVII.  Llan Silin                                         384
       LXVIII.  Llan Silin Church, Tomb of Huw Morris              388
         LXIX.  Church of Llan Rhyadr                              393
          LXX.  Rhyadr, Mountain Scenery                           395
         LXXI.  Wild Moors, Arrival at Bala                        398
        LXXII.  Bala, The White Lion                               403
       LXXIII.  Llyn Tegid                                         409
        LXXIV.  Bala to Dinas Mawddwy                              414
         LXXV.  Inn at Mallwydd                                    423
        LXXVI.  Mallwydd and its Church, Cemmaes                   424
       LXXVII.  The Vale of Dyfi                                   428
      LXXVIII.  Machynlleth                                        432
        LXXIX.  Machynlleth, Historic Events                       438
         LXXX.  Machynlleth to Esgyrn Hirion                       442
        LXXXI.  The Mining Compting Room                           450
       LXXXII.  Inn at Pont Erwyd                                  457
      LXXXIII.  Conversation at the inn and on the way to          465
                the Devil’s Bridge
       LXXXIV.  The Devil’s Bridge                                 474
        LXXXV.  Dinner at the Hospice                              477
       LXXXVI.  Dafydd Ab Gwilym                                   481
      LXXXVII.  Start for Plynlimmon                               489
     LXXXVIII.  Plynlimmon, and back to the Devil’s Bridge         491
       LXXXIX.  Hafod                                              499
           XC.  Spytty Ystwyth                                     503
          XCI.  Strata Florida, burial-place of Dafydd Ab          507
         XCII.  Rhyd Fendigaid to Tregaron                         512
        XCIII.  Tregaron Church                                    523
         XCIV.  Llan Ddewi Brefi                                   527
          XCV.  Lampeter to the Bridge of Twrch                    532
         XCVI.  Llandovery                                         539
        XCVII.  Llandovery Church                                  544
       XCVIII.  Llandovery to Gutter Vawr                          553
         XCIX.  Inn at Gutter Vawr                                 561
            C.  Gutter Vawr to Swansea                             568
           CI.  Swansea                                            579
          CII.  Swansea to Neath                                   581
         CIII.  Town of Neath, the Glowing Mountain                583
          CIV.  Merthyr Tydvil                                     586
           CV.  Start for Caerfili                                 589
          CVI.  Pen y Glas to Caerfili                             599
         CVII.  Caerfili                                           602
        CVIII.  Town of Newport                                    606
          CIX.  Arrival at Chepstow                                616


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 had 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
parcupines.”  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.


The Starting—Peterborough Cathedral—Anglo-Saxon Names—Kæmpe
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 quitted,
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

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 Medeshampsted 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 Kæmpe 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 had 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.


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 façades 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

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 apologized, 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.


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 a 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 threadbare, 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
teetotaler 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

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

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

“And who is this young lady?” said I, motioning to the uncouth-looking

“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 turn’d 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
of 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

“I am no minister,” said I.

“Then you are a priest; I am sure that 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.  O 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

“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

“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.  O sir, do give us God; we need Him, sir, for we
are sinful people; we call ourselves tinkers, but many is the sinful

“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.  O 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

“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.


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

On the afternoon of Monday I sent my family off by the train to
Llangollen, which place we had determined to make our headquarters 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

“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
county.  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 parts 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,

“I suppose,” said I, “there are few Welshmen such big fellows as

“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 connexion, 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 ’twas 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 dare say 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 crenelated 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.  “O 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

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 wide 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!”


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

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 Teg or 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 midday, 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 the 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.”


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.  O, 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.


The Mowers—Deep Welsh—Extensive View—Old Celtic
Hatred—Fish-Preserving—Smollett’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.

“O, 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

“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

“I don’t know 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
recognized 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.


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 the 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 might well 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 recognized 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

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 tumbrils 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

“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

“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

“O 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

“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 particular 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 one 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.


    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 that 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
gor-uchaf,” 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.


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 zig-zag and
steep, and at last arrived at the bottom of the valley, where there was a
small hamlet.  On the farther 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 eyes 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 great

“Good day, friend,” said I; “what may 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

“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

“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
dare say 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

“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?”

“O 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.

“O 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

“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

“Sometimes, sir, for curiosity’s sake; but very rarely—the way is very

“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

“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

“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
coming 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.


A Calvinistic Methodist—Turn for Saxon—Our Congregation—Pont y
Cyssylltau—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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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 ever 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; “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 Bethgelert, 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 Bethgelert I stayed some time.  It
was there I married, sir; my wife comes from a place called Dol Gellyn
near Bethgelert.”

“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?”

“O 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.  O, 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 dare
say, 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.


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.  O,
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

    “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 farm-yard, 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 door-way 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 Shakespear.”

I looked at it.  The Welsh Shakespear 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

“Ah,” said the Dame, “you know more about Twm o’r Nant than I do; and was
he not a great poet?”

“I dare say 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 Shakespear 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 inquiring 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?”

“O, 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 dare say 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 fishpond, 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 a path which she had pointed out, we
went through a corn field or two on its top, and at last found ourselves
on the Llangollen road, after a most beautiful walk.


Expedition to Ruthyn—The Column—Slate Quarries—The Gwyddelod—Nocturnal

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
Henry 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 his 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
dare say 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 come 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

“Hardly, sir; I should rather think that the Gwyddeliad (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

“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

“Have they no Welsh?”

“Only a few words, sir; I never heard of 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 farm-house 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 half-way 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.”


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?”

“O, yes, sir,” said John, “I have heard there is good cheese and cwrw

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?”

“O, 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

“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 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

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

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

“O, 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:

    “‘Glân 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

    “‘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 dare say 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

“And who owns it?” said I.

“Various are the people who own it, sir, but Sir Watkin owns the greater

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 for
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

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

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?  O, 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.”


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 gravestones.  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 are 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 inquired 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
seal 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

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

“O, 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.


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 a 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.  O, 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 hill 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 greyhound, 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

“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

“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.

“‘O 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 farther 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 we 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.


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

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 fourscore, 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

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

“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.  O, 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.  O 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

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

“Have you ever seen this book?” said he, and put Smith’s _Sean Dana_ into
my hand.

“O 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 masterpiece 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.  O, 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.”


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

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

“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

“O 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 Brân,
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

“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 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

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

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.”

“O, I dare say 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 dare say 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

“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 inquired 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?”


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 a 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
birth-place 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 birthplace 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 Gôf 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

“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 whilst 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

“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 grindstone, 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 up 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 outhouse 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

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

“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
road across 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.


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 would 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

“Can you speak English?” said I.

“O 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

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

“I make no complaint,” said the woman, looking somewhat angrily at John

“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 cost only 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

“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

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

“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 farther 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 whiskey.”

“And the Irish?” said he.

“Hearty, jolly fellows,” said I, “if you know how to manage them, and all

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 he 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

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

    “‘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.


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 griping 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 a
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 highlows, 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.


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 rejoin 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 with 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

“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

“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

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
elynion yn dyfod o Gaer Lleon.  This is the hill of Owen 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.”


“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

“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
cornfields, 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.  “O, 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

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 farmhouse—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.

“O, 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 dare say,” 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 blin—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.


Cerrig y Drudion—The Landlady—Doctor Jones—“Coll Gwynfa”—The Italian—Men
of Como—Disappointment—Weather-Glasses—Filicaia.

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

“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

“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
that 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

“I was not aware of that fact,” said the doctor, “pray what was his

“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?”

“O 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,” 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 dare say 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 highlows.

“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

“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
Coruña, 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

“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

“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 birthplace 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 be 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.’”


Lacing up Highlows—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
highlows against a step.  I saluted him, and asked him if he was about to

“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 marning 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 will 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 ye wish to hear ‘Croppies Get Up’ I can oblige ye.”

“You are a Roman Catholic, I suppose?”

“I am nat, your hanner—I am a Catholic to the backbone, 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

“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 ould tune
round Willie’s image in College Green, even as I used some twenty-seven
years ago?”

“O 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.  O 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 O, 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 credit 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 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 thought 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 farther 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

“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

“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.”


Ceiniog Mawr—Pentre Voelas—The Old Conway—Stupendous Pass—The Gwedir
Family—Capel Curig—The Two Children—Bread—Wonderful Echo—Tremendous

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

“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

“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

“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.  Numbers 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 down 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

“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 rows 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 a 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

“Allt y Gôg—the high place of the cuckoo.”

“Have you a father and mother?”

“We have.”

“Are they in the house?”

“They have 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?”


“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 the 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 any 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 gulley 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 teetotaller,” 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

“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


Bangor—Edmund Price—The Bridges—Bookselling—Future Pope—Wild

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 ancient 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 at 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 mainland.

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

“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?”

“O dear no,” said I; “I have long been tired of books; I have had enough
of them.”

“I dare say, 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

“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, your 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 bookselling?” 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 bookselling 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

“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, your 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 dare say your hanner has.  Everyone 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 busiest 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 headdresses; 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

“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 stands 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

“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

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.


Robert Lleiaf—Prophetic Englyn—The Second Sight—Duncan Campbell—Nial’s
Saga—Family of Nial—Gunnar—The Avenger.

    “Av i dir Môn, 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.  O,
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 Anglesey 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 Môn, cyn naw awr
    Ciniewa ’n Nghaer Lleon,
    Pryd gosber yn y Werddon,
    Prydnawn wrth dan mawn yn Môn.”

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

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

The second sight is a 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

There are various books in existence in which the second sight is treated
of or mentioned.  Amongst others there is one called Martin’s _Visit to
the Hebrides_, published in the year 1700, 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.  The 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_. {169}  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 spámadr, 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 Thorleif Krak, from whom the Skogverjars are come,
    and likewise of Thorgrim the big and Skorargeir.  Nial dwelt at
    Bergthorshvâl 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,
authorized 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 will 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, {172a} 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.


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 {172b} in
the ancient British language signifying an eyrie or breeding place of

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 wildfire 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 calèche 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 of 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 coracle, 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 inquired 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 throughout 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 outlines 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 most 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

“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, {177}
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 âr,
    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, and 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.


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 birthplace 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

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.


Start for Anglesey—The Post Master—Asking Questions—Mynydd Lydiart—Mr.
Pritchard—Way to Llanfair.

When I started from Bangor, to visit the birthplace 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 the
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 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 Lidiart!” 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 Lidiart forming a noble background.

“Who owns this wood?” said I in Welsh to two men who were limbing a
felled tree by the roadside.

“Lord Vivian,” answered one, touching his hat.

“The gentleman is our countryman,” said he to the other after I had

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 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 be 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 taproom, 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

“You speak very good English,” said I; “have you any Welsh?”

“O 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

“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?”

“Threepence,” 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.


Leave Pentraeth—Tranquil Scene—the Knoll—The Miller and his Wife—Poetry
of Gronwy—Kind Offer—Church of Llanfair—No English—Confusion of Ideas—Tŷ
Gronwy—Notable Little Girl—The Sycamore Leaf—Home from California.

The village of Pentraeth Coch 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

“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

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

“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 birthplace 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.

“O 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 half 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

“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 Tŷ 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 millyard, 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 tîr 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

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 Mathafarn 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

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 me 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 farmhouse, 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 averts 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 frightened 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, señor! he oido.”

“Is his house far from here?” said I in Welsh.

“No, señor!” said the man, “no esta muy lejos.”

“I am a stranger here, friend, can anybody show me the way?”

“Si Señor! este mozo luego acompañara 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:

“Tŷ Gronwy!”

A gleam of intelligence flashed now in her eyes.

“Tŷ 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 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 of 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

“And how is it,” said I, “that being a mariner and sailing in a Liverpool
ship you do not speak English?”

“I speak English, señor,” 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

“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 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 dare say it was so, sir,” said the man.  “I dare say 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 Coch.

After walking some way, I turned round in order to take a last look of a
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.


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 beef-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 white 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 hesitation 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.  “O, 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

“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

“O, 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

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 despatched 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 mixed 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.”



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 shoemakers, 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 are all
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 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
fine 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.”

“O, 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 a 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

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 pointed 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 in 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.


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 shoemakers 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

“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.

“O 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

                                   R. P. 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 Ynis 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.”


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,

“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

“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 days, 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

“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

“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.


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

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 birth-place 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

“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 tîr 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.  O, 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?  O, 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?—O, 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 the bulged shoe—“the greatest

“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 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 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
eisteddfodau—and then—what do you think?  That fellow the editor of the

“O,” 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

“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.”

“O, 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

“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 innkeeper, 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.”

“O, 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

“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 innkeeper 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 patronize 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

“I will most certainly patronize your house,” said I to the man in grey,
and shaking him heartily by the hand I departed.


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 wineglasses.

“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 allow 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
alehouses.”  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

“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.

“O 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

“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 Dyffryn 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
pennillion, 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; O 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

    “‘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 mughouse by the
name of a respectable hotel, for I would have you know that this is an
hotel, and kept by a respectable and 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

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 patronise 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, commended 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.”


Oats and Methodism—The Little Girl—Tŷ 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 Holy Head, 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 tŷ?” 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 im 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

“Pen Caer Gybi,” she replied.

Soon after I came to a village near to a rocky gulley.  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
road-side, 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, farming-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

“What is the name of this place?” said I.

“It is called Tŷ 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.

“O 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

“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

“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 were 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 dŷ.”

“You call a sparrow in your Welsh a bird of the roof, do you not?” said

“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 he 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.

“O 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 to have seen a man of

“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 of 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 around 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

“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 railway 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.


Caer Gybi—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

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 Holyhead.  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 the 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.”


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 Holyhead.  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 light-house, 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 under tone.  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

“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 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 hook or by crook, 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

“In Latin?”

“Yes, sure, your reverence; in what else should you bless us but in holy

“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.


Gage of Suffolk—Fellow in a Turban—Town of Holyhead—Father Boots—An
Expedition—Holyhead and Finisterræ—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

“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,
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 O 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

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 the 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 be 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 to
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 already, 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 Glâs, 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 Finisterræ, 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 András 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
copestone 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 the 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.  O, 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.


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 Bethgelert 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 in 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.”

“And what would be the use of asking him?” said another, “we have only
Cumraeg, and he has only Saesneg.”

“I have a little broken Cumraeg, at the service of this good company,”
said I.  “With respect to the snake of the sea I beg leave to say that I
believe in the existence of such a creature; and am surprised that any
people in these parts should not believe in it; why, the sea-serpent has
been seen in these parts.”

“When was that, Gwr Bonneddig?” said one of the company.

“About fifty years ago,” said I.  “Once in October, in the year 1805, as
a small vessel of the Traeth was upon the Menai, sailing very slowly, the
weather being very calm, the people on board saw a strange creature like
an immense worm swimming after them.  It soon overtook them, climbed on
board through the tiller-hole, and coiled itself on the deck under the
mast—the people at first were dreadfully frightened, but taking courage
they attacked it with an oar and drove it overboard; it followed the
vessel for some time but a breeze springing up they lost sight of it.”

“And how did you learn this?” said the last who had addressed me.

“I read the story,” said I, “in a pure Welsh book called the _Greal_.”

“I now remember hearing the same thing,” said an old man, “when I was a
boy; it had slipped out of my memory, but now I remember all about it.
The ship was called the _Robert Ellis_.  Are you of these parts,

“No,” said I, “I am not of these parts.”

“Then you are of South Wales—indeed your Welsh is very different from

“I am not of South Wales,” said I, “I am the seed not of the sea-snake
but of the coiling serpent, for so one of the old Welsh poets called the

“But how did you learn Welsh?” said the old man.

“I learned it by the grammar,” said I, “a long time ago.”

“Ah, you learnt it by the grammar,” said the old man; “that accounts for
your Welsh being different from ours.  We did not learn our Welsh by the
grammar—your Welsh is different from ours, and of course better, being
the Welsh of the grammar.  Ah, it is a fine thing to be a grammarian.”

“Yes, it is a fine thing to be a grammarian,” cried the rest of the
company, and I observed that everybody now regarded me with a kind of

A jug of ale which the hostess had brought me had been standing before me
some time.  I now tasted it and found it very good.  Whilst dispatching
it, I asked various questions about the old Danes, the reason why the
place was called the port of the Norwegian, and about its trade.  The
good folks knew nothing about the old Danes, and as little as to the
reason of its being called the port of the Norwegian—but they said that
besides that name it bore that of Melin Heli, or the mill of the salt
pool, and that slates were exported from thence, which came from quarries
close by.

Having finished my ale I bade the company adieu and quitted Port Dyn
Norwig, one of the most thoroughly Welsh places I had seen, for during
the whole time I was in it, I heard no words of English uttered, except
the two or three spoken by myself.  In about an hour I reached

The road from Bangor to Caernarvon is very good and the scenery
interesting—fine hills border it on the left, or south-east, and on the
right at some distance is the Menai with Anglesey beyond it.  Not far
from Caernarvon a sandbank commences, extending for miles up the Menai,
towards Bangor, and dividing the strait into two.

I went to the Castle Inn which fronts the square or market-place, and
being shown into a room ordered some brandy-and-water, and sat down.  Two
young men were seated in the room.  I spoke to them and received civil
answers, at which I was rather astonished, as I found by the tone of
their voices that they were English.  The air of one was far superior to
that of the other, and with him I was soon in conversation.  In the
course of discourse he informed me that being a martyr to ill-health he
had come from London to Wales, hoping that change of air, and exercise on
the Welsh hills, would afford him relief, and that his friend had been
kind enough to accompany him.  That he had been about three weeks in
Wales, had taken all the exercise that he could, but that he was still
very unwell, slept little and had no appetite.  I told him not to be
discouraged, but to proceed in the course which he had adopted till the
end of the summer, by which time I thought it very probable that he would
be restored to his health, as he was still young.  At these words of mine
a beam of hope brightened his countenance, and he said he had no other
wish than to regain his health, and that if he did he should be the
happiest of men.  The intense wish of the poor young man for health
caused me to think how insensible I had hitherto been to the possession
of the greatest of all terrestrial blessings.  I had always had the
health of an elephant, but I never remember to have been sensible to the
magnitude of the blessing or in the slightest degree grateful to the God
who gave it.  I shuddered to think how I should feel if suddenly deprived
of my health.  Far worse, no doubt, than that poor invalid.  He was
young, and in youth there is hope—but I was no longer young.  At last,
however, I thought that if God took away my health He might so far alter
my mind that I might be happy even without health, or the prospect of it;
and that reflection made me quite comfortable.


National School—The Young Preacher—Pont Bettws—Spanish Words—Two Tongues,
Two Faces—The Elephant’s Snout—Llyn Cwellyn—The Snowdon Ranger—My
House—Castell y Cidwm—Descent to Bethgelert.

It might be about three o’clock in the afternoon when I left Caernarvon
for Bethgelert, distant about thirteen miles.  I journeyed through a
beautiful country of hill and dale, woods and meadows, the whole gilded
by abundance of sunshine.  After walking about an hour without
intermission I reached a village, and asked a man the name of it.

“Llan— something,” he replied.

As he was standing before a long building, through the open door of which
a sound proceeded like that of preaching, I asked him what place it was,
and what was going on in it, and received for answer that it was the
National School, and that there was a clergyman preaching in it.  I then
asked if the clergyman was of the Church, and on learning that he was, I
forthwith entered the building, where in one end of a long room I saw a
young man in a white surplice preaching from a desk to about thirty or
forty people, who were seated on benches before him.  I sat down and
listened.  The young man preached with great zeal and fluency.  The
sermon was a very seasonable one, being about the harvest, and in it
things temporal and spiritual were very happily blended.  The part of the
sermon which I heard—I regretted that I did not hear the whole—lasted
about five-and-twenty minutes: a hymn followed, and then the congregation
broke up.  I inquired the name of the young man who preached, and was
told that it was Edwards, and that he came from Caernarvon.  The name of
the incumbent of the parish was Thomas.

Leaving the village of the harvest sermon, I proceeded on my way, which
lay to the south-east.  I was now drawing nigh to the mountainous
district of Eryri—a noble hill called Mount Eilio appeared before me to
the north; an immense mountain called Pen Drws Coed lay over against it
on the south, just like a couchant elephant, with its head lower than the
top of its back.  After a time, I entered a most beautiful sunny valley,
and presently came to a bridge over a pleasant stream running in the
direction of the south.  As I stood upon that bridge, I almost fancied
myself in paradise; everything looked so beautiful or grand—green, sunny
meadows lay all around me, intersected by the brook, the waters of which
ran with tinkling laughter over a shingley bottom.  Noble Eilio to the
north; enormous Pen Drws Coed to the south; a tall mountain far beyond
them to the east.  “I never was in such a lovely spot!” I cried to myself
in a perfect rapture.  “O, how glad I should be to learn the name of this
bridge, standing on which I have had ‘heaven opened to me,’ as my old
friends the Spaniards used to say.”  Scarcely had I said these words,
when I observed a man and a woman coming towards the bridge from the
direction in which I was bound.  I hastened to meet them, in the hope of
obtaining information; they were both rather young, and were probably a
couple of sweethearts taking a walk, or returning from meeting.  The
woman was a few steps in advance of the man; seeing that I was about to
address her, she averted her head and quickened her steps, and before I
had completed the question, which I put to her in Welsh, she had bolted
past me screaming, “Ah Dim Saesneg,” and was several yards distant.

I then addressed myself to the man, who had stopped, asking him the name
of the bridge.

“Pont Bettws,” he replied.

“And what may be the name of the river?” said I.

“Afon — something,” said he.

And on my thanking him, he went forward to the woman, who was waiting for
him by the bridge.

“Is that man Welsh or English?” I heard her say when he had rejoined her.

“I don’t know,” said the man—“he was civil enough; why were you such a

“O, I thought he would speak to me in English,” said the woman, “and the
thought of that horrid English puts me into such a flutter; you know I
can’t speak a word of it.”

They proceeded on their way, and I proceeded on mine, and presently
coming to a little inn on the left side of the way, at the entrance of a
village, I went in.

A respectable-looking man and woman were seated at tea at a table in a
nice clean kitchen.  I sat down on a chair near the table, and called for
ale—the ale was brought me in a jug—I drank some, put the jug on the
table, and began to discourse with the people in Welsh—a handsome dog was
seated on the ground; suddenly it laid one of its paws on its master’s

“Down, Perro,” said he.

“Perro!” said I; “why do you call the dog Perro?”

“We call him Perro,” said the man, “because his name is Perro.”

“But how came you to give him that name?” said I.

“We did not give it to him,” said the man—“he bore that name when he came
into our hands; a farmer gave him to us when he was very young, and told
us his name was Perro.”

“And how came the farmer to call him Perro?” said I.

“I don’t know,” said the man—“why do you ask?”

“Perro,” said I, “is a Spanish word, and signifies a dog in general.  I
am rather surprised that a dog in the mountains of Wales should be called
by the Spanish word for dog.”  I fell into a fit of musing.  “How Spanish
words are diffused!  Wherever you go you will find some Spanish word or
other in use.  I have heard Spanish words used by Russian mujiks, and
Turkish fig-gatherers—I have this day heard a Spanish word in the
mountains of Wales, and I have no doubt that were I to go to Iceland I
should find Spanish words used there.  How can I doubt it? when I reflect
that more than six hundred years ago, one of the words to denote a bad
woman was Spanish.  In the oldest of Icelandic domestic sagas,
Skarphedin, the son of Nial the seer, called Hallgerdr, widow of Gunnar,
a puta—and that word so maddened Hallgerdr, that she never rested till
she had brought about his destruction.  Now, why this preference
everywhere for Spanish words, over those of every other language?  I
never heard French words or German words used by Russian mujiks and
Turkish fig-gatherers.  I question whether I should find any in Iceland
forming part of the vernacular.  I certainly never found a French or even
a German word in an old Icelandic saga.  Why this partiality everywhere
for Spanish words? the question is puzzling; at any rate it puts me out—”

“Yes, it puts me out!” I exclaimed aloud, striking my fist on the table
with a vehemence which caused the good folks to start half up from their
seats—before they could say anything, however, a vehicle drove up to the
door, and a man, getting out, came into the room.  He had a glazed hat on
his head, and was dressed something like the guard of a mail.  He touched
his hat to me, and called for a glass of whiskey.  I gave him the sele of
the evening, and entered into conversation with him in English.  In the
course of discourse I learned that he was the postman, and was going his
rounds in his cart—he was more than respectful to me, he was fawning and
sycophantic.  The whiskey was brought, and he stood with the glass in his
hand.  Suddenly he began speaking Welsh to the people; before, however,
he had uttered two sentences, the woman lifted her hands with an alarmed
air, crying “Hush! he understands.”  The fellow was turning me to
ridicule.  I flung my head back, closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and
laughed aloud.  The fellow stood aghast; his hand trembled, and he spilt
the greater part of the whiskey upon the ground.  At the end of about
half-a-minute I got up, asked what I had to pay, and on being told two
pence, I put down the money.  Then going up to the man, I put my right
fore-finger very near to his nose, and said, “Dwy o iaith dwy o wyneb;
two languages, two faces, friend!”  Then after leering at him for a
moment, I wished the people of the house good evening, and departed.

Walking rapidly on towards the east, I soon drew near the termination of
the valley.  The valley terminates in a deep gorge, or pass, between
Mount Eilio—which, by the bye, is part of the chine of Snowdon—and Pen
Drws Coed.  The latter, that couchant elephant with its head turned to
the north-east, seems as if it wished to bar the pass with its trunk; by
its trunk I mean a kind of jaggy ridge which descends down to the road.
I entered the gorge, passing near a little waterfall which with much
noise runs down the precipitous side of Mount Eilio—presently I came to a
little mill by the side of a brook running towards the east.  I asked the
miller-woman, who was standing near the mill, with her head turned
towards the setting sun, the name of the mill and the stream.  “The mill
is called the mill of the river of Lake Cwellyn,” said she, “and the
river is called the river of Lake Cwellyn.”

“And who owns the land?” said I.

“Sir Richard,” said she.  “I Sir Richard yw yn perthyn y tîr.  Mr.
Williams, however, possesses some part of Mount Eilio.”

“And who is Mr. Williams?” said I.

“Who is Mr. Williams?” said the miller’s wife.  “Ho, ho! what a stranger
you must be to ask me who is Mr. Williams.”

I smiled and passed on.  The mill was below the level of the road, and
its wheel was turned by the water of a little conduit supplied by the
brook at some distance above the mill.  I had observed similar conduits
employed for similar purposes in Cornwall.  A little below the mill was a
weir, and a little below the weir the river ran frothing past the extreme
end of the elephant’s snout.  Following the course of the river, I at
last emerged with it from the pass into a valley surrounded by enormous
mountains.  Extending along it from west to east, and occupying its
entire southern part, lay an oblong piece of water, into which the
streamlet of the pass discharged itself.  This was one of the many
beautiful lakes, which a few days before I had seen from the Wyddfa.  As
for the Wyddfa, I now beheld it high above me in the north-east, looking
very grand indeed, shining like a silver helmet whilst catching the
glories of the setting sun.

I proceeded slowly along the road, the lake below me on my right hand,
whilst the shelvy side of Snowdon rose above me on the left.  The evening
was calm and still, and no noise came upon my ear save the sound of a
cascade falling into the lake from a black mountain, which frowned above
it on the south, and cast a gloomy shadow far over it.

This cataract was in the neighbourhood of a singular-looking rock,
projecting above the lake from the mountain’s side.  I wandered a
considerable way without meeting or seeing a single human being.  At
last, when I had nearly gained the eastern end of the valley, I saw two
men seated on the side of the hill, on the verge of the road, in the
vicinity of a house which stood a little way up the hill.  The lake here
was much wider than I had hitherto seen it, for the huge mountain on the
south had terminated, and the lake expanded considerably in that quarter,
having instead of the black mountain a beautiful hill beyond it.

I quickened my steps, and soon came up to the two individuals.  One was
an elderly man, dressed in a smock frock, and with a hairy cap on his
head.  The other was much younger, wore a hat, and was dressed in a
coarse suit of blue, nearly new, and doubtless his Sunday’s best.  He was
smoking a pipe.  I greeted them in English, and sat down near them.  They
responded in the same language, the younger man with considerable
civility and briskness, the other in a tone of voice denoting some

“May I ask the name of this lake?” said I, addressing myself to the young
man, who sat between me and the elderly one.

“Its name is Llyn Cwellyn, sir,” said he, taking the pipe out of his
mouth.  “And a fine lake it is.”

“Plenty of fish in it?” I demanded.

“Plenty, sir; plenty of trout and pike and char.”

“Is it deep?” said I.

“Near the shore it is shallow, sir, but in the middle and near the other
side it is deep, so deep that no one knows how deep it is.”

“What is the name,” said I, “of the great black mountain there on the
other side?”

“It is called Mynydd Mawr, or the Great Mountain.  Yonder rock, which
bulks out from it, down the lake yonder, and which you passed as you came
along, is called Castell Cidwm, which means Wolf’s rock or castle.”

“Did a wolf ever live there?” I demanded.

“Perhaps so,” said the man, “for I have heard say that there were wolves
of old in Wales.”

“And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us across the

“That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed,” said the man.

“The stone heap of the gate of the wood,” said I.

“Are you Welsh, sir?” said the man.

“No,” said I, “but I know something of the language of Wales.  I suppose
you live in that house?”

“Not exactly, sir; my father-in-law here lives in that house, and my wife
with him.  I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at my mine, but
every Sunday I come here, and pass the day with my wife and him.”

“And what profession does he follow?” said I; “is he a fisherman?”

“Fisherman!” said the elderly man contemptuously, “not I.  I am the
Snowdon Ranger.”

“And what is that?” said I.

The elderly man tossed his head proudly, and made no reply.

“A ranger means a guide, sir,” said the younger man—“my father-in-law is
generally termed the Snowdon Ranger because he is a tip-top guide, and he
has named the house after him the Snowdon Ranger.  He entertains
gentlemen in it who put themselves under his guidance in order to ascend
Snowdon and to see the country.”

“There is some difference in your professions,” said I; “he deals in
heights, you in depths; both, however, are break-necky trades.”

“I run more risk from gunpowder than anything else,” said the younger
man.  “I am a slate-miner, and am continually blasting.  I have, however,
had my falls.  Are you going far to-night, sir?”

“I am going to Bethgelert,” said I.

“A good six miles, sir, from here.  Do you come from Caernarvon?”

“Farther than that,” said I.  “I come from Bangor.”

“To-day, sir, and walking?”

“To-day, and walking.”

“You must be rather tired, sir; you came along the valley very slowly.”

“I am not in the slightest degree tired,” said I; “when I start from
here, I shall put on my best pace, and soon get to Bethgelert.”

“Anybody can get along over level ground,” said the old man, laconically.

“Not with equal swiftness,” said I.  “I do assure you, friend, to be able
to move at a good swinging pace over level ground is something not to be
sneezed at.  Not,” said I, lifting up my voice, “that I would for a
moment compare walking on the level ground to mountain ranging, pacing
along the road to springing up crags like a mountain goat, or assert that
even Powell himself, the first of all road walkers, was entitled to so
bright a wreath of fame as the Snowdon Ranger.”

“Won’t you walk in, sir?” said the elderly man.

“No, I thank you,” said I; “I prefer sitting out here, gazing on the lake
and the noble mountains.”

“I wish you would, sir,” said the elderly man, “and take a glass of
something; I will charge you nothing.”

“Thank you,” said I—“I am in want of nothing, and shall presently start.
Do many people ascend Snowdon from your house?”

“Not so many as I could wish,” said the ranger; “people in general prefer
ascending Snowdon from that trumpery place Bethgelert; but those who do
are fools—begging your honour’s pardon.  The place to ascend Snowdon from
is my house.  The way from my house up Snowdon is wonderful for the
romantic scenery which it affords; that from Bethgelert can’t be named in
the same day with it for scenery; moreover, from my house you may have
the best guide in Wales; whereas the guides of Bethgelert—but I say
nothing.  If your honour is bound for the Wyddfa, as I suppose you are,
you had better start from my house to-morrow under my guidance.”

“I have already been up the Wyddfa from Llanberis,” said I, “and am now
going through Bethgelert to Llangollen, where my family are; were I going
up Snowdon again, I should most certainly start from your house under
your guidance, and were I not in a hurry at present, I would certainly
take up my quarters here for a week, and every day make excursions with
you into the recesses of Eryri.  I suppose you are acquainted with all
the secrets of the hills?”

“Trust the old ranger for that, your honour.  I would show your honour
the black lake in the frightful hollow, in which the fishes have
monstrous heads and little bodies, the lake on which neither swan, duck
nor any kind of wildfowl was ever seen to light.  Then I would show your
honour the fountain of the hopping creatures, where, where—”

“Were you ever at that Wolf’s crag, that Castell y Cidwm?” said I.

“Can’t say I ever was, your honour.  You see it lies so close by, just
across the lake, that—”

“You thought you could see it any day, and so never went,” said I.  “Can
you tell me whether there are any ruins upon it?”

“I can’t, your honour.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if in old times it was the stronghold of
some robber-chieftain; cidwm in the old Welsh is frequently applied to a
ferocious man.  Castell Cidwm, I should think, rather ought to be
translated the robber’s castle, than the wolf’s rock.  If I ever come
into these parts again, you and I will visit it together, and see what
kind of a place it is.  Now farewell!  It is getting late.”  I then

“What a nice gentleman!” said the younger man, when I was a few yards

“I never saw a nicer gentleman,” said the old ranger.

I sped along, Snowdon on my left, the lake on my right, and the tip of a
mountain peak right before me in the east.  After a little time I looked
back; what a scene!  The silver lake and the shadowy mountain over its
southern side looking now, methought, very much like Gibraltar.  I
lingered and lingered, gazing and gazing, and at last only by an effort
tore myself away.  The evening had now become delightfully cool in this
land of wonders.  On I sped, passing by two noisy brooks coming from
Snowdon to pay tribute to the lake.  And now I had left the lake and the
valley behind, and was ascending a hill.  As I gained its summit, up rose
the moon to cheer my way.  In a little time, a wild stony gorge
confronted me, a stream ran down the gorge with hollow roar, a bridge lay
across it.  I asked a figure whom I saw standing by the bridge the
place’s name.  “Rhyd du”—the black ford—I crossed the bridge.  The voice
of the Methodist was yelling from a little chapel on my left.  I went to
the door and listened: “When the sinner takes hold of God, God takes hold
of the sinner.”  The voice was frightfully hoarse.  I passed on; night
fell fast around me, and the mountain to the south-east, towards which I
was tending, looked blackly grand.  And now I came to a milestone, on
which I read with difficulty: “Three miles to Bethgelert.”  The way for
some time had been upward, but now it was downward.  I reached a torrent,
which, coming from the north-west, rushed under a bridge, over which I
passed.  The torrent attended me on my right hand the whole way to
Bethgelert.  The descent now became very rapid.  I passed a pine wood on
my left, and proceeded for more than two miles at a tremendous rate.  I
then came to a wood—this wood was just above Bethgelert—proceeding in the
direction of a black mountain, I found myself amongst houses, at the
bottom of a valley.  I passed over a bridge, and inquiring of some
people, whom I met, the way to the inn, was shown an edifice brilliantly
lighted up, which I entered.


Inn at Bethgelert—Delectable Company—Lieutenant P—.

The inn, or hotel, at Bethgelert, was a large and commodious building,
and was anything but thronged with company; what company, however, there
was, was disagreeable enough, perhaps more so than that in which I had
been the preceding evening, which was composed of the scum of Manchester
and Liverpool; the company amongst which I now was consisted of some
seven or eight individuals, two of them were military puppies, one a
tallish fellow, who, though evidently upwards of thirty, affected the
airs of a languishing girl, and would fain have made people believe that
he was dying of ennui and lassitude.  The other was a short spuddy
fellow, with a broad, ugly face, and with spectacles on his nose, who
talked very consequentially about “the service” and all that, but whose
tone of voice was coarse, and his manner that of an under-bred person;
then there was an old fellow about sixty-five, a civilian, with a red,
carbuncled face; he was father of the spuddy military puppy, on whom he
occasionally cast eyes of pride and almost adoration, and whose sayings
he much applauded, especially certain double entendres, to call them by
no harsher term, directed to a fat girl, weighing some fifteen stone, who
officiated in the coffee-room as waiter.  Then there was a creature to do
justice to whose appearance would require the pencil of a Hogarth.  He
was about five feet three inches and a quarter high, and might have
weighed, always provided a stone weight had been attached to him, about
half as much as the fat girl.  His countenance was cadaverous, and was
eternally agitated, by something between a grin and a simper.  He was
dressed in a style of superfine gentility, and his skeleton fingers were
bedizened with tawdry rings.  His conversation was chiefly about his bile
and his secretions, the efficacy of licorice in producing a certain
effect, and the expediency of changing one’s linen at least three times a
day; though had he changed his six I should have said that the
purification of the last shirt would have been no sinecure to the
laundress.  His accent was decidedly Scotch: he spoke familiarly of
Scott, and one or two other Scotch worthies, and more than once
insinuated that he was a member of Parliament.  With respect to the rest
of the company I say nothing, and for the very sufficient reason that,
unlike the above described batch, they did not seem disposed to be
impertinent towards me.

Eager to get out of such society, I retired early to bed.  As I left the
room the diminutive Scotch individual was describing to the old
simpleton, who, on the ground of the other’s being a “member,” was
listening to him with extreme attention, how he was labouring under an
excess of bile, owing to his having left his licorice somewhere or other.
I passed a quiet night, and in the morning breakfasted, paid my bill, and
departed.  As I went out of the coffee-room, the spuddy, broad-faced
military puppy with spectacles was vociferating to the languishing
military puppy, and to his old simpleton of a father, who was listening
to him with his usual look of undisguised admiration, about the absolute
necessity of kicking Lieutenant P— out of the army for having disgraced
“the service.”  Poor P—, whose only crime was trying to defend himself
with fist and candlestick from the manual attacks of his brutal


The Valley of Gelert—Legend of the Dog—Magnificent Scenery—The
Knicht—Goats in Wales—The Frightful Crag—Temperance House—Smile and

Bethgelert is situated in a valley surrounded by huge hills, the most
remarkable of which are Moel Hebog and Cerrig Llan; the former fences it
on the south, and the latter, which is quite black and nearly
perpendicular, on the east.  A small stream rushes through the valley,
and sallies forth by a pass at its south-eastern end.  The valley is said
by some to derive its name of Beddgelert, which signifies the grave of
Celert, from being the burial-place of Celert, a British saint of the
sixth century, to whom Llangeler in Carmarthenshire is believed to have
been consecrated; but the popular and most universally received tradition
is that it has its name from being the resting-place of a faithful dog
called Celert, or Gelert, killed by his master, the warlike and
celebrated Llywelyn ab Jorwerth, from an unlucky misapprehension.  Though
the legend is known to most people, I shall take the liberty of relating

Llywelyn, during his contests with the English, had encamped with a few
followers in the valley, and one day departed with his men on an
expedition, leaving his infant son in a cradle in his tent, under the
care of his hound Gelert, after giving the child its fill of goat’s milk.
Whilst he was absent, a wolf from the neighbouring mountains, in quest of
prey, found its way into the tent, and was about to devour the child,
when the watchful dog interfered, and after a desperate conflict, in
which the tent was torn down, succeeded in destroying the monster.
Llywelyn, returning at evening, found the tent on the ground, and the
dog, covered with blood, sitting beside it.  Imagining that the blood
with which Gelert was besmeared was that of his own son, devoured by the
animal to whose care he had confided him, Llywelyn, in a paroxysm of
natural indignation, forthwith transfixed the faithful creature with his
spear.  Scarcely, however, had he done so, when his ears were startled by
the cry of a child from beneath the fallen tent, and hastily removing the
canvas, he found the child in its cradle quite uninjured, and the body of
an enormous wolf, frightfully torn and mangled, lying near.  His breast
was now filled with conflicting emotions; joy for the preservation of his
son, and grief for the fate of his dog, to whom he forthwith hastened.
The poor animal was not quite dead, but presently expired, in the act of
licking its master’s hand.  Llywelyn mourned over him as over a brother,
buried him with funeral honours in the valley, and erected a tomb over
him as over a hero.  From that time the valley was called Bethgelert.

Such is the legend, which, whether true or fictitious, is singularly
beautiful and affecting.

The tomb, or what is said to be the tomb, of Gelert, stands in a
beautiful meadow just below the precipitous side of Cerrig Llan; it
consists of a large slab lying on its side, and two upright stones.  It
is shaded by a weeping willow, and is surrounded by a hexagonal paling.
Who is there acquainted with the legend, whether he believes that the dog
lies beneath those stones or not, can visit them without exclaiming, with
a sigh, “Poor Gelert!”

After wandering about the valley for some time, and seeing a few of its
wonders, I inquired my way for Festiniog, and set off for that place.
The way to it is through the pass at the south-east end of the valley.
Arrived at the entrance of the pass, I turned round to look at the
scenery I was leaving behind me; the view which presented itself to my
eyes was very grand and beautiful.  Before me lay the meadow of Gelert,
with the river flowing through it towards the pass.  Beyond the meadow
the Snowdon range; on the right the mighty Cerrig Llan; on the left the
equally mighty, but not quite so precipitous, Hebog.  Truly, the valley
of Gelert is a wondrous valley—rivalling for grandeur and beauty any vale
either in the Alps or Pyrenees.  After a long and earnest view, I turned
round again, and proceeded on my way.

Presently I came to a bridge bestriding the stream, which a man told me
was called Pont Aber Glâs Lyn, or the bridge of the debouchement of the
grey lake.  I soon emerged from the pass, and after proceeding some way,
stopped again to admire the scenery.  To the west was the Wyddfa; full
north was a stupendous range of rocks; behind them a conical peak,
seemingly rivalling the Wyddfa itself in altitude; between the rocks and
the road, where I stood, was beautiful forest scenery.  I again went on,
going round the side of a hill by a gentle ascent.  After a little time I
again stopped to look about me.  There was the rich forest scenery to the
north, behind it were the rocks, and behind the rocks rose the wonderful
conical hill impaling heaven; confronting it to the south-east was a huge
lumpish hill.  As I stood looking about me, I saw a man coming across a
field which sloped down to the road from a small house.  He presently
reached me, stopped and smiled.  A more open countenance than his I never
saw in all the days of my life.

“Dydd dachwi, sir,” said the man of the open countenance, “the weather is
very showy.”

“Very showy, indeed,” said I; “I was just now wishing for somebody, of
whom I might ask a question or two.”

“Perhaps I can answer those questions, sir?”

“Perhaps you can.  What is the name of that wonderful peak sticking up
behind the rocks to the north?”

“Many people have asked that question, sir, and I have given them the
answer which I now give you.  It is called the ‘Knicht,’ sir; and a
wondrous hill it is.”

“And what is the name of yonder hill opposite to it, to the south, rising
like one big lump?”

“I do not know the name of that hill, sir, farther than that I have heard
it called the Great Hill.”

“And a very good name for it,” said I; “do you live in that house?”

“I do, sir, when I am at home.”

“And what occupation do you follow?”

“I am a farmer, though a small one.”

“Is your farm your own?”

“It is not, sir; I am not so far rich.”

“Who is your landlord?”

“Mr. Blicklin, sir.  He is my landlord.”

“Is he a good landlord?”

“Very good, sir; no one can wish for a better landlord.”

“Has he a wife?”

“In truth, sir, he has; and a very good wife she is.”

“Has he children?”

“Plenty, sir; and very fine children they are.”

“Is he Welsh?”

“He is, sir!  Cumro pur iawn.”

“Farewell,” said I; “I shall never forget you; you are the first tenant I
ever heard speak well of his landlord, or any one connected with him.”

“Then you have not spoken to the other tenants of Mr. Blicklin, sir.
Every tenant of Mr. Blicklin would say the same of him as I have said,
and of his wife and his children too.  Good day, sir!”

I wended on my way; the sun was very powerful; saw cattle in a pool on my
right, maddened with heat and flies, splashing and fighting.  Presently I
found myself with extensive meadows on my right, and a wall of rocks on
my left, on a lofty bank below which I saw goats feeding; beautiful
creatures they were, white and black, with long, silky hair, and long,
upright horns.  They were of large size, and very different in appearance
from the common race.  These were the first goats which I had seen in
Wales; for Wales is not at present the land of goats, whatever it may
have been.

I passed under a crag, exceedingly lofty, and of very frightful
appearance.  It hung menacingly over the road.  With this crag the wall
of rocks terminated; beyond it lay an extensive strath, meadow, or marsh,
bounded on the east by a lofty hill.  The road lay across the marsh.  I
went forward, crossed a bridge over a beautiful streamlet, and soon
arrived at the foot of the hill.  The road now took a turn to the right,
that is, to the south, and seemed to lead round the hill.  Just at the
turn of the road stood a small, neat cottage.  There was a board over the
door with an inscription.  I drew nigh and looked at it, expecting that
it would tell me that good ale was sold within, and read “Tea made here,
the draught which cheers but not inebriates.”  I was before what is
generally termed a temperance house.

“The bill of fare does not tempt you, sir,” said a woman, who made her
appearance at the door, just as I was about to turn away with an
exceedingly wry face.

“It does not,” said I, “and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to have
nothing better to offer a traveller than a cup of tea.  I am faint; and I
want good ale to give me heart, not wishy-washy tea to take away the
little strength I have.”

“What would you have me do, sir?  Glad should I be to have a cup of ale
to offer you, but the magistrates, when I applied to them for a license,
refused me one; so I am compelled to make a cup of tea in order to get a
crust of bread.  And if you choose to step in, I will make you a cup of
tea, not wishy-washy, I assure you, but as good as ever was brewed.”

“I had tea for my breakfast at Bethgelert,” said I, “and want no more
till to-morrow morning.  What’s the name of that strange-looking crag
across the valley?”

“We call it Craig yr hyll ddrem, sir; which means—  I don’t know what it
means in English.”

“Does it mean the Crag of the frightful look?”

“It does, sir,” said the woman; “ah, I see you understand Welsh.
Sometimes it is called Allt Traeth.”

“The high place of the sandy channel,” said I.  “Did the sea ever come up

“I can’t say, sir; perhaps it did; who knows?”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if there was once an arm of the sea
between that crag and this hill.  Thank you!  Farewell!”

“Then you won’t walk in, sir?”

“Not to drink tea,” said I; “tea is a good thing at a proper time, but
were I to drink it now it would make me ill.”

“Pray, sir, walk in,” said the woman, “and perhaps I can accommodate

“Then you have ale?” said I.

“No, sir; not a drop; but perhaps I can set something before you which
you will like as well.”

“That I question,” said I; “however, I will walk in.”

The woman conducted me into a nice little parlour, and, leaving me,
presently returned with a bottle and tumbler on a tray.

“Here, sir,” said she, “is something which, though not ale, I hope you
will be able to drink.”

“What is it?” said I.

“It is—, sir; and better never was drunk.”

I tasted it; it was terribly strong.  Those who wish for either whiskey
or brandy far above proof should always go to a temperance house.

I told the woman to bring me some water, and she brought me a jug of
water cold from the spring.  With a little of the contents of the bottle,
and a deal of the contents of the jug, I made myself a beverage tolerable
enough; a poor substitute, however, to a genuine Englishman for his
proper drink, the liquor which, according to the Edda, is called by men
ale, and by the gods, beer.

I asked the woman whether she could read; she told me that she could,
both Welsh and English; she likewise informed me that she had several
books in both languages.  I begged her to show me some, whereupon she
brought me some half-dozen, and placing them on the table, left me to
myself.  Amongst the books was a volume of poems in Welsh, written by
Robert Williams of Betws Fawr, styled in poetic language, Gwilym Du O
Eifion.  The poems were chiefly on religious subjects.  The following
lines, which I copied from “Pethau a wnaed mewn Gardd,” or things written
in a garden, appeared to me singularly beautiful:—

    “Mewn gardd y cafodd dyn ei dwyllo;
    Mewn gardd y rhoed oddewid iddo;
    Mewn gardd bradychwyd Iesu hawddgar;
    Mewn gardd amdowyd ef mewn daeār.”

    “In a garden the first of our race was deceived;
    In a garden the promise of grace he received;
    In a garden was Jesus betray’d to His doom;
    In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.”

Having finished my glass of “summut” and my translation, I called to the
woman and asked her what I had to pay.

“Nothing,” said she; “if you had had a cup of tea I should have charged

“You make no charge,” said I, “for what I have had.”

“Nothing, sir; nothing.”

“But suppose,” said I, “I were to give you something by way of present,
would you—” and here I stopped.

The woman smiled.

“Would you fling it in my face?” said I.

“O dear, no, sir,” said the woman, smiling more than before.

I gave her something—it was not a sixpence—at which she not only smiled,
but curtseyed; then bidding her farewell I went out of the door.

I was about to take the broad road, which led round the hill, when she
inquired of me where I was going, and on my telling her to Festiniog, she
advised me to go by a by-road behind the house, which led over the hill.

“If you do, sir,” said she, “you will see some of the finest prospects in
Wales, get into the high road again, and save a mile and a half of way.”

I told the temperance woman I would follow her advice, whereupon she led
me behind the house, pointed to a rugged path, which with a considerable
ascent seemed to lead towards the north, and after, giving certain
directions, not very intelligible, returned to her temperance temple.


Spanish Proverb—The Short Cut—Predestination—Rhys Goch—Old
Crusty—Undercharging—The Cavalier.

The Spaniards have a proverb: “No hay atajo sin trabajo,” there is no
short cut without a deal of labour.  This proverb is very true, as I know
by my own experience, for I never took a short cut in my life, and I have
taken many in my wanderings, without falling down, getting into a slough,
or losing my way.  On the present occasion I lost my way, and wandered
about for nearly two hours amidst rocks, thickets, and precipices,
without being able to find it.  The temperance woman, however, spoke
nothing but the truth, when she said I should see some fine scenery.
From a rock I obtained a wonderful view of the Wyddfa towering in sublime
grandeur in the west, and of the beautiful, but spectral, Knicht shooting
up high in the north; and from the top of a bare hill I obtained a
prospect to the south, noble indeed—waters, forests, hoary mountains, and
in the far distance the sea.  But all these fine prospects were a poor
compensation for what I underwent: I was scorched by the sun, which was
insufferably hot, and my feet were bleeding from the sharp points of the
rocks, which cut through my boots like razors.  At length, coming to a
stone wall, I flung myself down under it, and almost thought that I
should give up the ghost.  After some time, however, I recovered, and,
getting up, tried to find my way out of the anialwch.  Sheer good fortune
caused me to stumble upon a path, by following which I came to a lone
farm-house, where a good-natured woman gave me certain directions, by
means of which I at last got out of the hot, stony wilderness—for such it
was—upon a smooth, royal road.

“Trust me again taking any short cuts,” said I, “after the specimen I
have just had.”  This, however, I had frequently said before, and have
said since after taking short cuts—and probably shall often say again
before I come to my great journey’s end.

I turned to the east, which I knew to be my proper direction, and being
now on smooth ground, put my legs to their best speed.  The road by a
rapid descent conducted me to a beautiful valley, with a small town at
its southern end.  I soon reached the town, and on inquiring its name,
found I was in Tan y Bwlch, which interpreted signifieth “Below the
Pass.”  Feeling much exhausted, I entered the Grapes Inn.

On my calling for brandy-and-water, I was shown into a handsome parlour.
The brandy-and-water soon restored the vigour which I had lost in the
wilderness.  In the parlour was a serious-looking gentleman, with a glass
of something before him.  With him, as I sipped my brandy-and-water, I
got into discourse.  The discourse soon took a religious turn, and
terminated in a dispute.  He told me he believed in Divine
predestination; I told him I did not, but that I believed in divine
prescience.  He asked me whether I hoped to be saved; I told him I did,
and asked him whether he hoped to be saved.  He told me he did not, and
as he said so, he tapped with a silver tea-spoon on the rim of his glass.
I said that he seemed to take very coolly the prospect of damnation; he
replied that it was of no use taking what was inevitable otherwise than
coolly.  I asked him on what ground he imagined he should be lost; he
replied on the ground of being predestined to be lost.  I asked him how
he knew he was predestined to be lost; whereupon he asked me how I knew I
was to be saved; I told him I did not know I was to be saved, but trusted
I should be so by belief in Christ, who came into the world to save
sinners, and that if he believed in Christ he might be as easily saved as
myself, or any other sinner who believed in Him.  Our dispute continued a
considerable time longer; at last, finding him silent, and having
finished my brandy-and-water, I got up, rang the bell, paid for what I
had had, and left him looking very miserable, perhaps at finding that he
was not quite so certain of eternal damnation as he had hitherto
supposed.  There can be no doubt that the idea of damnation is anything
but disagreeable to some people; it gives them a kind of gloomy
consequence in their own eyes.  We must be something particular, they
think, or God would hardly think it worth His while to torment us for

I inquired the way to Festiniog, and finding that I had passed by it on
my way to the town, I went back, and, as directed, turned to the east up
a wide pass, down which flowed a river.  I soon found myself in another
and very noble valley intersected by the river, which was fed by numerous
streams rolling down the sides of the hills.  The road which I followed
in the direction of the east, lay on the southern side of the valley, and
led upward by a steep ascent.  On I went, a mighty hill close on my
right.  My mind was full of enthusiastic fancies; I was approaching
Festiniog, the birthplace of Rhys Goch, who styled himself Rhys Goch of
Eryri, or Red Rhys of Snowdon, a celebrated bard, and a partisan of Owen
Glendower, who lived to an immense age, and who, as I had read, was in
the habit of composing his pieces seated on a stone which formed part of
a Druidical circle, for which reason the stone was called the chair of
Rhys Goch; yes, my mind was full of enthusiastic fancies, all connected
with this Rhys Goch, and as I went along slowly I repeated stanzas of
furious war songs of his, exciting his countrymen to exterminate the
English, and likewise snatches of an abusive ode composed by him against
a fox who had run away with his favourite peacock, a piece so abounding
with hard words, that it was termed the Drunkard’s chokepear, as no
drunkard was ever able to recite it, and ever and anon I wished I could
come in contact with some native of the region, with whom I could talk
about Rhys Goch, and who could tell me whereabouts stood his chair.

Strolling along in this manner, I was overtaken by an old fellow with a
stick in his hand, walking very briskly.  He had a crusty, and rather
conceited look.  I spoke to him in Welsh, and he answered in English,
saying, that I need not trouble myself by speaking Welsh, as he had
plenty of English, and of the very best.  We were from first to last at
cross purposes.  I asked him about Rhys Goch and his chair.  He told me
that he knew nothing of either, and began to talk of Her Majesty’s
ministers, and the fine sights of London.  I asked him the name of a
stream which, descending a gorge on our right, ran down the side of a
valley, to join the river at its bottom.  He told me that he did not
know, and asked me the name of the Queen’s eldest daughter.  I told him I
did not know, and remarked that it was very odd that he could not tell me
the name of a stream in his own vale.  He replied that it was not a bit
more odd than that I could not tell him the name of the eldest daughter
of the Queen of England; I told him that when I was in Wales I wanted to
talk about Welsh matters, and he told me that when he was with English he
wanted to talk about English matters.  I returned to the subject of Rhys
Goch and his chair, and he returned to the subject of Her Majesty’s
ministers, and the fine folks of London.  I told him that I cared not a
straw about Her Majesty’s ministers and the fine folks of London, and he
replied that he cared not a straw for Rhys Goch, his chair, or old
women’s stories of any kind.

Regularly incensed against the old fellow, I told him he was a bad
Welshman, and he retorted by saying I was a bad Englishman.  I said he
appeared to know next to nothing.  He retorted by saying I knew less than
nothing, and, almost inarticulate with passion, added that he scorned to
walk in such illiterate company, and suiting the action to the word,
sprang up a steep and rocky footpath on the right, probably a short cut
to his domicile, and was out of sight in a twinkling.  We were both
wrong; I most so.  He was crusty and conceited, but I ought to have
humoured him, and then I might have got out of him anything he knew,
always supposing that he knew anything.

About an hour’s walk from Tan y Bwlch brought me to Festiniog, which is
situated on the top of a lofty hill looking down from the south-east, on
the valley which I have described, and which, as I know not its name, I
shall style the Valley of the numerous streams.  I went to the inn, a
large old-fashioned house, standing near the church; the mistress of it
was a queer-looking old woman, antiquated in her dress, and rather blunt
in her manner.  Of her, after ordering dinner, I made inquiries
respecting the chair of Rhys Goch, but she said that she had never heard
of such a thing; and after glancing at me askew for a moment, with a
curiously formed left eye which she had, went away muttering chair,
chair, leaving me in a large and rather dreary parlour, to which she had
shown me.  I felt very fatigued, rather I believe from that unlucky short
cut than from the length of the way, for I had not come more than
eighteen miles.  Drawing a chair towards a table, I sat down, and placing
my elbows upon the board, I leaned my face upon my upturned hands, and
presently fell into a sweet sleep, from which I awoke exceedingly
refreshed, just as a maid opened the room door to lay the cloth.

After dinner I got up, went out, and strolled about the place.  It was
small, and presented nothing very remarkable.  Tired of strolling, I went
and leaned my back against the wall of the churchyard, and enjoyed the
cool of the evening, for evening, with its coolness and shadows, had now
come on.

As I leaned against the wall, an elderly man came up and entered into
discourse with me.  He told me he was a barber by profession, had
travelled all over Wales, and had seen London.  I asked him about the
chair of Rhys Goch.  He told me that he had heard of some such chair a
long time ago, but could give me no information as to where it stood.  I
know not how it happened that he came to speak about my landlady, but
speak about her he did.  He said that she was a good kind of woman, but
totally unqualified for business, as she knew not how to charge.  On my
observing that that was a piece of ignorance with which few landladies,
or landlords either, were taxable, he said that, however other publicans
might overcharge, undercharging was her foible, and that she had brought
herself very low in the world by it—that to his certain knowledge she
might have been worth thousands instead of the trifle which she was
possessed of, and that she was particularly notorious for undercharging
the English, a thing never before dreamt of in Wales.  I told him that I
was very glad that I had come under the roof of such a landlady; the old
barber, however, said that she was setting a bad example, that such
goings on could not last long, that he knew how things would end, and
finally working himself up into a regular tiff, left me abruptly without
wishing me good night.

I returned to the inn, and called for lights; the lights were placed upon
the table in the old-fashioned parlour, and I was left to myself.  I
walked up and down the room some time, at length, seeing some old books
lying in a corner, I laid hold of them, carried them to the table, sat
down, and began to inspect them; they were the three volumes of Scott’s
“Cavalier”—I had seen this work when a youth, and thought it a tiresome,
trashy publication.  Looking over it now, when I was grown old, I thought
so still, but I now detected in it what from want of knowledge I had not
detected in my early years, what the highest genius, had it been
manifested in every page, could not have compensated for—base, fulsome
adulation of the worthless great, and most unprincipled libelling of the
truly noble ones of the earth, because they, the sons of peasants and
handycraftsmen, stood up for the rights of outraged humanity, and
proclaimed that it is worth makes the man, and not embroidered clothing.
The heartless, unprincipled son of the tyrant was transformed, in that
worthless book, into a slightly dissipated, it is true, but upon the
whole brave, generous, and amiable being; and Harrison, the English
Regulus, honest, brave, unflinching Harrison, into a pseudo-fanatic, a
mixture of the rogue and fool, Harrison probably the man of the most
noble and courageous heart that England ever produced; who, when all was
lost, scorned to flee, like the second Charles from Worcester, but braved
infamous judges and the gallows; who, when reproached on his mock trial
with complicity in the death of the king, gave the noble answer that “It
was a thing not done in a corner,” and when in the cart on the way to
Tyburn, on being asked jeeringly by a lord’s bastard in the crowd, “Where
is the good old cause now?” thrice struck his strong fist on the breast
which contained his courageous heart, exclaiming, “Here, here, here!”
Yet for that “Cavalier,” that trumpery publication, the booksellers of
England, on its first appearance, gave an order to the amount of six
thousand pounds.  But they were wise in their generation; they knew that
the book would please the base, slavish taste of the age, a taste which
the author of the work had had no slight share in forming.

Tired after a while with turning over the pages of the trashy “Cavalier,”
I returned the volumes to their place in the corner, blew out one candle,
and taking the other in my hand marched off to bed.


The Bill—The Two Mountains—Sheet of Water—The Afanc-Crocodile—The
Afanc-Beaver—Tai Hirion—Kind Woman—Arenig Vawr—The Beam and Mote—Bala.

After breakfasting I demanded my bill.  I was curious to see how little
the amount would be, for after what I had heard from the old barber the
preceding evening about the utter ignorance of the landlady in making a
charge, I naturally expected that I should have next to nothing to pay.
When it was brought, however, and the landlady brought it herself, I
could scarcely believe my eyes.  Whether the worthy woman had lately come
to a perception of the folly of undercharging, and had determined to
adopt a different system; whether it was that, seeing me the only guest
in the house, she had determined to charge for my entertainment what she
usually charged for that of two or three—strange, by the bye, that I
should be the only guest in a house notorious for undercharging—I know
not, but certain it is the amount of the bill was far, far from the next
to nothing which the old barber had led me to suppose I should have to
pay, who, perhaps, after all had very extravagant ideas with respect to
making out a bill for a Saxon.  It was, however, not a very
unconscionable bill, and merely amounted to a trifle more than I had paid
at Bethgelert for somewhat better entertainment.

Having paid the bill without demur, and bidden the landlady farewell, who
displayed the same kind of indifferent bluntness which she had manifested
the day before, I set off in the direction of the east, intending that my
next stage should be Bala.  Passing through a toll-gate I found myself in
a kind of suburb consisting of a few cottages.  Struck with the
neighbouring scenery, I stopped to observe it.  A mighty mountain rises
in the north almost abreast of Festiniog; another towards the east
divided into two of unequal size.  Seeing a woman of an interesting
countenance seated at the door of a cottage, I pointed to the hill
towards the north, and speaking the Welsh language, inquired its name.

“That hill, sir,” said she, “is called Moel Wyn.”

Now Moel Wyn signifies the white, bare hill.

“And how do you call those two hills towards the east?”

“We call one, sir, Mynydd Mawr, the other Mynydd Bach.”

Now Mynydd Mawr signifies the great mountain, and Mynydd Bach the little

“Do any people live in those hills?”

“The men who work the quarries, sir, live in those hills.  They and their
wives and their children.  No other people.”

“Have you any English?”

“I have not, sir.  No people who live on this side the talcot (tollgate)
for a long way have any English.”

I proceeded on my journey.  The country for some way eastward of
Festiniog is very wild and barren, consisting of huge hills without trees
or verdure.  About three miles’ distance, however, there is a beautiful
valley, which you look down upon from the southern side of the road,
after having surmounted a very steep ascent.  This valley is fresh and
green, and the lower parts of the hills on its farther side are, here and
there, adorned with groves.  At the eastern end is a deep, dark gorge, or
ravine, down which tumbles a brook in a succession of small cascades.
The ravine is close by the road.  The brook, after disappearing for a
time, shows itself again far down in the valley, and is doubtless one of
the tributaries of the Tan y Bwlch river, perhaps the very same brook the
name of which I could not learn the preceding day in the vale.

As I was gazing on the prospect, an old man driving a peat cart came from
the direction in which I was going.  I asked him the name of the ravine,
and he told me it was Ceunant Coomb, or hollow-dingle coomb.  I asked the
name of the brook, and he told me that it was called the brook of the
hollow-dingle coomb, adding that it ran under Pont Newydd, though where
that was I knew not.  Whilst he was talking with me he stood uncovered.
Yes, the old peat driver stood with his hat in his hand whilst answering
the questions of the poor, dusty foot-traveller.  What a fine thing to be
an Englishman in Wales!

In about an hour I came to a wild moor; the moor extended for miles and
miles.  It was bounded on the east and south by immense hills and moels.
On I walked at a round pace, the sun scorching me sore, along a dusty,
hilly road, now up, now down.  Nothing could be conceived more cheerless
than the scenery around.  The ground on each side of the road was mossy
and rushy—no houses—instead of them were peat stacks, here and there,
standing in their blackness.  Nothing living to be seen except a few
miserable sheep picking the wretched herbage, or lying panting on the
shady side of the peat clumps.  At length I saw something which appeared
to be a sheet of water at the bottom of a low ground on my right.  It
looked far off—“Shall I go and see what it is?” thought I to myself.
“No,” thought I.  “It is too far off”—so on I walked till I lost sight of
it, when I repented and thought I would go and see what it was.  So I
dashed down the moory slope on my right, and presently saw the object
again—and now I saw that it was water.  I sped towards it through gorse
and heather, occasionally leaping a deep drain.  At last I reached it.
It was a small lake.  Wearied and panting, I flung myself on its bank,
and gazed upon it.

There lay the lake in the low bottom, surrounded by the heathery
hillocks; there it lay quite still, the hot sun reflected upon its
surface, which shone like a polished blue shield.  Near the shore it was
shallow, at least near that shore upon which I lay.  But farther on, my
eye, practised in deciding upon the depths of waters, saw reason to
suppose that its depth was very great.  As I gazed upon it my mind
indulged in strange musings.  I thought of the afanc, a creature which
some have supposed to be the harmless and industrious beaver, others the
frightful and destructive crocodile.  I wondered whether the afanc was
the crocodile or the beaver, and speedily had no doubt that the name was
originally applied to the crocodile.

“O, who can doubt,” thought I, “that the word was originally intended for
something monstrous and horrible?  Is there not something horrible in the
look and sound of the word afanc, something connected with the opening
and shutting of immense jaws, and the swallowing of writhing prey?  Is
not the word a fitting brother of the Arabic timsah, denoting the dread
horny lizard of the waters?  Moreover, have we not the voice of tradition
that the afanc was something monstrous?  Does it not say that Hu the
Mighty, the inventor of husbandry, who brought the Cumry from the
summer-country, drew the old afanc out of the lake of lakes with his four
gigantic oxen?  Would he have had recourse to them to draw out the little
harmless beaver?  O, surely not.  Yet have I no doubt that, when the
crocodile had disappeared from the lands where the Cumric language was
spoken, the name afanc was applied to the beaver, probably his successor
in the pool; the beaver now called in Cumric Llostlydan, or the
broad-tailed, for tradition’s voice is strong that the beaver has at one
time been called the afanc.”  Then I wondered whether the pool before me
had been the haunt of the afanc, considered both as crocodile and beaver.
I saw no reason to suppose that it had not.  “If crocodiles,” thought I,
“ever existed in Britain, and who shall say that they have not? seeing
that their remains have been discovered, why should they not have haunted
this pool?  If beavers ever existed in Britain, and do not tradition and
Giraldus say that they have? why should they not have existed in this

“At a time almost inconceivably remote, when the hills around were
covered with woods, through which the elk and the bison and the wild cow
strolled, when men were rare throughout the lands, and unlike in most
things to the present race—at such a period—and such a period there has
been—I can easily conceive that the afanc-crocodile haunted this pool,
and that when the elk or bison or wild cow came to drink of its waters,
the grim beast would occasionally rush forth, and seizing his bellowing
victim, would return with it to the deeps before me to luxuriate at his
ease upon its flesh.  And at a time less remote, when the crocodile was
no more, and though the woods still covered the hills, and wild cattle
strolled about, men were more numerous than before, and less unlike the
present race, I can easily conceive this lake to have been the haunt of
the afanc-beaver, that he here built cunningly his house of trees and
clay, and that to this lake the native would come with his net and his
spear to hunt the animal for his precious fur.  Probably if the depths of
that pool were searched, relics of the crocodile and the beaver might be
found, along with other strange things connected with the periods in
which they respectively lived.  Happy were I if for a brief space I could
become a Cingalese, that I might swim out far into that pool, dive down
into its deepest part, and endeavour to discover any strange things which
beneath its surface may lie.”  Much in this guise rolled my thoughts as I
lay stretched on the margin of the lake.

Satiated with musing, I at last got up, and endeavoured to regain the
road.  I found it at last, though not without considerable difficulty.  I
passed over moors, black and barren, along a dusty road till I came to a
valley; I was now almost choked with dust and thirst, and longed for
nothing in the world so much as for water; suddenly I heard its blessed
sound, and perceived a rivulet on my left hand.  It was crossed by two
bridges, one immensely old and terribly dilapidated, the other old
enough, but in better repair—went and drank under the oldest bridge of
the two.  The water tasted of the peat of the moors, nevertheless I drank
greedily of it, for one must not be over-delicate upon the moors.

Refreshed with my draught, I proceeded briskly on my way, and in a little
time saw a range of white buildings, diverging from the road on the right
hand, the gable of the first abutting upon it.  A kind of farmyard was
before them.  A respectable-looking woman was standing in the yard.  I
went up to her and inquired the name of the place.

“These houses, sir,” said she, “are called Tai Hirion Mignaint.  Look
over that door and you will see T. H., which letters stand for Tai
Hirion.  Mignaint is the name of the place where they stand.”

I looked, and upon a stone which formed the lintel of the middlemost door
I read T. H. 1630.

The words Tai Hirion, it will be as well to say, signify the long houses.

I looked long and steadfastly at the inscription, my mind full of
thoughts of the past.

“Many a year has rolled by since these houses were built,” said I, as I
sat down on a stepping-stone.

“Many, indeed, sir,” said the woman, “and many a strange thing has

“Did you ever hear of one Oliver Cromwell?” said I.

“O yes, sir, and of King Charles too.  The men of both have been in this
yard and have baited their horses; aye, and have mounted their horses
from the stone on which you sit.”

“I suppose they were hardly here together?” said I.

“No, no, sir,” said the woman, “they were bloody enemies, and could never
set their horses together.”

“Are these long houses,” said I, “inhabited by different families?”

“Only by one, sir; they make now one farm-house.”

“Are you the mistress of it?” said I.

“I am, sir, and my husband is the master.  Can I bring you anything,

“Some water,” said I, “for I am thirsty, though I drank under the old

The good woman brought me a basin of delicious milk and water.

“What are the names of the two bridges,” said I, “a little way from

“They are called, sir, the old and new bridge of Tai Hirion; at least we
call them so.”

“And what do you call the ffrwd that runs beneath them?”

“I believe, sir, it is called the river Twerin.”

“Do you know a lake far up there amidst the moors?”

“I have seen it, sir; they call it Llyn Twerin.”

“Does the river Twerin flow from it?”

“I believe it does, sir; but I do not know.”

“Is the lake deep?”

“I have heard that it is very deep, sir; so much so, that nobody knows
its depth.”

“Are there fish in it?”

“Digon, sir, digon iawn, and some very large.  I once saw a Pen-hwyad
from that lake which weighed fifty pounds.”

After a little farther conversation I got up, and, thanking the kind
woman, departed.  I soon left the moors behind me, and continued walking
till I came to a few houses on the margin of a meadow or fen in a valley,
through which the way trended to the east.  They were almost overshadowed
by an enormous mountain, which rose beyond the fen on the south.  Seeing
a house which bore a sign, and at the door of which a horse stood tied, I
went in, and a woman coming to meet me in a kind of passage, I asked her
if I could have some ale.

“Of the best, sir,” she replied, and conducted me down the passage into a
neat room, partly kitchen, partly parlour, the window of which looked out
upon the fen.  A rustic-looking man sat smoking at a table, with a jug of
ale before him.  I sat down near him, and the good woman brought me a
similar jug of ale, which on tasting I found excellent.  My spirits,
which had been for some time very flagging, presently revived, and I
entered into conversation with my companion at the table.  From him I
learned that he was a farmer of the neighbourhood, that the horse tied
before the door belonged to him, that the present times were very bad for
the producers of grain, with very slight likelihood of improvement; that
the place at which we were was called Rhyd y fen, or the ford across the
fen; that it was just half-way between Festiniog and Bala, that the
clergyman of the parish was called Mr. Pughe, a good kind of man, but
very purblind in a spiritual sense; and finally that there was no safe
religion in the world, save that of the Calvinistic Methodists, to which
my companion belonged.

Having finished my ale, I paid for it, and leaving the Calvinistic farmer
still smoking, I departed from Rhyd y fen.  On I went along the valley,
the enormous hill on my right, a moel of about half its height on my
left, and a tall hill bounding the prospect in the east, the direction in
which I was going.  After a little time, meeting two women, I asked them
the name of the mountain to the south.

“Arenig Vawr,” they replied, or something like it.

Presently meeting four men, I put the same question to the foremost, a
stout, burly, intelligent-looking fellow, of about fifty.  He gave me the
same name as the women.  I asked if anybody lived upon it.

“No,” said he, “too cold for man.”

“Fox?” said I.

“No! too cold for fox.”

“Crow?” said I.

“No; too cold for crow; crow would be starved upon it.”  He then looked
me in the face, expecting probably that I should smile.

I, however, looked at him with all the gravity of a judge, whereupon he
also observed the gravity of a judge, and we continued looking at each
other with all the gravity of judges till we both simultaneously turned
away, he followed by his companions going his path, and I going mine.

I subsequently remembered that Arenig is mentioned in a Welsh poem,
though in anything but a flattering and advantageous manner.  The writer
calls it Arenig ddiffaith, or barren Arenig, and says that it intercepts
from him the view of his native land.  Arenig is certainly barren enough,
for there is neither tree nor shrub upon it, but there is something
majestic in its huge bulk.  Of all the hills which I saw in Wales, none
made a greater impression upon me.

Towards evening I arrived at a very small and pretty village, in the
middle of which was a toll-gate—seeing an old woman seated at the door of
the gate-house, I asked her the name of the village.  “I have no
Saesneg!” she screamed out.

“I have plenty of Cumraeg,” said I, and repeated my question.  Whereupon
she told me that it was called Tref y Talcot—the village of the
toll-gate.  That it was a very nice village, and that she was born there.
She then pointed to two young women who were walking towards the gate at
a very slow pace, and told me they were English.  “I do not know them,”
said I.  The old lady, who was somewhat deaf, thinking that I said I did
not know English, leered at me complacently, and said that in that case I
was like herself, for she did not speak a word of English, adding that a
body should not be considered a fool for not speaking English.  She then
said that the young women had been taking a walk together, and that they
were much in each other’s company for the sake of conversation, and no
wonder, as the poor simpletons could not speak a word of Welsh.  I
thought of the beam and mote mentioned in Scripture, and then cast a
glance of compassion on the two poor young women.  For a moment I fancied
myself in the times of Owen Glendower, and that I saw two females, whom
his marauders had carried off from Cheshire or Shropshire to toil and
slave in the Welshery, walking together after the labours of the day were
done, and bemoaning their misfortunes in their own homely English.

Shortly after leaving the village of the toll-gate I came to a beautiful
valley.  On my right hand was a river, the farther bank of which was
fringed with trees; on my left was a gentle ascent, the lower part of
which was covered with rich grass, and the upper with yellow, luxuriant
corn; a little farther on was a green grove, behind which rose up a moel.
A more bewitching scene I never beheld.  Ceres and Pan seemed in this
place to have met to hold their bridal.  The sun now descending shone
nobly upon the whole.  After staying for some time to gaze, I proceeded,
and soon met several carts, from the driver of one of which I learned
that I was yet three miles from Bala.  I continued my way and came to a
bridge, a little way beyond which I overtook two men, one of whom, an old
fellow, held a very long whip in his hand, and the other, a much younger
man with a cap on his head, led a horse.  When I came up the old fellow
took off his hat to me, and I forthwith entered into conversation with
him.  I soon gathered from him that he was a horse-dealer from Bala, and
that he had been out on the road with his servant to break a horse.  I
astonished the old man with my knowledge of Welsh and horses, and learned
from him, for conceiving I was one of the right sort, he was very
communicative, two or three curious particulars connected with the Welsh
mode of breaking horses.  Discourse shortened the way to both of us, and
we were soon in Bala.  In the middle of the town he pointed to a large
old-fashioned house on the right hand, at the bottom of a little square,
and said, “Your honour was just asking me about an inn.  That is the best
inn in Wales, and if your honour is as good a judge of an inn as of a
horse, I think you will say so when you leave it.  Prydnawn da ’chwi!”


Tom Jenkins—Ale of Bala—Sober Moments—Local Prejudices—The
States—Unprejudiced Man—Welsh Pensilvanian Settlers—Drapery Line—Evening

Scarcely had I entered the door of the inn when a man presented himself
to me with a low bow.  He was about fifty years of age, somewhat above
the middle size, and had grizzly hair, and a dark, freckled countenance,
in which methought I saw a considerable dash of humour.  He wore brown
clothes, had no hat on his head, and held a napkin in his hand.  “Are you
the master of this hotel?” said I.

“No, your honour,” he replied, “I am only the waiter, but I officiate for
my master in all things; my master has great confidence in me, sir.”

“And I have no doubt,” said I, “that he could not place his confidence in
any one more worthy.”

With a bow yet lower than the preceding one the waiter replied with a
smirk and a grimace, “Thank, your honour, for your good opinion.  I
assure your honour that I am deeply obliged.”

His air, manner, and even accent, were so like those of a Frenchman, that
I could not forbear asking him whether he was one.

He shook his head and replied, “No, your honour, no, I am not a
Frenchman, but a native of this poor country, Tom Jenkins by name.”

“Well,” said I, “you really look and speak like a Frenchman, but no
wonder; the Welsh and French are much of the same blood.  Please now to
show me into the parlour.”

He opened the door of a large apartment, placed a chair by a table which
stood in the middle, and then with another bow requested to know my
farther pleasure.  After ordering dinner I said that, as I was thirsty, I
should like to have some ale forthwith.

“Ale you shall have, your honour,” said Tom, “and some of the best ale
that can be drunk.  This house is famous for ale.”

“I suppose you get your ale from Llangollen,” said I, “which is
celebrated for its ale over Wales.”

“Get our ale from Llangollen?” said Tom, with a sneer of contempt, “no,
nor anything else.  As for the ale, it was brewed in this house by your
honour’s humble servant.”

“Oh,” said I, “if you brewed it, it must of course be good.  Pray bring
me some immediately, for I am anxious to drink ale of your brewing.”

“Your honour shall be obeyed,” said Tom, and disappearing, returned in a
twinkling with a tray, on which stood a jug filled with liquor, and a
glass.  He forthwith filled the glass, and pointing to its contents,

“There, your honour, did you ever see such ale?  Observe its colour!
Does it not look for all the world as pale and delicate as cowslip wine?”

“I wish it may not taste like cowslip wine,” said I; “to tell you the
truth, I am no particular admirer of ale that looks pale and delicate;
for I always think there is no strength in it.”

“Taste it, your honour,” said Tom, “and tell me if you ever tasted such

I tasted it, and then took a copious draught.  The ale was indeed
admirable, equal to the best that I had ever before drunk—rich and
mellow, with scarcely any smack of the hop in it, and though so pale and
delicate to the eye, nearly as strong as brandy.  I commended it highly
to the worthy Jenkins, who exultingly exclaimed—

“That Llangollen ale indeed! no, no! ale like that, your honour, was
never brewed in that trumpery hole Llangollen.”

“You seem to have a very low opinion of Llangollen?” said I.

“How can I have anything but a low opinion of it, your honour?  A
trumpery hole it is, and ever will remain so.”

“Many people of the first quality go to visit it,” said I.

“That is because it lies so handy for England, your honour.  If it did
not, nobody would go to see it.  What is there to see in Llangollen?”

“There is not much to see in the town, I admit,” said I, “but the scenery
about it is beautiful; what mountains!”

“Mountains, your honour, mountains! well, we have mountains too, and as
beautiful as those of Llangollen.  Then we have our lake, our Llyn Tegid,
the lake of beauty.  Show me anything like that near Llangollen!”

“Then,” said I, “there is your mound, your Tomen Bala.  The Llangollen
people can show nothing like that.”

Tom Jenkins looked at me for a moment with some surprise, and then said:
“I see you have been here before, sir.”

“No,” said I, “never, but I have read about the Tomen Bala in books, both
Welsh and English.”

“You have, sir?” said Tom.  “Well, I am rejoiced to see so book-learned a
gentleman in our house.  The Tomen Bala has puzzled many a head.  What do
the books which mention it say about it, your honour?”

“Very little,” said I, “beyond mentioning it; what do the people here say
of it?”

“All kinds of strange things, your honour.”

“Do they say who built it?”

“Some say the Tylwyth Teg built it, others that it was cast up over a
dead king by his people.  The truth is, nobody here knows who built it,
or anything about it, save that it is a wonder.  Ah, those people of
Llangollen can show nothing like it.”

“Come,” said I, “you must not be so hard upon the people of Llangollen.
They appear to me, upon the whole, to be an eminently respectable body.”

The Celtic waiter gave a genuine French shrug.  “Excuse me, your honour,
for being of a different opinion.  They are all drunkards.”

“I have occasionally seen drunken people at Llangollen,” said I, “but I
have likewise seen a great many sober.”

“That is, your honour, you have seen them in their sober moments; but if
you had watched, your honour, if you had kept your eye on them, you would
have seen them reeling too.”

“That I can hardly believe,” said I.

“Your honour can’t! but I can who know them.  They are all drunkards, and
nobody can live among them without being a drunkard.  There was my

“What of him?” said I.

“Why, he went to Llangollen, your honour, and died of a drunken fever in
less than a month.”

“Well, but might he not have died of the same, if he had remained at

“No, your honour, no! he lived here many a year, and never died of a
drunken fever; he was rather fond of liquor, it is true, but he never
died at Bala of a drunken fever; but when he went to Llangollen he did.
Now, your honour, if there is not something more drunken about Llangollen
than about Bala, why did my nephew die at Llangollen of a drunken fever?”

“Really,” said I, “you are such a close reasoner, that I do not like to
dispute with you.  One observation, however, I wish to make: I have lived
at Llangollen without, I hope, becoming a drunkard.”

“Oh, your honour is out of the question,” said the Celtic waiter, with a
strange grimace.  “Your honour is an Englishman, an English gentleman,
and of course could live all the days of your life at Llangollen without
being a drunkard, he he!  Who ever heard of an Englishman, especially an
English gentleman, being a drunkard, he he he!  And now, your honour,
pray excuse me, for I must go and see that your honour’s dinner is being
got ready in a suitable manner.”

Thereupon he left me, with a bow yet lower than any I had previously seen
him make.  If his manners put me in mind of those of a Frenchman, his
local prejudices brought powerfully to my recollection those of a
Spaniard.  Tom Jenkins swears by Bala and abuses Llangollen, and calls
its people drunkards, just as a Spaniard exalts his own village, and
vituperates the next and its inhabitants, whom, though he will not call
them drunkards, unless, indeed, he happens to be a Gallegan, he will not
hesitate to term “una caterva de pillos y embusteros.”

The dinner when it appeared was excellent, and consisted of many more
articles than I had ordered.  After dinner, as I sat “trifling” with my
cold brandy-and-water, an individual entered—a short, thick, dumpy man
about thirty, with brown clothes and a broad hat, and holding in his hand
a large leather bag.  He gave me a familiar nod, and passing by the
table, at which I sat, to one near the window, he flung the bag upon it,
and seating himself in the chair with his profile towards me, he untied
the bag, from which he poured a large quantity of sovereigns upon the
table, and fell to counting them.  After counting them three times, he
placed them again in the bag, which he tied up; then taking a small book,
seemingly an account-book, out of his pocket, he wrote something in it
with a pencil; then putting it in his pocket, he took the bag, and
unlocking a beaufet which stood at some distance behind him against the
wall, he put the bag into a drawer; then again locking the beaufet, he
sat down in the chair, then tilting the chair back upon its hind legs, he
kept swaying himself backwards and forwards upon it, his toes sometimes
upon the ground, sometimes mounting until they tapped against the nether
side of the table, surveying me all the time with a queer kind of a side
glance, and occasionally ejecting saliva upon the carpet in the direction
of the place where I sat.

“Fine weather, sir,” said I at last, rather tired of being skewed and
spit at in this manner.

“Why yaas,” said the figure; “the day is tolerably fine, but I have seen
a finer.”

“Well, I don’t remember to have seen one,” said I; “it is as fine a day
as I have seen during the present season, and finer weather than I have
seen during this season I do not think I ever saw before.”

“The weather is fine enough for Britain,” said the figure, “but there are
other countries besides Britain.”

“Why,” said I, “there’s the States, ’tis true.”

“Ever been in the States, Mr.?” said the figure quickly.

“Have I ever been in the States,” said I, “have I ever been in the

“Perhaps you are of the States, Mr.; I thought so from the first.”

“The States are fine countries,” said I.

“I guess they are, Mr.”

“It would be no easy matter to whip the States.”

“So I should guess, Mr.”

“That is single-handed,” said I.

“Single-handed, no, nor double-handed either.  Let England and France and
the State which they are now trying to whip without being able to do it,
that’s Russia, all unite in a union to whip the Union, and if instead of
whipping the States they don’t get a whipping themselves, call me a
braying jackass—”

“I see, Mr.,” said I, “that you are a sensible man, because you speak
very much my own opinion.  However, as I am an unprejudiced person, like
yourself, I wish to do justice to other countries—the States are fine
countries—but there are other fine countries in the world.  I say nothing
of England; catch me saying anything good of England; but I call Wales a
fine country: gainsay it who may, I call Wales a fine country.”

“So it is, Mr.”

“I’ll go farther,” said I; “I wish to do justice to everything: I call
the Welsh a fine language.”

“So it is, Mr. Ah, I see you are an unprejudiced man.  You don’t
understand Welsh, I guess.”

“I don’t understand Welsh,” said I; “I don’t understand Welsh.  That’s
what I call a good one.”

“Medrwch siarad Cumraeg?” said the short figure, spitting upon the

“Medraf,” said I.

“You can, Mr.!  Well, if that don’t whip the Union.  But I see: you were
born in the States of Welsh parents.”

“No harm in being born in the States of Welsh parents,” said I.

“None at all, Mr.; I was myself, and the first language I learnt to speak
was Welsh.  Did your people come from Bala, Mr.?”

“Why no!  Did yourn?”

“Why yaas—at least from the neighbourhood.  What State do you come from?

“Why no!”

“Perhaps Pensilvany country?”

“Pensilvany is a fine state,” said I.

“So it is, Mr.  O, that is your state, is it?  I come from Varmont.”

“You do, do you?  Well, Varmont is not a bad state, but not equal to
Pensilvany, and I’ll tell you two reasons why; first, it has not been so
long settled, and second, there is not so much Welsh blood in it as there
is in Pensilvany.”

“Is there much Welsh blood in Pensilvany, then?”

“Plenty, Mr., plenty.  Welsh flocked over to Pensilvany even as far back
as the time of William Penn, who, as you know, Mr., was the first founder
of the Pensilvany State.  And that puts me in mind that there is a
curious account extant of the adventures of one of the old Welsh settlers
in Pensilvania.  It is to be found in a letter in an old Welsh book.  The
letter is dated 1705, and is from one Huw Jones, born of Welsh parents in
Pensilvany country to a cousin of his of the same name, residing in the
neighbourhood of this very town of Bala in Merionethshire where you and
I, Mr., now are.  It is in answer to certain inquiries made by the
cousin, and is written in pure old Welsh language.  It gives an account
of how the writer’s father left this neighbourhood to go to Pensilvania;
how he embarked on board the ship _William Pen_; how he was thirty weeks
on the voyage from the Thames to the Delaware.  Only think, Mr., of a
ship now-a-days being thirty weeks on the passage from the Thames to the
Delaware river; how he learnt the English language on the voyage; how he
and his companions nearly perished with hunger in the wild wood after
they landed; how Pensilvania city was built; how he became a farmer and
married a Welsh woman, the widow of a Welshman from shire Denbigh, by
whom he had the writer and several other children; how the father used to
talk to his children about his native region, and the places round about
Bala, and fill their breasts with longing for the land of their fathers;
and finally how the old man died, leaving his children and their mother
in prosperous circumstances.  It is a wonderful letter, Mr., all written
in the pure old Welsh language.”

“I say, Mr., you are a cute one, and know a thing or two.  I suppose
Welsh was the first language you learnt, like myself?”

“No, it wasn’t—I like to speak the truth—never took to either speaking or
reading the Welsh language till I was past sixteen.”

“’Stonishing! but see the force of blood at last.  In any line of

“No, Mr., can’t say I am.”

“Have money in your pocket, and travel for pleasure.  Come to see
father’s land.”

“Come to see old Wales.  And what brings you here, Hiraeth?”

“That’s longing.  No, not exactly.  Came over to England to see what I
could do.  Got in with house at Liverpool in the drapery business.
Travel for it hereabouts, having connections and speaking the language.
Do branch business here for a banking-house besides.  Manage to get on

“You look a smart un.  But don’t you find it sometimes hard to compete
with English travellers in the drapery line?”

“I guess not.  English travellers! set of nat’rals.  Don’t know the
language and nothing else.  Could whip a dozen any day.  Regularly
flummox them.”

“You do, Mr.?  Ah, I see you’re a cute un.  Glad to have met you.”

“I say, Mr., you have not told me from what county your forefathers

“From Norfolk and Cornwall counties.”

“Didn’t know there were such counties in Wales.”

“But there are in England.”

“Why, you told me you were of Welsh parents.”

“No, I didn’t.  You told yourself so.”

“But how did you come to know Welsh?”

“Why, that’s my bit of a secret.”

“But you are of the United States?”

“Never knew that before.”

“Mr., you flummox me.”

“Just as you do the English drapery travellers.  Ah, you’re a cute un—but
do you think it altogether a cute trick to stow all those sovereigns in
that drawer?”

“Who should take them out, Mr.?”

“Who should take them out?  Why, any of the swell mob, that should chance
to be in the house, might unlock the drawer with their flash keys as soon
as your back is turned, and take out all the coin.”

“But there are none of the swell mob here.”

“How do you know that?” said I; “the swell mob travel wide about—how do
you know that I am not one of them?”

“The swell mob don’t speak Welsh, I guess.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said I—“the swell coves spare no expense for
their education—so that they may be able to play parts according to
circumstances.  I strongly advise you, Mr., to put that bag somewhere
else, lest something should happen to it.”

“Well, Mr., I’ll take your advice.  These are my quarters, and I was
merely going to keep the money here for convenience’ sake.  The money
belongs to the bank, so it is but right to stow it away in the bank safe.
I certainly should be loth to leave it here with you in the room, after
what you have said.”  He then got up, unlocked the drawer, took out the
bag, and with a “good night, Mr.,” left the room.

I “trifled” over my brandy-and-water till I finished it, and then walked
forth to look at the town.  I turned up a street, which led to the east,
and soon found myself beside the lake at the north-west extremity of
which Bala stands.  It appeared a very noble sheet of water, stretching
from north to south for several miles.  As, however, night was fast
coming on, I did not see it to its full advantage.  After gazing upon it
for a few minutes, I sauntered back to the square, or market-place, and
leaning my back against a wall, listened to the conversation of two or
three groups of people who were standing near, my motive for doing so
being a desire to know what kind of Welsh they spoke.  Their language, as
far as I heard it, differed in scarcely any respect from that of
Llangollen.  I, however, heard very little of it, for I had scarcely kept
my station a minute when the good folks became uneasy, cast side-glances
at me, first dropped their conversation to whispers, next held their
tongues altogether, and finally moved off, some going to their homes,
others moving to a distance, and then grouping together—even certain
ragged boys who were playing and chattering near me became uneasy, first
stood still, then stared at me, and then took themselves off and played
and chattered at a distance.  Now what was the cause of all this?  Why,
suspicion of the Saxon.  The Welsh are afraid lest an Englishman should
understand their language, and, by hearing their conversation, become
acquainted with their private affairs; or, by listening to it, pick up
their language, which they have no mind that he should know—and their
very children sympathise with them.  All conquered people are suspicious
of their conquerors.  The English have forgot that they ever conquered
the Welsh, but some ages will elapse before the Welsh forget that the
English have conquered them.


The Breakfast—The Tomen Bala—El Punto de la Vana.

I slept soundly that night, as well I might, my bed being good and my
body weary.  I arose about nine, dressed and went down to the parlour,
which was vacant.  I rang the bell, and on Tom Jenkins making his
appearance, I ordered breakfast, and then asked for the Welsh American,
and learned that he had breakfasted very early, and had set out in a gig
on a journey to some distance.  In about twenty minutes after I had
ordered it, my breakfast made its appearance.  A noble breakfast it was;
such, indeed, as I might have read of, but had never before seen.  There
was tea and coffee, a goodly white loaf and butter; there were a couple
of eggs and two mutton chops.  There was broiled and pickled salmon—there
was fried trout—there were also potted trout and potted shrimps.  Mercy
upon me!  I had never previously seen such a breakfast set before me,
nor, indeed, have I subsequently.  Yes, I have subsequently, and at that
very house, when I visited it some months after.

After breakfast I called for the bill.  I forget the exact amount of the
bill, but remember that it was very moderate.  I paid it, and gave the
noble Thomas a shilling, which he received with a bow and truly French
smile—that is, a grimace.  When I departed the landlord and landlady,
highly respectable-looking elderly people, were standing at the door, one
on each side, and dismissed me with suitable honour, he with a low bow,
she with a profound curtsey.

Having seen little of the town on the preceding evening, I determined
before setting out for Llangollen to become better acquainted with it,
and accordingly took another stroll about it.

Bala is a town containing three or four thousand inhabitants, situated
near the northern end of an oblong valley, at least two-thirds of which
are occupied by Llyn Tegid.  It has two long streets, extending from
north to south, a few narrow cross ones, an ancient church, partly
overgrown with ivy, with a very pointed steeple, and a town-hall of some
antiquity, in which Welsh interludes used to be performed.  After
gratifying my curiosity with respect to the town, I visited the mound—the
wondrous Tomen Bala.

The Tomen Bala stands at the northern end of the town.  It is apparently
formed of clay, is steep and of difficult ascent.  In height it is about
thirty feet, and in diameter at the top about fifty.  On the top grows a
gwern, or alder-tree, about a foot thick, its bark terribly scotched with
letters and uncouth characters, carved by the idlers of the town, who are
fond of resorting to the top of the mound in fine weather, and lying down
on the grass which covers it.  The Tomen is about the same size as
Glendower’s Mount on the Dee, which it much resembles in shape.  Both
belong to that brotherhood of artificial mounds of unknown antiquity,
found scattered, here and there, throughout Europe and the greater part
of Asia, the most remarkable specimen of which is, perhaps, that which
stands on the right side of the way from Adrianople to Stamboul, and
which is called by the Turks Mourad Tepehsi, or the tomb of Mourad.
Which mounds seem to have been originally intended as places of
sepulture, but in many instances were afterwards used as strongholds,
bonhills or beacon-heights, or as places on which adoration was paid to
the host of heaven.

From the Tomen there is a noble view of the Bala valley, the Lake of
Beauty up to its southern extremity, and the neighbouring and distant
mountains.  Of Bala, its lake, and Tomen, I shall have something to say
on a future occasion.

Leaving Bala, I passed through the village of Llanfair, and found myself
by the Dee, whose course I followed for some way.  Coming to the northern
extremity of the Bala valley, I entered a pass tending due north.  Here
the road slightly diverged from the river.  I sped along, delighted with
the beauty of the scenery.  On my left was a high bank covered with
trees, on my right a grove, through openings in which I occasionally
caught glimpses of the river, over whose farther side towered noble
hills.  An hour’s walking brought me into a comparatively open country,
fruitful and charming.  At about one o’clock I reached a large village,
the name of which, like those of most Welsh villages, began with Llan.
There I refreshed myself for an hour or two in an old-fashioned inn, and
then resumed my journey.

I passed through Corwen; again visited Glendower’s monticle upon the Dee,
and reached Llangollen shortly after sunset, where I found my beloved two
well and glad to see me.

That night, after tea, Henrietta played on the guitar the old muleteer
tune of “El Punto de la Vana,” or the main point at the Havanna, whilst I
sang the words:—

    “Never trust the sample when you go your cloth to buy:
    The woman’s most deceitful that’s dressed most daintily,
    The lasses of Havanna ride to mass in coaches yellow,
    But ere they go they ask if the priest’s a handsome fellow.
    The lasses of Havanna as mulberries are dark,
    And try to make them fairer by taking Jesuit’s bark.”


The Ladies of Llangollen—Sir Alured—Eisteddfodau—“Pleasure and Care.”

Shortly after my return I paid a visit to my friends at the vicarage, who
were rejoiced to see me back, and were much entertained with the account
I gave of my travels.  I next went to visit the old church clerk of whom
I had so much to say on a former occasion.  After having told him some
particulars of my expedition, to all of which he listened with great
attention, especially to that part which related to the church of
Penmynydd and the tomb of the Tudors, I got him to talk about the ladies
of Llangollen, of whom I knew very little save what I had heard from
general report.  I found he remembered their first coming to Llangollen,
their living in lodgings, their purchasing the ground called Pen y maes,
and their erecting upon it the mansion to which the name of Plas Newydd
was given.  He said they were very eccentric, but good and kind, and had
always shown most particular favour to himself; that both were highly
connected, especially Lady Eleanor Butler, who was connected by blood
with the great Duke of Ormond, who commanded the armies of Charles in
Ireland in the time of the great rebellion, and also with the Duke of
Ormond who succeeded Marlborough in the command of the armies in the Low
Countries in the time of Queen Anne, and who fled to France shortly after
the accession of George the First to the throne, on account of being
implicated in the treason of Harley and Bolingbroke; and that her
ladyship was particularly fond of talking of both those dukes, and
relating anecdotes concerning them.  He said that the ladies were in the
habit of receiving the very first people in Britain, “amongst whom,” said
the old church clerk, “was an ancient gentleman of most engaging
appearance and captivating manners, called Sir Alured C—.  He was in the
army, and in his youth, owing to the beauty of his person, was called
‘the handsome captain.’  It was said that one of the royal princesses was
desperately in love with him, and that on that account George the Third
insisted on his going to India.  Whether or not there was truth in the
report, to India he went, where he served with distinction for a great
many years.  On his return, which was not till he was upwards of eighty,
he was received with great favour by William the Fourth, who amongst
other things made him a field-marshal.  As often as October came round
did this interesting and venerable gentleman make his appearance at
Llangollen to pay his respects to the ladies, especially to Lady Eleanor,
whom he had known at Court as far back, they say, as the American war.
It was rumoured at Llangollen that Lady Eleanor’s death was a grievous
blow to Sir Alured, and that he would never be seen there again.
However, when October came round he made his appearance at the vicarage,
where he had always been in the habit of taking up his quarters, and
called on and dined with Miss Ponsonby at Plas Newydd, but it was
observed that he was not so gay as he had formerly been.  In the evening,
on his taking leave of Miss Ponsonby, she said that he had used her ill.
Sir Alured coloured, and asked her what she meant, adding that he had not
to his knowledge used any person ill in the course of his life.  ‘But I
say you have used me ill, very ill,’ said Miss Ponsonby, raising her
voice, and the words ‘very ill’ she repeated several times.  At last the
old soldier, waxing rather warm, demanded an explanation.  ‘I’ll give it
you,’ said Miss Ponsonby; ‘were you not going away after having only
kissed my hand?’  ‘O,’ said the general, ‘if that is my offence, I will
soon make you reparation,’ and instantly gave her a hearty smack on the
lips, which ceremony he never forgot to repeat after dining with her on
subsequent occasions.”

We got on the subject of bards, and I mentioned to him Gruffydd
Hiraethog, the old poet buried in the chancel of Llangollen church.  The
old clerk was not aware that he was buried there, and said that though he
had heard of him, he knew little or nothing about him.

“Where was he born?” said he.

“In Denbighshire,” I replied, “near the mountain Hiraethog, from which
circumstance he called himself in poetry Gruffydd Hiraethog.”

“When did he flourish?”

“About the middle of the sixteenth century.”

“What did he write?”

“A great many didactic pieces,” said I; “in one of which is a famous
couplet to this effect:

    ‘He who satire loves to sing
    On himself will satire bring.’”

“Did you ever hear of William Lleyn?” said the old gentleman.

“Yes,” said I; “he was a pupil of Hiraethog, and wrote an elegy on his
death, in which he alludes to Gruffydd’s skill in an old Welsh metre,
called the Cross Consonancy, in the following manner:

    ‘In Eden’s grove from Adam’s mouth
    Upsprang a muse of noble growth;
    So from thy grave, O poet wise,
    Cross Consonancy’s boughs shall rise.’”

“Really,” said the old clerk, “you seem to know something about Welsh
poetry.  But what is meant by a muse springing up from Adam’s mouth in

“Why, I suppose,” said I, “that Adam invented poetry.”

I made inquiries of him about the eisteddfodau, or sessions of bards, and
expressed a wish to be present at one of them.  He said that they were
very interesting; that bards met at particular periods and recited poems
on various subjects which had been given out beforehand, and that prizes
were allotted to those whose compositions were deemed the best by the
judges.  He said that he had himself won the prize for the best englyn on
a particular subject at an eisteddfod at which Sir Watkin Williams Wynn
presided, and at which Heber, afterwards Bishop of Calcutta, was present,
who appeared to understand Welsh well, and who took much interest in the
proceedings of the meeting.

Our discourse turning on the latter Welsh poets, I asked him if he had
been acquainted with Jonathan Hughes, who, the reader will remember, was
the person whose grandson I met, and in whose arm-chair I sat at Ty yn y
pistyll, shortly after my coming to Llangollen.  He said that he had been
well acquainted with him, and had helped to carry him to the grave,
adding, that he was something of a poet, but that he had always
considered his forte lay in strong good sense rather than poetry.  I
mentioned Thomas Edwards, whose picture I had seen in Valle Crucis Abbey.
He said that he knew him tolerably well, and that the last time he saw
him was when he, Edwards, was about seventy years of age, when he sent
him in a cart to the house of a great gentleman near the aqueduct, where
he was going to stay on a visit.  That Tom was about five feet eight
inches high, lusty and very strongly built; that he had something the
matter with his right eye; that he was very satirical and very clever;
that his wife was a very clever woman and satirical; his two daughters
both clever and satirical, and his servant-maid remarkably satirical and
clever, and that it was impossible to live with Twm O’r Nant without
learning to be clever and satirical; that he always appeared to be
occupied with something, and that he had heard him say there was
something in him that would never let him be idle; that he would walk
fifteen miles to a place where he was to play an interlude, and that as
soon as he got there he would begin playing it at once, however tired he
might be.  The old gentleman concluded by saying that he had never read
the works of Twm O’r Nant, but that he had heard that his best piece was
the interlude called “Pleasure and Care.”


The Treachery of the Long Knives—The North Briton—The Wounded Butcher—The

On the tenth of September our little town was flung into some confusion
by one butcher having attempted to cut the throat of another.  The
delinquent was a Welshman, who it was said had for some time past been
somewhat out of his mind; the other party was an Englishman, who escaped
without further injury than a deep gash in the cheek.  The Welshman might
be mad, but it appeared to me that there was some method in his madness.
He tried to cut the throat of a butcher; didn’t this look like wishing to
put a rival out of the way? and that butcher an Englishman; didn’t this
look like wishing to pay back upon the Saxon what the Welsh call
bradwriaeth y cyllyll hirion, the treachery of the long knives?  So
reasoned I to myself.  But here perhaps the reader will ask what is meant
by “the treachery of the long knives?” whether he does or not I will tell

Hengist, wishing to become paramount in Southern Britain, thought that
the easiest way to accomplish his wish would be by destroying the South
British chieftains.  Not believing that he should be able to make away
with them by open force, he determined to see what he could do by
treachery.  Accordingly he invited the chieftains to a banquet, to be
held near Stonehenge, or the Hanging Stones, on Salisbury Plain.  The
unsuspecting chieftains accepted the invitation, and on the appointed day
repaired to the banquet, which was held in a huge tent.  Hengist received
them with a smiling countenance, and every appearance of hospitality, and
caused them to sit down to table, placing by the side of every Briton one
of his own people.  The banquet commenced, and all seemingly was mirth
and hilarity.  Now Hengist had commanded his people that, when he should
get up and cry “nemet eoure saxes,” that is, take your knives, each Saxon
should draw his long sax, or knife, which he wore at his side, and should
plunge it into the throat of his neighbour.  The banquet went on, and in
the midst of it, when the unsuspecting Britons were revelling on the good
cheer which had been provided for them, and half-drunken with the mead
and beer which flowed in torrents, uprose Hengist, and with a voice of
thunder uttered the fatal words, “nemet eoure saxes;” the cry was obeyed,
each Saxon grasped his knife, and struck with it at the throat of his
defenceless neighbour.  Almost every blow took effect; only three British
chieftains escaping from the banquet of blood.  This infernal carnage the
Welsh have appropriately denominated the treachery of the long knives.
It will be as well to observe that the Saxons derived their name from the
saxes, or long knives, which they wore at their sides, and at the use of
which they were terribly proficient.

Two or three days after the attempt at murder at Llangollen, hearing that
the Welsh butcher was about to be brought before the magistrates, I
determined to make an effort to be present at the examination.
Accordingly I went to the police station and inquired of the
superintendent whether I could be permitted to attend.  He was a North
Briton, as I have stated somewhere before, and I had scraped acquaintance
with him, and had got somewhat into his good graces by praising Dumfries,
his native place, and descanting to him upon the beauties of the poetry
of his celebrated countryman, my old friend, Allan Cunningham, some of
whose works he had perused, and with whom, as he said, he had once the
honour of shaking hands.  In reply to my question he told me that it was
doubtful whether any examination would take place, as the wounded man was
in a very weak state, but that if I would return in half-an-hour he would
let me know.  I went away, and at the end of the half-hour returned, when
he told me that there would be no public examination, owing to the
extreme debility of the wounded man, but that one of the magistrates was
about to proceed to his house and take his deposition in the presence of
the criminal, and also of the witnesses of the deed, and that if I
pleased I might go along with him, and he had no doubt that the
magistrate would have no objection to my being present.  We set out
together; as we were going along I questioned him about the state of the
country, and gathered from him that there was occasionally a good deal of
crime in Wales.

“Are the Welsh a clannish people?” I demanded.

“Very,” said he.

“As clannish as the Highlanders?” said I.

“Yes,” said he, “and a good deal more.”

We came to the house of the wounded butcher, which was some way out of
the town in the north-western suburb.  The magistrate was in the lower
apartment with the clerk, one or two officials, and the surgeon of the
town.  He was a gentleman of about two or three-and-forty, with a
military air and large moustaches, for besides being a justice of the
peace, and a landed proprietor, he was an officer in the army.  He made
me a polite bow when I entered, and I requested of him permission to be
present at the examination.  He hesitated a moment, and then asking me my
motive for wishing to be present at it.

“Merely curiosity,” said I.

He then observed that, as the examination would be a private one, my
being permitted or not was quite optional.

“I am aware of that,” said I, “and if you think my remaining is
objectionable, I will forthwith retire.”  He looked at the clerk, who
said there could be no objection to my staying, and turning round to his
superior, said something to him which I did not hear, whereupon the
magistrate again bowed, and said that he should be very happy to grant my

We went upstairs, and found the wounded man in bed, with a bandage round
his forehead, and his wife sitting by his bedside.  The magistrate and
his officials took their seats, and I was accommodated with a chair.
Presently the prisoner was introduced under the charge of a policeman.
He was a fellow somewhat above thirty, of the middle size, and wore a
dirty white frock coat; his right arm was partly confined by a manacle—a
young girl was sworn, who deposed that she saw the prisoner run after the
other with something in his hand.  The wounded man was then asked whether
he thought he was able to make a deposition; he replied in a very feeble
tone that he thought he was, and after being sworn, deposed that on the
preceding Saturday, as he was going to his stall, the prisoner came up to
him and asked whether he had ever done him any injury? he said no.  “I
then,” said he, “observed the prisoner’s countenance undergo a change,
and saw him put his hand to his waistcoat pocket and pull out a knife.  I
straight became frightened, and ran away as fast as I could; the prisoner
followed, and overtaking me, stabbed me in the face.  I ran into the yard
of a public-house, and into the shop of an acquaintance, where I fell
down, the blood spouting out of my wound.”  Such was the deposition of
the wounded butcher.  He was then asked whether there had been any
quarrel between him and the prisoner?  He said there had been no quarrel,
but that he had refused to drink with the prisoner when he requested him,
which he had done very frequently, and had more than once told him that
he did not wish for his acquaintance.  The prisoner, on being asked,
after the usual caution, whether he had anything to say, said that he
merely wished to mark the man, but not to kill him.  The surgeon of the
place deposed to the nature of the wound, and on being asked his opinion
with respect to the state of the prisoner’s mind, said that he believed
that he might be labouring under a delusion.  After the prisoner’s bloody
weapon and coat had been produced, he was committed.

It was generally said that the prisoner was disordered in his mind; I
held my tongue, but judging from his look and manner, I saw no reason to
suppose that he was any more out of his senses than I myself, or any
person present, and I had no doubt that what induced him to commit the
act was rage at being looked down upon by a quondam acquaintance, who was
rising a little in the world, exacerbated by the reflection that the
disdainful quondam acquaintance was one of the Saxon race, against which
every Welshman entertains a grudge more or less virulent, which, though
of course very unchristianlike, is really, brother Englishman, after the
affair of the long knives, and two or three other actions of a somewhat
similar character, of our noble Anglo-Saxon progenitors, with which all
Welshmen are perfectly well acquainted, not very much to be wondered at.


The Dylluan—The Oldest Creatures.

Much rain fell about the middle of the month; in the intervals of the
showers I occasionally walked by the banks of the river, which speedily
became much swollen; it was quite terrible both to the sight and ear near
the “Robber’s Leap;” there were breakers above the higher stones at least
five feet high, and a roar around almost sufficient “to scare a hundred
men.”  The pool of Catherine Lingo was strangely altered; it was no
longer the quiet pool which it was in summer, verifying the words of the
old Welsh poet that the deepest pool of the river is always the stillest
in the summer and of the softest sound, but a howling turbid gulf, in
which branches of trees, dead animals, and rubbish were whirling about in
the wildest confusion.  The nights were generally less rainy than the
days, and sometimes by the pallid glimmer of the moon I would take a
stroll along some favourite path or road.  One night, as I was wandering
slowly along the path leading through the groves of Pen y Coed, I was
startled by an unearthly cry—it was the shout of the dylluan, or owl, as
it flitted over the tops of the trees on its nocturnal business.

Oh, that cry of the dylluan! what a strange, wild cry it is; how unlike
any other sound in nature! a cry which no combination of letters can give
the slightest idea of.  What resemblance does Shakespear’s
to-whit-to-whoo bear to the cry of the owl? none whatever; those who hear
it for the first time never know what it is, however accustomed to talk
of the cry of the owl and to-whit-to-whoo.  A man might be wandering
through a wood with Shakespear’s owl-chorus in his mouth, but were he
then to hear for the first time the real shout of the owl, he would
assuredly stop short and wonder whence that unearthly cry could proceed.

Yet no doubt that strange cry is a fitting cry for the owl, the strangest
in its habits and look of all birds, the bird of whom by all nations the
strangest tales are told.  Oh, what strange tales are told of the owl,
especially in connection with its long-lifedness; but of all the strange,
wild tales connected with the age of the owl, strangest of all is the old
Welsh tale.  When I heard the owl’s cry in the groves of Pen y Coed, that
tale rushed into my mind.  I had heard it from the singular groom, who
had taught me to gabble Welsh in my boyhood, and had subsequently read it
in an old tattered Welsh story-book, which by chance fell into my hands.
The reader will perhaps be obliged by my relating it.

“The eagle of the alder grove, after being long married, and having had
many children by his mate, lost her by death, and became a widower.
After some time he took it into his head to marry the owl of the Cowlyd
Coomb; but fearing he should have issue by her, and by that means sully
his lineage, he went first of all to the oldest creatures in the world,
in order to obtain information about her age.  First he went to the stag
of Ferny-side brae, whom he found sitting by the old stump of an oak, and
inquired the age of the owl.  The stag said: ‘I have seen this oak an
acorn which is now lying on the ground without either leaves or bark:
nothing in the world wore it up but my rubbing myself against it once a
day when I got up, so I have seen a vast number of years, but I assure
you that I have never seen the owl older or younger than she is to-day.
However, there is one older than myself, and that is the salmon-trout of
Glyn Llifon.’  To him went the eagle, and asked him the age of the owl,
and got for answer: ‘I have a year over my head for every gem on my skin,
and for every egg in my roe, yet have I always seen the owl look the
same; but there is one older than myself, and that is the ousel of
Cilgwry.’  Away went the eagle to Cilgwry, and found the ousel standing
upon a little rock, and asked him the age of the owl.  Quoth the ousel:
‘You see that the rock below me is not larger than a man can carry in one
of his hands: I have seen it so large that it would have taken a hundred
oxen to drag it, and it has never been worn save by my drying my beak
upon it once every night, and by my striking the tip of my wing against
it in rising in the morning, yet never have I known the owl older or
younger than she is to-day.  However, there is one older than I, and that
is the toad of Cors Fochnod; and unless he knows her age no one knows
it.’  To him went the eagle, and asked the age of the owl, and the toad
replied: ‘I have never eaten anything save what I have sucked from the
earth, and have never eaten half my fill in all the days of my life; but
do you see those two great hills beside the cross?  I have seen the place
where they stand level ground, and nothing produced those heaps save what
I discharged from my body, who have ever eaten so very little—yet never
have I known the owl anything else but an old hag who cried Too-hoo-hoo,
and scared children with her voice, even as she does at present.’  So the
eagle of Gwernabwy, the stag of Ferny-side brae, the salmon-trout of Glyn
Llifon, the ousel of Cilgwry, the toad of Cors Fochnod, and the owl of
Coomb Cowlyd, are the oldest creatures in the world, the oldest of them
all being the owl.”


Chirk—The Middleton Family—Castell y Waen—The Park—The Court Yard—The
Young Housekeeper—The Portraits—Melin y Castell—Humble Meal—Fine Chests
for the Dead—Hales and Hercules.

The weather having become fine, myself and family determined to go and
see Chirk Castle, a mansion ancient and beautiful, and abounding with all
kinds of agreeable and romantic associations.  It was founded about the
beginning of the fifteenth century by a St. John, Lord of Bletsa, from a
descendant of whom it was purchased in the year 1615 by Sir Thomas
Middleton, the scion of an ancient Welsh family who, following commerce,
acquired a vast fortune, and was Lord Mayor of London.  In the time of
the great civil war it hoisted the banner of the king, and under Sir
Thomas, the son of the Lord Mayor, made a brave defence against Lambert,
the Parliamentary General, though eventually compelled to surrender.  It
was held successively by four Sir Thomas Middletons, and if it acquired a
warlike celebrity under the second, it obtained a peculiarly hospitable
one under the fourth, whose daughter, the fruit of a second marriage,
became Countess of Warwick, and eventually the wife of the poet and
moralist, Addison.  In his time the hospitality of Chirk became the theme
of many a bard, particularly of Huw Morris, who, in one of his songs, has
gone so far as to say that were the hill of Cefn Uchaf turned into beef
and bread, and the rill Ceiriog into beer or wine, they would be consumed
in half a year by the hospitality of Chirk.  Though no longer in the
hands of one of the name of Middleton, Chirk Castle is still possessed by
one of the blood, the mother of the present proprietor being the eldest
of three sisters, lineal descendants of the Lord Mayor, between whom, in
default of an heir male, the wide possessions of the Middleton family
were divided.  This gentleman, who bears the name of Biddulph, is Lord
Lieutenant of the county of Denbigh, and notwithstanding his
war-breathing name, which is Gothic, and signifies Wolf of Battle, is a
person of highly amiable disposition, and one who takes great interest in
the propagation of the Gospel of peace and love.

To view this place which, though in English called Chirk Castle, is
styled in Welsh Castell y Waen, or the Castle of the Meadow, we started
on foot about ten o’clock of a fine bright morning, attended by John
Jones.  There are two roads from Llangollen to Chirk, one the low or post
road, and the other leading over the Berwyn.  We chose the latter.  We
passed by the Yew cottage, which I have described on a former occasion,
and began to ascend the mountain, making towards its north-eastern
corner.  The road at first was easy enough, but higher up became very
steep, and somewhat appalling, being cut out of the side of the hill
which shelves precipitously down towards the valley of the Dee.  Near the
top of the mountain were three lofty beech trees, growing on the very
verge of the precipice.  Here the road for about twenty yards is fenced
on its dangerous side by a wall, parts of which are built between the
stems of the trees.  Just beyond the wall a truly noble prospect
presented itself to our eyes.  To the north were bold hills, their sides
and skirts adorned with numerous woods and white farmhouses; a thousand
feet below us was the Dee, and its wondrous Pont y Cysultau.  John Jones
said that if certain mists did not intervene we might descry “the sea of
Liverpool;” and perhaps the only thing wanting to make the prospect
complete was that sea of Liverpool.  We were, however, quite satisfied
with what we saw, and turning round the corner of the hill, reached its
top, where for a considerable distance there is level ground, and where,
though at a great altitude, we found ourselves in a fair and fertile
region, and amidst a scene of busy rural life.  We saw fields and
inclosures, and here and there corn-stacks, some made, and others not yet
completed, about which people were employed, and waggons and horses
moving.  Passing over the top of the hill, we began to descend the
southern side, which was far less steep than the one we had lately
surmounted.  After a little way the road descended through a wood, which
John Jones told us was the beginning of the “Park of Biddulph.”

“There is plenty of game in this wood,” said he; “pheasant cocks and
pheasant hens, to say nothing of hares and coneys; and in the midst of it
there is a space sown with a particular kind of corn for the support of
the pheasant hens and pheasant cocks, which in the shooting-season afford
pleasant sport for Biddulph and his friends.”

Near the foot of the descent, just where the road made a turn to the
east, we passed by a building which stood amidst trees, with a pond and
barns near it.

“This,” said John Jones, “is the house where the bailiff lives, who farms
and buys and sells for Biddulph, and fattens the beeves and swine, and
the geese, ducks, and other poultry which Biddulph consumes at his

The scenery was now very lovely, consisting of a mixture of hill and
dale, open space and forest, in fact the best kind of park scenery.  We
caught a glimpse of a lake, in which John Jones said there were generally
plenty of swans, and presently saw the castle, which stands on a green
grassy slope, from which it derives its Welsh name of Castell y Waen;
gwaen in the Cumrian language signifying a meadow or unenclosed place.
It fronts the west, the direction from which we were coming; on each side
it shows five towers, of which the middlemost, which protrudes beyond the
rest, and at the bottom of which is the grand gate, is by far the
bulkiest.  A noble edifice it looked, and to my eye bore no slight
resemblance to Windsor Castle.

Seeing a kind of ranger, we inquired of him what it was necessary for us
to do, and by his direction proceeded to the southern side of the castle,
and rung the bell at a small gate.  The southern side had a far more
antique appearance than the western; huge towers, with small windows, and
partly covered with ivy, frowned down upon us.  A servant making his
appearance, I inquired whether we could see the house; he said we could,
and that the housekeeper would show it to us in a little time, but that
at present she was engaged.  We entered a large quadrangular court; on
the left hand side was a door and staircase leading into the interior of
the building, and farther on was a gateway, which was no doubt the
principal entrance from the park.  On the eastern side of the spacious
court was a kennel, chained to which was an enormous dog, partly of the
bloodhound, partly of the mastiff species, who occasionally uttered a
deep magnificent bay.  As the sun was hot we took refuge from it under
the gateway, the gate of which, at the farther end, towards the park, was
closed.  Here my wife and daughter sat down on a small brass cannon,
seemingly a six-pounder, which stood on a very dilapidated carriage; from
the appearance of the gun, which was of an ancient form and very much
battered, and that of the carriage, I had little doubt that both had been
in the castle at the time of the siege.  As my two loved ones sat I
walked up and down, recalling to my mind all I had heard and read in
connection with this castle.  I thought of its gallant defence against
the men of Oliver; I thought of its roaring hospitality in the time of
the fourth Sir Thomas; and I thought of the many beauties who had been
born in its chambers, had danced in its halls, had tripped across its
court, and had subsequently given heirs to illustrious families.

At last we were told that the housekeeper was waiting for us.  The
housekeeper, who was a genteel, good-looking young woman, welcomed us at
the door which led into the interior of the house.  After we had written
our names, she showed us into a large room or hall on the right-hand side
on the ground floor, where were some helmets and ancient halberts, and
also some pictures of great personages.  The floor was of oak, and so
polished and slippery that walking upon it was attended with some danger.
Wishing that John Jones, our faithful attendant, who remained timidly at
the doorway, should participate with us in the wonderful sights we were
about to see, I inquired of the housekeeper whether he might come with
us.  She replied with a smile that it was not the custom to admit guides
into the apartments, but that he might come provided he chose to take off
his shoes; adding, that the reason she wished him to take off his shoes
was, an apprehension that if he kept them on he would injure the floors
with their rough nails.  She then went to John Jones and told him in
English that he might attend us provided he took off his shoes; poor
John, however, only smiled, and said, “Dim Saesneg!”

“You must speak to him in your native language,” said I, “provided you
wish him to understand you—he has no English.”

“I am speaking to him in my native language,” said the young housekeeper,
with another smile; “and if he has no English, I have no Welsh.”

“Then you are English?” said I.

“Yes,” she replied, “a native of London.”

“Dear me,” said I.  “Well, it’s no bad thing to be English after all; and
as for not speaking Welsh, there are many in Wales who would be glad to
have much less Welsh than they have.”  I then told John Jones the
condition on which he might attend us, whereupon he took off his shoes
with great glee and attended us, holding them in his hand.

We presently went upstairs to what the housekeeper told us was the
principal drawing-room, and a noble room it was, hung round with the
portraits of kings and queens and the mighty of the earth.  Here, on
canvas, was noble Mary the wife of William of Orange, and her consort by
her side, whose part like a true wife she always took.  Here was wretched
Mary of Scotland, the murderess of her own lord.  Here were the two
Charleses, and both the Dukes of Ormond—the great Duke who fought stoutly
in Ireland against Papist and Roundhead; and the Pretender’s Duke who
tried to stab his native land, and died a foreign colonel.  And here,
amongst other daughters of the house, was the very proud daughter of the
house, the Warwick Dowager who married the Spectator, and led him the
life of a dog.  She looked haughty and cold, and not particularly
handsome; but I could not help gazing with a certain degree of interest
and respect on the countenance of the vixen, who served out the gentility
worshipper in such prime style.  Many were the rooms which we entered, of
which I shall say nothing, save that they were noble in size, and rich in
objects of interest.  At last we came to what was called the picture
gallery.  It was a long panelled room, extending nearly the whole length
of the northern side.  The first thing which struck us on entering was
the huge skin of a lion stretched out upon the floor; the head, however,
which was towards the door, was stuffed, and with its monstrous teeth
looked so formidable and lifelike that we were almost afraid to touch it.
Against every panel was a portrait; amongst others was that of Sir Thomas
Middleton, the stout governor of the castle during the time of the siege.
Near to it was the portrait of his rib, Dame Middleton.  Farther down on
the same side were two portraits of Nell Gwynn; the one painted when she
was a girl, the other when she had attained a more mature age.  They were
both by Lely, the Apelles of the Court of wanton Charles.  On the other
side was one of the Duke of Gloucester, the son of Queen Anne, who, had
he lived, would have kept the Georges from the throne.  In this gallery,
on the southern side, was a cabinet of ebony and silver, presented by
Charles the Second to the brave warrior Sir Thomas, and which, according
to tradition, cost seven thousand pounds.  This room, which was perhaps
the most magnificent in the castle, was the last we visited.  The candle
of God whilst we wandered through these magnificent halls was flaming in
the firmament, and its rays penetrating through the long, narrow windows,
showed them off, and all the gorgeous things which they contained, to
great advantage.  When we left the castle we all said, not excepting John
Jones, that we had never seen in our lives anything more princely and
delightful than the interior.

After a little time my wife and daughter, complaining of being rather
faint, I asked John Jones whether there was an inn in the neighbourhood
where some refreshment could be procured.  He said there was, and that he
would conduct us to it.  We directed our course towards the east, rousing
successively, and setting a-scampering, three large herds of deer—the
common ones were yellow and of no particular size—but at the head of each
herd we observed a big old black fellow with immense antlers; one of
these was particularly large, indeed as huge as a bull.  We soon came to
the verge of a steep descent, down which we went, not without some risk
of falling.  At last we came to a gate; it was locked; however, on John
Jones shouting, an elderly man, with his right hand bandaged, came and
opened it.  I asked him what was the matter with his hand, and he told me
that he had lately lost three fingers, whilst working at a saw-mill up at
the castle.  On my inquiring about the inn, he said he was the master of
it, and led the way to a long, neat, low house nearly opposite to a
little bridge over a brook, which ran down the valley towards the north.
I ordered some ale and bread-and-butter, and whilst our repast was being
got ready, John Jones and I went to the bridge.

“This bridge, sir,” said John, “is called Pont y Velin Castell, the
bridge of the Castle Mill; the inn was formerly the mill of the castle,
and is still called Melin y Castell.  As soon as you are over the bridge
you are in shire Amwythig, which the Saxons call Shropshire.  A little
way up on yon hill is Clawdd Offa, or Offa’s dyke, built of old by the
Brenin Offa in order to keep us poor Welsh within our bounds.”

As we stood on the bridge, I inquired of Jones the name of the brook
which was running merrily beneath it.

“The Ceiriog, sir,” said John; “the same river that we saw at Pont y

“The river,” said I, “which Huw Morris loved so well, whose praises he
has sung, and which he has introduced along with Cefn Uchaf in a stanza
in which he describes the hospitality of Chirk Castle in his day, and
which runs thus:

          ‘Pe byddai ’r Cefn Ucha,
          Yn gig ac yn fara,
    A Cheiriog fawr yma’n fir aml bob tro,
          Rhy ryfedd fae iddyn’
          Barhâu hanner blwyddyn,
    I wyr bob yn gan-nyn ar ginio.’”

“A good penill that, sir,” said John Jones.  “Pity that the halls of
great people no longer flow with rivers of beer, nor have mountains of
bread and beef for all comers.”

“No pity at all,” said I; “things are better as they are.  Those
mountains of bread and beef, and those rivers of ale merely encouraged
vassalage, fawning and idleness; better to pay for one’s dinner proudly
and independently at one’s inn, than to go and cringe for it at a great
man’s table.”

We crossed the bridge, walked a little way up the hill, which was
beautifully wooded, and then retraced our steps to the little inn, where
I found my wife and daughter waiting for us, and very hungry.  We sat
down, John Jones with us, and proceeded to despatch our bread-and-butter
and ale.  The bread-and-butter were good enough, but the ale poorish.  O,
for an Act of Parliament to force people to brew good ale!  After
finishing our humble meal we got up, and having paid our reckoning, went
back into the park, the gate of which the landlord again unlocked for us.

We strolled towards the north along the base of the hill.  The
imagination of man can scarcely conceive a scene more beautiful than the
one which we were now enjoying.  Huge oaks studded the lower side of the
hill, towards the top was a belt of forest, above which rose the eastern
walls of the castle; the whole forest, castle, and the green bosom of the
hill glorified by the lustre of the sun.  As we proceeded we again roused
the deer, and again saw the three old black fellows, evidently the
patriarchs of the herds, with their white, enormous horns; with these
ancient gentlefolks I very much wished to make acquaintance, and tried to
get near them, but no! they would suffer no such thing; off they glided,
their white antlers, like the barked top boughs of old pollards, glancing
in the sunshine, the smaller dappled creatures following them bounding
and frisking.  We had again got very near the castle, when John Jones
told me that if we would follow him, he would show us something very
remarkable: I asked him what it was.

“Llun Cawr,” he replied.  “The figure of a giant.”

“What giant?” said I.

But on this point he could give me no information.  I told my wife and
daughter what he had said, and finding that they wished to see the
figure, I bade John Jones lead us to it.  He led us down an avenue just
below the eastern side of the castle; noble oaks and other trees composed
it, some of them probably near a hundred feet high; John Jones observing
me looking at them with admiration, said:

“They would make fine chests for the dead, sir.”

What an observation! how calculated, amidst the most bounding joy and
bliss, to remind man of his doom!  A moment before I had felt quite
happy, but now I felt sad and mournful.  I looked at my wife and
daughter, who were gazing admiringly on the beauteous scenes around them,
and remembered that, in a few short years at most, we should all three be
laid in the cold, narrow house formed of four elm or oaken boards, our
only garment the flannel shroud, the cold, damp earth above us instead of
the bright, glorious sky.  O, how sad and mournful I became!  I soon
comforted myself, however, by reflecting that such is the will of Heaven,
and that Heaven is good.

After we had descended the avenue some way, John Jones began to look
about him, and getting on the bank on the left side, disappeared.  We
went on, and in a little time saw him again beckoning to us some way
farther down, but still on the bank.  When we drew nigh to him, he bade
us get on the bank; we did so, and followed him some way amidst furze and
lyng.  All of a sudden he exclaimed, “There it is!”  We looked, and saw a
large figure standing on a pedestal.  On going up to it we found it to be
a Hercules leaning on his club,—indeed a copy of the Farnese Hercules, as
we gathered from an inscription in Latin partly defaced.  We felt rather
disappointed, as we expected that it would have turned out to be the
figure of some huge Welsh champion of old.  We, however, said nothing to
our guide.  John Jones, in order that we might properly appreciate the
size of the statue by contrasting it with his own body, got upon the
pedestal and stood up beside the figure, to the elbow of which his head
little more than reached.

I told him that in my country, the eastern part of Lloegr, I had seen a
man quite as tall as the statue.

“Indeed, sir,” said he; “who is it?”

“Hales, the Norfolk giant,” I replied, “who has a sister seven inches
shorter than himself, who is yet seven inches taller than any man in the
county when her brother is out of it.”

When John Jones got down he asked me who the man was whom the statue was
intended to represent.

“Erchwl,” I replied, “a mighty man of old, who with his club cleared the
country of thieves, serpents, and monsters.”

I now proposed that we should return to Llangollen, whereupon we retraced
our steps, and had nearly reached the farm-house of the castle, when John
Jones said that we had better return by the low road, by doing which we
should see the castle-lodge, and also its gate, which was considered one
of the wonders of Wales.  We followed his advice, and passing by the
front of the castle northwards, soon came to the lodge.  The lodge had
nothing remarkable in its appearance, but the gate, which was of iron,
was truly magnificent.

On the top were two figures of wolves, which John Jones supposed to be
those of foxes.  The wolf of Chirk is not intended to be expressive of
the northern name of its proprietor, but is the armorial bearing of his
family by the maternal side, and originated in one Ryred, surnamed
Blaidd, or Wolf, from his ferocity in war; from whom the family, which
only assumed the name of Middleton in the beginning of the thirteenth
century, on the occasion of its representative marrying a rich Shropshire
heiress of that name, traces descent.

The wolf of Chirk is a Cambrian, not a Gothic wolf, and though “a wolf of
battle,” is the wolf not of Biddulph, but of Ryred.


A Visitor—Apprenticeship to the Law—Croch Daranau Lope de Vega—No life
like the Traveller’s.

One morning as I sat alone a gentleman was announced.  On his entrance I
recognised in him the magistrate’s clerk, owing to whose good word, as it
appeared to me, I had been permitted to remain during the examination
into the affair of the wounded butcher.  He was a stout, strong-made man,
somewhat under the middle height, with a ruddy face, and very clear, grey
eyes.  I handed him a chair, which he took, and said that his name was
R—, and that he had taken the liberty of calling, as he had a great
desire to be acquainted with me.  On my asking him his reason for that
desire, he told me that it proceeded from his having read a book of mine
about Spain, which had much interested him.

“Good,” said I, “you can’t give an author a better reason for coming to
see him than being pleased with his book.  I assure you that you are most

After a little general discourse, I said that I presumed he was in the

“Yes,” said he, “I am a member of that much-abused profession.”

“And unjustly abused,” said I; “it is a profession which abounds with
honourable men, and in which I believe there are fewer scamps than in any
other.  The most honourable men I have ever known have been lawyers; they
were men whose word was their bond, and who would have preferred ruin to
breaking it.  There was my old master, in particular, who would have died
sooner than broken his word.  God bless him! I think I see him now, with
his bald, shining pate, and his finger on an open page of _Preston’s

“Sure you are not a limb of the law?” said Mr. R—.

“No,” said I, “but I might be, for I served an apprenticeship to it.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. R—, shaking me by the hand.  “Take my
advice, come and settle at Llangollen, and be my partner.”

“If I did,” said I, “I am afraid that our partnership would be of short
duration; you would find me too eccentric and flighty for the law.  Have
you a good practice?” I demanded after a pause.

“I have no reason to complain of it,” said he, with a contented air.

“I suppose you are married?” said I.

“O yes,” said he, “I have both a wife and family.”

“A native of Llangollen?” said I.

“No,” said he; “I was born at Llan Silin, a place some way off across the

“Llan Silin?” said I; “I have a great desire to visit it some day or

“Why so?” said he; “it offers nothing interesting.”

“I beg your pardon,” said I; “unless I am much mistaken, the tomb of the
great poet Huw Morris is in Llan Silin churchyard.”

“Is it possible that you have ever heard of Huw Morris?”

“O yes,” said I; “and I have not only heard of him, but am acquainted
with his writings; I read them when a boy.”

“How very extraordinary,” said he; “well, you are quite right about his
tomb; when a boy I have played dozens of times on the flat stone with my

We talked of Welsh poetry; he said he had not dipped much into it, owing
to its difficulty; that he was master of the colloquial language of
Wales, but understood very little of the language of Welsh poetry, which
was a widely different thing.  I asked him whether he had seen Owen
Pugh’s translation of _Paradise Lost_.  He said he had, but could only
partially understand it, adding, however, that those parts which he could
make out appeared to him to be admirably executed, that amongst these
there was one which had particularly struck him, namely:

          “Ar eu col o rygnu croch

The rendering of Milton’s

          “And on their hinges grate
    Harsh thunder,”

which, grand as it was, was certainly equalled by the Welsh version, and
perhaps surpassed, for that he was disposed to think that there was
something more terrible in “croch daranau” than in “harsh thunder.”

“I am disposed to think so too,” said I.  “Now can you tell me where Owen
Pugh is buried?”

“I cannot,” said he; “but I suppose you can tell me; you, who know the
burying-place of Huw Morris, are probably acquainted with the
burying-place of Owen Pugh.”

“No,” said I, “I am not.  Unlike Huw Morris, Owen Pugh has never had his
history written, though perhaps quite as interesting a history might be
made out of the life of the quiet student as out of that of the popular
poet.  As soon as ever I learn where his grave is, I shall assuredly make
a pilgrimage to it.”  Mr. R— then asked me a good many questions about
Spain, and a certain singular race of people about whom I have written a
good deal.  Before going away he told me that a friend of his, of the
name of J—, would call upon me, provided he thought I should not consider
his doing so an intrusion.  “Let him come by all means,” said I; “I shall
never look upon a visit from a friend of yours in the light of an

In a few days came his friend, a fine, tall, athletic man of about forty.
“You are no Welshman,” said I, as I looked at him.

“No,” said he, “I am a native of Lincolnshire, but I have resided in
Llangollen for thirteen years.”

“In what capacity?” said I.

“In the wine-trade,” said he.

“Instead of coming to Llangollen,” said I, “and entering into the
wine-trade, you should have gone to London, and enlisted into the

“Well,” said he, with a smile, “I had once or twice thought of doing so.
However, fate brought me to Llangollen, and I am not sorry that she did,
for I have done very well here.”

I soon found out that he was a well-read and indeed highly accomplished
man.  Like his friend R—, Mr. J— asked me a great many questions about
Spain.  By degrees we got on the subject of Spanish literature.  I said
that the literature of Spain was a first-rate literature, but that it was
not very extensive.  He asked me whether I did not think that Lope de
Vega was much overrated.

“Not a bit,” said I; “Lope de Vega was one of the greatest geniuses that
ever lived.  He was not only a great dramatist and lyric poet, but a
prose writer of marvellous ability, as he proved by several admirable
tales, amongst which is the best ghost story in the world.”

Another remarkable person whom I got acquainted with about this time, was
A—, the innkeeper, who lived a little way down the road, of whom John
Jones had spoken.  So highly, saying, amongst other things, that he was
the clebberest man in Llangollen.  One day as I was looking in at his
gate, he came forth, took off his hat, and asked me to do him the honour
to come in and look at his grounds.  I complied, and as he showed me
about he told me his history, in nearly the following words:—

“I am a Devonian by birth.  For many years I served a travelling
gentleman, whom I accompanied in all his wanderings.  I have been five
times across the Alps, and in every capital of Europe.  My master at
length dying, left me in his will something handsome, whereupon I
determined to be a servant no longer, but married, and came to
Llangollen, which I had visited long before with my master, and had been
much pleased with.  After a little time, these premises becoming vacant,
I took them, and set up in the public line, more to have something to do,
than for the sake of gain, about which, indeed, I need not trouble myself
much; my poor dear master, as I said before, having done very handsomely
by me at his death.  Here I have lived for several years, receiving
strangers, and improving my houses and grounds.  I am tolerably
comfortable, but confess I sometimes look back to my former roving life
rather wistfully, for there is no life so merry as the traveller’s.”

He was about the middle age, and somewhat under the middle size.  I had a
good deal of conversation with him, and was much struck with his frank,
straightforward manner.  He enjoyed a high character at Llangollen for
probity, and likewise for cleverness, being reckoned an excellent
gardener, and an almost unequalled cook.  His master, the travelling
gentleman, might well leave him a handsome remembrance in his will, for
he had not only been an excellent and trusty servant to him, but had once
saved his life at the hazard of his own, amongst the frightful precipices
of the Alps.  Such retired gentlemen’s servants, or such publicans
either, as honest A—, are not every day to be found.  His grounds,
principally laid out by his own hands, exhibited an infinity of taste,
and his house, into which I looked, was a perfect picture of neatness.
Any tourist visiting Llangollen for a short period could do no better
than take up his abode at the hostelry of honest A—.


Ringing of Bells—Battle of Alma—The Brown Jug—Ale of Llangollen—Reverses.

On the third of October—I think that was the date—as my family and
myself, attended by trusty John Jones, were returning on foot from
visiting a park not far from Rhiwabon, we heard, when about a mile from
Llangollen, a sudden ringing of the bells of the place, and a loud
shouting.  Presently we observed a postman hurrying in a cart from the
direction of the town.  “Peth yw y matter?” said John Jones.  “Y matter,
y matter!” said the postman, in a tone of exultation.  “Sebastopol wedi
cymmeryd Hurrah!”

“What does he say?” said my wife anxiously to me.

“Why, that Sebastopol is taken,” said I.

“Then you have been mistaken,” said my wife, smiling, “for you always
said that the place would either not be taken at all, or would cost the
allies to take it a deal of time, and an immense quantity of blood and
treasure, and here it is taken at once, for the allies only landed the
other day.  Well, thank God, you have been mistaken!”

“Thank God, indeed,” said I, “always supposing that I have been
mistaken—but I hardly think, from what I have known of the Russians, that
they would let their town—however, let us hope that they have let it be
taken, Hurrah!”

We reached our dwelling.  My wife and daughter went in.  John Jones
betook himself to his cottage, and I went into the town, in which there
was a great excitement; a wild running troop of boys was shouting
“Sebastopol wedi cymmeryd Hurrah!  Hurrah!”  Old Mr. Jones was standing
bareheaded at his door.  “Ah,” said the old gentleman, “I am glad to see
you.  Let us congratulate each other,” he added, shaking me by the hand.
“Sebastopol taken, and in so short a time.  How fortunate!”

“Fortunate indeed,” said I, returning his hearty shake; “I only hope it
may be true.”

“O, there can be no doubt of its being true,” said the old gentleman.
“The accounts are most positive.  Come in, and I will tell you all the
circumstances.”  I followed him into his little back parlour, where we
both sat down.

“Now,” said the old church-clerk, “I will tell you all about it.  The
allies landed about twenty miles from Sebastopol, and proceeded to march
against it.  When nearly half way, they found the Russians posted on a
hill.  Their position was naturally very strong, and they had made it
more so by means of redoubts and trenches.  However, the allies,
undismayed, attacked the enemy, and after a desperate resistance, drove
them over the hill, and following fast at their heels, entered the town
pell-mell with them, taking it and all that remained alive of the Russian
army.  And what do you think?  The Welsh highly distinguished themselves.
The Welsh fusileers were the first to mount the hill.  They suffered
horribly—indeed, almost the whole regiment was cut to pieces; but what of
that? they showed that the courage of the Ancient Britons still survives
in their descendants.  And now I intend to stand beverage.  I assure you
I do.  No words! I insist upon it.  I have heard you say you are fond of
good ale, and I intend to fetch you a pint of such ale as I am sure you
never drank in your life.”  Thereupon he hurried out of the room, and
through the shop into the street.

“Well,” said I, when I was by myself, “if this news does not regularly
surprise me!  I can easily conceive that the Russians would be beaten in
a pitched battle by the English and French—but that they should have been
so quickly followed up by the allies as not to be able to shut their
gates and man their walls is to me inconceivable.  Why, the Russians
retreat like the wind, and have a thousand ruses at command, in order to
retard an enemy.  So at least I thought, but it is plain that I know
nothing about them, nor indeed much of my own countrymen; I should never
have thought that English soldiers could have marched fast enough to
overtake Russians, more especially with such a being to command them, as
—, whom I, and indeed almost every one else, have always considered a
dead weight on the English service.  I suppose, however, that both they
and their commander were spurred on by the active French.”

Presently the old church clerk made his appearance, with a glass in one
hand, and a brown jug of ale in the other.

“Here,” said he, filling the glass, “is some of the real Llangollen ale;
I got it from the little inn, the Eagle, over the way, which was always
celebrated for its ale.  They stared at me when I went in and asked for a
pint of ale, as they knew that for twenty years I have drunk no liquor
whatever, owing to the state of my stomach, which will not allow me to
drink anything stronger than water and tea.  I told them, however, it was
for a gentleman, a friend of mine, whom I wished to treat in honour of
the fall of Sebastopol.”

I would fain have excused myself, but the old gentleman insisted on my

“Well,” said I, taking the glass, “thank God that our gloomy forebodings
are not likely to be realised.  Oes y byd i’r glôd Frythoneg!  May
Britain’s glory last as long as the world!”

Then, looking for a moment at the ale, which was of a dark-brown colour,
I put the glass to my lips, and drank.

“Ah,” said the old church clerk, “I see you like it, for you have emptied
the glass at a draught.”

“It is good ale,” said I.

“Good,” said the old gentleman rather hastily, “good; did you ever taste
any so good in your life?”

“Why, as to that,” said I, “I hardly know what to say; I have drunk some
very good ale in my day.  However, I’ll trouble you for another glass.”

“O ho, you will,” said the old gentleman; “that’s enough; if you did not
think it first-rate you would not ask for more.  This,” said he, as he
filled the glass again, “is genuine malt and hop liquor, brewed in a way
only known, they say, to some few people in this place.  You must,
however, take care how much you take of it.  Only a few glasses will make
you dispute with your friends, and a few more quarrel with them.  Strange
things are said of what Llangollen ale made people do of yore; and I
remember that when I was young and could drink ale, two or three glasses
of the Llangollen juice of the barleycorn would make me—however, those
times are gone by.”

“Has Llangollen ale,” said I, after tasting the second glass, “ever been
sung in Welsh? is there no englyn upon it?”

“No,” said the old church clerk, “at any rate, that I am aware.”

“Well,” said I, “I can’t sing its praises in a Welsh englyn, but I think
I can contrive to do so in an English quatrain, with the help of what you
have told me.  What do you think of this?—

    “‘Llangollen’s brown ale is with malt and hop rife;
       ’Tis good; but don’t quaff it from evening till dawn;
    For too much of that ale will incline you to strife;
       Too much of that ale has caused knives to be drawn.’”

“That’s not so bad,” said the old church clerk, “but I think some of our
bards could have produced something better—that is, in Welsh; for
example, old—.  What’s the name of the old bard who wrote so many
englynion on ale?”

“Sion Tudor,” said I; “O yes; but he was a great poet.  Ah, he has
written some wonderful englynion on ale; but you will please to bear in
mind that all his englynion are upon bad ale, and it is easier to turn to
ridicule what is bad than to do anything like justice to what is good.”

O, great was the rejoicing for a few days at Llangollen for the reported
triumph; and the share of the Welsh in that triumph reconciled for a time
the descendants of the Ancient Britons to the seed of the coiling
serpent.  “Welsh and Saxons together will conquer the world!” shouted
brats as they stood barefooted in the kennel.  In a little time, however,
news not quite so cheering arrived.  There had been a battle fought, it
is true, in which the Russians had been beaten, and the little Welsh had
very much distinguished themselves, but no Sebastopol had been taken.
The Russians had retreated to their town, which, till then almost
defenceless on the land side, they had, following their old maxim of
“never despair,” rendered almost impregnable in a few days, whilst the
allies, chiefly owing to the supineness of the British commander, were
loitering on the field of battle.  In a word, all had happened which the
writer, from his knowledge of the Russians and his own countrymen, had
conceived likely to happen from the beginning.  Then came the news of the
commencement of a seemingly interminable siege, and of disasters and
disgraces on the part of the British; there was no more shouting at
Llangollen in connection with the Crimean expedition.  But the subject is
a disagreeable one, and the writer will dismiss it after a few brief

It was quite right and consistent with the justice of God that the
British arms should be subjected to disaster and ignominy about that
period.  A deed of infamous injustice and cruelty had been perpetrated,
and the perpetrators, instead of being punished, had received applause
and promotion; so if the British expedition to Sebastopol was a
disastrous and ignominious one, who can wonder?  Was it likely that the
groans of poor Parry would be unheard from the corner to which he had
retired to hide his head by “the Ancient of days,” who sits above the
cloud, and from thence sends judgments?


The Newspaper—A New Walk—Pentré y Dwr—Oatmeal and Barley-meal—The Man on
Horseback—Heavy News.

“Dear me,” said I to my wife, as I sat by the fire one Saturday morning,
looking at a newspaper which had been sent to us from our own district,
“what is this?  Why, the death of our old friend Dr. —.  He died last
Tuesday week, after a short illness, for he preached in his church at the
previous Sunday.”

“Poor man!” said my wife.  “How sorry I am to hear of his death!
However, he died in the fulness of years, after a long and exemplary
life.  He was an excellent man and good Christian shepherd.  I knew him
well; you, I think, only saw him once.”

“But I shall never forget him,” said I, “nor how animated his features
became when I talked to him about Wales, for he, you know, was a
Welshman.  I forgot, to ask what part of Wales he came from.  I suppose I
shall never know now.”

Feeling indisposed either for writing or reading, I determined to take a
walk to Pentré y Dwr, a village in the north-west part of the valley,
which I had not yet visited.  I purposed going by a path under the
Eglwysig crags, which I had heard led thither, and to return by the
monastery.  I set out.  The day was dull and gloomy.  Crossing the canal,
I pursued my course by romantic lanes, till I found myself under the
crags.  The rocky ridge here turns away to the north, having previously
run from the east to the west.

After proceeding nearly a mile amidst very beautiful scenery, I came to a
farm-yard, where I saw several men engaged in repairing a building.  This
farm-yard was in a very sequestered situation; a hill overhung it on the
west, half-way up whose side stood a farmhouse, to which it probably
pertained.  On the northwest was a most romantic hill covered with wood
to the very top.  A wild valley led, I knew not whither, to the north
between crags and the wood-covered hill.  Going up to a man of
respectable appearance, who seemed to be superintending the others, I
asked him in English the way to Pentré y Dwr.  He replied that I must
follow the path up the hill towards the house, behind which I should find
a road which would lead me through the wood to Pentré Dwr.  As he spoke
very good English, I asked where he had learnt it.

“Chiefly in South Wales,” said he, “where they speak less Welsh than

I gathered from him that he lived in the house on the hill, and was a
farmer.  I asked him to what place the road up the valley to the north

“We generally go by that road to Wrexham,” he replied; “it is a short but
a wild road through the hills.”

After a little discourse on the times, which he told me were not quite so
bad for farmers as they had been, I bade, him farewell.

Mounting the hill, I passed round the house, as the farmer had directed
me, and turned to the west along a path on the side of the mountain.  A
deep valley was on my left, and on my right above me a thick wood,
principally of oak.  About a mile farther on the path winded down a
descent, at the bottom of which I saw a brook and a number of cottages
beyond it.

I passed over the brook by means of a long slab laid across, and reached
the cottages.  I was now, as I supposed, in Pentré y Dwr, and a pentré y
dwr most truly it looked, for those Welsh words signify in English the
village of the water, and the brook here ran through the village, in
every room of which its pretty murmuring sound must have been audible.  I
looked about me in the hope of seeing somebody of whom I could ask a
question or two, but seeing no one, I turned to the south, intending to
regain Llangollen by the way of the monastery.  Coming to a cottage, I
saw a woman, to all appearance very old, standing by the door, and asked
her in Welsh where I was.

“In Pentré Dwr,” said she.  “This house and those yonder,” pointing to
the cottages past which I had come, “are Pentré y Dwr.  There is,
however, another Pentré Dwr up the glen yonder,” said she, pointing
towards the north—“which is called Pentré Dwr uchaf (the upper)—this is
called Pentré Dwr isaf (the lower).”

“Is it called Pentré Dwr,” said I, “because of the water of the brook?”

“Likely enough,” said she, “but I never thought of the matter before.”

She was blear-eyed, and her skin, which seemed drawn tight over her
forehead and cheek-bones, was of the colour of parchment.  I asked her
how old she was.

“Fifteen after three twenties,” she replied; meaning that she was

From her appearance, I should almost have guessed that she had been
fifteen after four twenties.  I, however, did not tell her so, for I am
always cautious not to hurt the feelings of anybody, especially of the

Continuing my way, I soon overtook a man driving five or six very large
hogs.  One of these, which was muzzled, was of a truly immense size, and
walked with considerable difficulty, on account of its fatness.  I walked
for some time by the side of the noble porker, admiring it.  At length a
man rode up on horseback from the way we had come; he said something to
the driver of the hogs, who instantly unmuzzled the immense creature, who
gave a loud grunt on finding his snout and mouth free.  From the
conversation which ensued between the two men, I found that the driver
was the servant, and the other the master.

“Those hogs are too fat to drive along the road,” said I at last to the

“We brought them in a cart as far as the Pentré Dwr,” said the man on
horseback, “but as they did not like the jolting we took them out.”

“And where are you taking them to?” said I.

“To Llangollen,” said the man, “for the fair on Monday.”

“What does that big fellow weigh?” said I, pointing to the largest hog.

“He’ll weigh about eighteen score,” said the man.

“What do you mean by eighteen score?” said I.

“Eighteen score of pounds,” said the man.

“And how much do you expect to get for him?”

“Eight pounds; I shan’t take less.”

“And who will buy him?” said I.

“Some gent from Wolverhampton or about there,” said the man; “there will
be plenty of gents from Wolverhampton at the fair.”

“And what do you fatten your hogs upon?” said I.

“Oatmeal,” said the man.

“And why not on barley-meal?”

“Oatmeal is the best,” said the man; “the gents from Wolverhampton prefer
them fattened on oatmeal.”

“Do the gents of Wolverhampton,” said I, “eat the hogs?”

“They do not,” said the man; “they buy them to sell again; and they like
hogs fed on oatmeal best, because they are the fattest.”

“But the pork is not the best,” said I; “all hog-flesh raised on oatmeal
is bitter and wiry; because, do you see—”

“I see you are in the trade,” said the man, “and understand a thing or

“I understand a thing or two,” said I, “but I am not in the trade.  Do
you come from far?”

“From Llandeglo,” said the man.

“Are you a hog-merchant?” said I.

“Yes,” said he, “and a horse-dealer, and a farmer, though rather a small

“I suppose, as you are a horse-dealer,” said I, “you travel much about?”

“Yes,” said the man, “I have travelled a good deal about Wales and

“Have you been in Ynys Fon?” said I.

“I see you are a Welshman,” said the man.

“No,” said I, “but I know a little Welsh.”

“Ynys Fon,” said the man.  “Yes, I have been in Anglesey more times than
I can tell.”

“Do you know Hugh Pritchard,” said I, “who lives at Pentraeth Coch?”

“I know him well,” said the man, “and an honest fellow he is.”

“And Mr. Bos?” said I.

“What Bos?” said he.  “Do you mean a lusty, red-faced man in top-boots
and grey coat?”

“That’s he,” said I.

“He’s a clever one,” said the man.  “I suppose by your knowing these
people you are a drover or a horse-dealer.  Yes,” said he, turning
half-round in his saddle and looking at me, “you are a horse-dealer.  I
remember you well now, and once sold a horse to you at Chelmsford.”

“I am no horse-dealer,” said I, “nor did I ever buy a horse at
Chelmsford.  I see you have been about England.  Have you ever been in
Norfolk or Suffolk?”

“No,” said the man, “but I know something of Suffolk.  I have an uncle

“Whereabouts in Suffolk?” said I.

“At a place called —,” said the man.

“In what line of business?” said I.

“In none at all; he is a clergyman.”

“Shall I tell you his name?” said I.

“It is not likely you should know his name,” said the man.

“Nevertheless,” said I, “I will tell it you—his name was —.”

“Well,” said the man, “sure enough that is his name.”

“It was his name,” said I, “but I am sorry to tell you he is no more.
To-day is Saturday.  He died last Tuesday week, and was probably buried
last Monday.  An excellent man was Dr. H. O.  A credit to his country and
to his order.”

The man was silent for some time, and then said with a softer voice, and
a very different manner from that he had used before, “I never saw him
but once, and that was more than twenty years ago—but I have heard say
that he was an excellent man—I see, sir, that you are a clergyman.”

“I am no clergyman,” said I, “but I knew your uncle and prized him.  What
was his native place?”

“Corwen,” said the man; then taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his
eyes, and said with a faltering voice, “This will be heavy news there.”

We were now past the monastery, and bidding farewell, I descended to the
canal, and returned home by its bank, whilst the Welsh drover, the nephew
of the learned, eloquent and exemplary Welsh doctor, pursued with his
servant and animals his way by the high road to Llangollen.

Many sons of Welsh yeomen brought up to the Church have become ornaments
of it in distant Saxon land, but few—very few—have by learning, eloquence
and Christian virtues, reflected so much lustre upon it as Hugh O— of


Sunday Night—Sleep, Sin, and Old Age—The Dream—Lanikin Figure—A Literary

The Sunday morning was a gloomy one.  I attended service at church with
my family.  The service was in English, and the younger Mr. E— preached.
The text I have forgotten, but I remember perfectly well that the sermon
was scriptural and elegant.  When we came out the rain was falling in
torrents.  Neither I nor my family went to church in the afternoon.  I,
however, attended the evening service, which is always in Welsh.  The
elder Mr. E— preached.  Text, 2 Cor. x. 5.  The sermon was an admirable
one, admonitory, pathetic and highly eloquent; I went home very much
edified, and edified my wife and Henrietta, by repeating to them in
English the greater part of the discourse which I had been listening to
in Welsh.  After supper, in which I did not join, for I never take
supper, provided I have taken dinner, they went to bed, whilst I remained
seated before the fire, with my back near the table, and my eyes fixed
upon the embers, which were rapidly expiring, and in this posture sleep
surprised me.  Amongst the proverbial sayings of the Welsh, which are
chiefly preserved in the shape of triads, is the following one: “Three
things come unawares upon a man—sleep, sin, and old age.”  This saying
holds sometimes good with respect to sleep and old age, but never with
respect to sin.  Sin does not come unawares upon a man; God is just, and
would never punish a man as He always does for being overcome by sin, if
sin were able to take him unawares; and neither sleep nor old age always
come unawares upon a man.  People frequently feel themselves going to
sleep, and feel old age stealing upon them; though there can be no doubt
that sleep and old age sometimes come unawares—old age came unawares upon
me; it was only the other day that I was aware that I was old, though I
had long been old, and sleep came unawares upon me in that chair in which
I had sat down without the slightest thought of sleeping.  And there as I
sat I had a dream—what did I dream about? the sermon, musing upon which I
had been overcome by sleep? not a bit!  I dreamt about a widely different
matter.  Methought I was in Llangollen fair, in the place where the pigs
were sold, in the midst of Welsh drovers, immense hogs and immense men,
whom I took to be the gents of Wolverhampton.  What huge fellows they
were! almost as huge as the hogs for which they higgled; the generality
of them dressed in brown sporting coats, drab breeches, yellow-topped
boots, splashed all over with mud, and with low-crowned, broad-brimmed
hats.  One enormous fellow particularly caught my notice.  I guessed he
must have weighed at least eleven score, he had a half-ruddy,
half-tallowy face, brown hair, and rather thin whiskers.  He was higgling
with the proprietor of an immense hog, and as he higgled he wheezed as if
he had a difficulty of respiration, and frequently wiped off, with a
dirty-white pocket-handkerchief, drops of perspiration which stood upon
his face.  At last methought he bought the hog for nine pounds, and had
no sooner concluded his bargain than, turning round to me, who was
standing close by staring at him, he slapped me on the shoulder with a
hand of immense weight, crying with a half-piping, half-wheezing voice,
“Coom, neighbour, coom, I and thou have often dealt; gi’ me noo a poond
for my bargain, and it shall be all thy own.”  I felt in a great rage at
his unceremonious behaviour, and owing to the flutter of my spirits
whilst I was thinking whether or not I should try and knock him down, I
awoke, and found the fire nearly out, and the ecclesiastical cat seated
on my shoulders.  The creature had not been turned out, as ought to have
been, before my wife and daughter retired, and feeling cold, had got upon
the table, and thence had sprung upon my back for the sake of the warmth
which it knew was to be found there; and no doubt the springing on my
shoulders by the ecclesiastical cat was what I took in my dream to be the
slap on my shoulders by the Wolverhampton gent.

The day of the fair was dull and gloomy, an exact counterpart of the
previous Saturday.  Owing to some cause, I did not go into the fair till
past one o’clock, and then, seeing neither immense hogs nor immense men,
I concluded that the gents of Wolverhampton had been there, and after
purchasing the larger porkers, had departed with their bargains to their
native district.  After sauntering about a little time, I returned home.
After dinner I went again into the fair along with my wife; the stock
business had long been over, but I observed more stalls than in the
morning, and a far greater throng, for the country people for miles round
had poured into the little town.  By a stall, on which were some poor
legs and shoulders of mutton, I perceived the English butcher, whom the
Welsh one had attempted to slaughter.  I recognised him by a patch which
he wore on his cheek.  My wife and I went up and inquired how he was.  He
said that he still felt poorly, but that he hoped he should get round.  I
asked him if he remembered me; and received for answer that he remembered
having seen me when the examination took place into “his matter.”  I then
inquired what had become of his antagonist, and was told that he was in
prison awaiting his trial.  I gathered from him that he was a native of
the Southdown country, and a shepherd by profession; that he had been
engaged by the squire of Porkington in Shropshire to look after his
sheep, and that he had lived there a year or two, but becoming tired of
his situation, he had come to Llangollen, where he had married a
Welshwoman, and set up as a butcher.  We told him that, as he was our
countryman, we should be happy to deal with him sometimes; he, however,
received the information with perfect apathy, never so much as saying,
“Thank you.”  He was a tall, lanikin figure, with a pair of large,
lack-lustre staring eyes, and upon the whole appeared to be good for very
little.  Leaving him, we went some way up the principal street; presently
my wife turned into a shop, and I, observing a little bookstall, went up
to it, and began to inspect the books.  They were chiefly in Welsh.
Seeing a kind of chap book, which bore on its title-page the name of Twm
O’r Nant, I took it up.  It was called Y Llwyn Celyn, or the Holly Grove,
and contained the life and one of the interludes of Tom O’ the Dingle, or
Thomas Edwards.  It purported to be the first of four numbers, each of
which, amongst other things, was to contain one of his interludes.  The
price of the number was one shilling.  I questioned the man of the stall
about the other numbers, but found that this was the only one which he
possessed.  Eager, however, to read an interlude of the celebrated Tom, I
purchased it, and turned away from the stall.  Scarcely had I done so,
when I saw a wild-looking woman, with two wild children, looking at me.
The woman curtseyed to me, and I thought I recognised the elder of the
two Irish females whom I had seen in the tent on the green meadow near
Chester.  I was going to address her, but just then my wife called to me
from the shop, and I went to her, and when I returned to look for the
woman she and her children had disappeared, and though I searched about
for her, I could not see her, for which I was sorry, as I wished very
much to have some conversation with her about the ways of the Irish
wanderers.  I was thinking of going to look for her up “Paddy’s dingle,”
but my wife, meeting me, begged me to go home with her, as it was getting
late.  So I went home with my better half, bearing my late literary
acquisition in my hand.

That night I sat up very late reading the life of Twm O’r Nant, written
by himself in choice Welsh, and his interlude, which was styled “Cyfoeth
a Thylody; or, Riches and Poverty.”  The life I had read in my boyhood in
an old Welsh magazine, and I now read it again with great zest, and no
wonder, as it is probably the most remarkable autobiography ever penned.
The interlude I had never seen before, nor indeed any of the dramatic
pieces of Twm O’r Nant, though I had frequently wished to procure some of
them—so I read the present one with great eagerness.  Of the life I shall
give some account, and also some extracts from it, which will enable the
reader to judge of Tom’s personal character, and also an abstract of the
interlude, from which the reader may form a tolerably correct idea of the
poetical powers of him whom his countrymen delight to call “the Welsh


History of Twm O’r Nant—Eagerness for Learning—The First Interlude—The
Cruel Fighter—Raising Wood—The Luckless Hour—Turnpike-Keeping—Death in
the Snow—Tom’s Great Feat—The Muse a Friend—Strength in Old
Age—Resurrection of the Dead.

“I am the first-born of my parents,”—says Thomas Edwards.  “They were
poor people, and very ignorant.  I was brought into the world in a place
called Lower Pen Parchell, on land which once belonged to the celebrated
Iolo Goch.  My parents afterwards removed to the Nant (or dingle) near
Nantglyn, situated in a place called Coom Pernant.  The Nant was the
middlemost of three homesteads, which are in the Coom, and are called the
Upper, Middle, and Lower Nant; and it so happened that in the Upper Nant
there were people who had a boy of about the same age as myself, and
forasmuch as they were better to do in the world than my parents, they
having only two children, whilst mine had ten, I was called Tom of the
Dingle, whilst he was denominated Thomas Williams.”

After giving some anecdotes of his childhood, he goes on thus:—“Time
passed on till I was about eight years old, and then in the summer I was
lucky enough to be sent to school for three weeks; and as soon as I had
learnt to spell and read a few words, I conceived a mighty desire to
learn to write; so I went in quest of elderberries to make me ink, and my
first essay in writing was trying to copy on the sides of the leaves of
books the letters of the words I read.  It happened, however, that a shop
in the village caught fire, and the greater part of it was burnt, only a
few trifles being saved, and amongst the scorched articles my mother got
for a penny a number of sheets of paper burnt at the edges, and sewed
them together to serve as copybooks for me.  Without loss of time I went
to the smith of Waendwysog, who wrote for me the letters on the upper
part of the leaves; and careful enough was I to fill the whole paper with
scrawlings, which looked for all the world like crows’ feet.  I went on
getting paper and ink, and something to copy, now from this person, and
now from that, until I learned to read Welsh and to write it at the same

He copied out a great many carols and songs, and the neighbours,
observing his fondness for learning, persuaded his father to allow him to
go to the village school to learn English.  At the end of three weeks,
however, his father, considering that he was losing his time, would allow
him to go no longer, but took him into the fields, in order that the boy
might assist him in his labour.  Nevertheless, Tom would not give up his
literary pursuits, but continued scribbling, and copying out songs and
carols.  When he was about ten he formed an acquaintance with an old man,
chapel-reader in Pentré y Foelas, who had a great many old books in his
possession, which he allowed Tom to read; he then had the honour of
becoming amanuensis to a poet.

“I became very intimate,” says he, “with a man who was a poet; he could
neither read nor write, but he was a poet by nature, having a muse
wonderfully glib at making triplets and quartets.  He was nicknamed Tum
Tai of the Moor.  He made an englyn for me to put in a book, in which I
was inserting all the verses I could collect:

    “‘Tom Evan’s the lad for hunting up songs,
    Tom Evan to whom the best learning belongs;
    Betwixt his two pasteboards he verses has got,
    Sufficient to fill the whole country, I wot.’

“I was in the habit of writing my name Tom, or Thomas Evans, before I
went to school for a fortnight in order to learn English; but then I
altered it into Thomas Edwards, for Evan Edwards was the name of my
father, and I should have been making myself a bastard had I continued
calling myself by my first name.  However, I had the honour of being
secretary to the old poet.  When he had made a song, he would keep it in
his memory till I came to him.  Sometimes after the old man had repeated
his composition to me, I would begin to dispute with him, asking whether
the thing would not be better another way, and he could hardly keep from
flying into a passion with me for putting his work to the torture.”

It was then the custom for young lads to go about playing what were
called interludes, namely, dramatic pieces on religious or moral
subjects, written by rustic poets.  Shortly after Tom had attained the
age of twelve he went about with certain lads of Nantglyn playing these
pieces, generally acting the part of a girl, because, as he says, he had
the best voice.  About this time he wrote an interlude himself, founded
on “John Bunyan’s Spiritual Courtship,” which was, however, stolen from
him by a young fellow from Anglesey, along with the greater part of the
poems and pieces which he had copied.  This affair at first very much
disheartened Tom; plucking up his spirits, however, he went on composing,
and soon acquired amongst his neighbours the title of “the poet,” to the
great mortification of his parents, who were anxious to see him become an
industrious husbandman.

“Before I was quite fourteen,” says he, “I had made another interlude;
but when my father and mother heard about it, they did all they could to
induce me to destroy it.  However, I would not burn it, but gave it to
Hugh of Llangwin, a celebrated poet of the time, who took it to
Llandyrnog, where he sold it for ten shillings to the lads of the place,
who performed it the following summer; but I never got anything for my
labour, save a sup of ale from the players when I met them.  This at the
heel of other things would have induced me to give up poetry, had it been
in the power of anything to do so.  I made two interludes,” he continues,
“one for the people of Llanbedr, in the Vale of Clwyd, and the other for
the lads of Llanarmon in Yale, one on the subject of Naaman’s leprosy,
and the other about hypocrisy, which was a refashionment of the work of
Richard Parry of Ddiserth.  When I was young I had such a rage, or
madness, for poetising, that I would make a song on almost anything I
saw—and it was a mercy that many did not kill me, or break my bones, on
account of my evil tongue.  My parents often told me I should have some
mischief done me if I went on in the way in which I was going.  Once on a
time, being with some companions as bad as myself, I happened to use some
very free language in a place where three lovers were with a young lass
of my neighbourhood, who lived at a place called Ty Celyn, with whom they
kept company.  I said in discourse that they were the cocks of Ty Celyn.
The girl heard me, and conceived a spite against me on account of my
scurrilous language.  She had a brother, who was a cruel fighter; he took
the part of his sister, and determined to chastise me.  One Sunday
evening he shouted to me as I was coming from Nantgyln—our ways were the
same till we got nearly home—he had determined to give me a thrashing,
and he had with him a piece of oak stick just suited for the purpose.
After we had taunted each other for some time, as we went along, he flung
his stick on the ground, and stripped himself stark naked.  I took off my
hat and my neckcloth, and took his stick in my hand; whereupon, running
to the hedge, he took a stake, and straight we set to like two furies.
After fighting for some time, our sticks were shivered to pieces and
quite short; sometimes we were upon the ground, but did not give up
fighting on that account.  Many people came up and would fain have parted
us, but we would by no means let them.  At last we agreed to go and pull
fresh stakes, and then we went at it again, until he could no longer
stand.  The marks of this battle are upon him and me to this day.  At
last, covered with a gore of blood, he was dragged home by his
neighbours.  He was in a dreadful condition, and many thought he would
die.  On the morrow there came an alarm that he was dead, whereupon I
escaped across the mountain to Pentré y Foelas, to the old man Sion
Dafydd, to read his old books.”

After staying there a little time, and getting his wounds tended by an
old woman, he departed, and skulked about in various places, doing now
and then a little work, until, hearing his adversary was recovering, he
returned to his home.  He went on writing and performing interludes till
he fell in love with a young woman rather religiously inclined, whom he
married in the year 1763, when he was in his twenty-fourth year.  The
young couple settled down on a little place near the town of Denbigh,
called Ale Fowlio.  They kept three cows and four horses.  The wife
superintended the cows, and Tom with his horses carried wood from
Gwenynos to Ruddlan, and soon excelled all other carters “in loading, and
in everything connected with the management of wood.”  Tom, in the pride
of his heart, must needs be helping his fellow-carriers, whilst labouring
with them in the forests, till his wife told him he was a fool for his
pains, and advised him to go and load in the afternoon, when nobody would
be about, offering to go and help him.  He listened to her advice, and
took her with him.

“The dear creature,” says he, “assisted me for some time, but as she was
with child, and on that account not exactly fit to turn the roll of the
crane with levers of iron, I formed the plan of hooking the horses to the
rope, in order to raise up the wood which was to be loaded, and by long
teaching the horses to pull and to stop, I contrived to make loading a
much easier task, both to my wife and myself.  Now this was the first
hooking of horses to the rope of the crane which was ever done either in
Wales or England.  Subsequently I had plenty of leisure and rest, instead
of toiling amidst other carriers.”

Leaving Ale Fowlio, he took up his abode nearer to Denbigh, and continued
carrying wood.  Several of his horses died, and he was soon in
difficulties, and was glad to accept an invitation from certain miners of
the county of Flint to go and play them an interlude.  As he was playing
them one called “A Vision of the Course of the World,” which he had
written for the occasion, and which was founded on, and named after, the
first part of the work of Master Ellis Wyn, he was arrested at the suit
of one Mostyn of Calcoed.  He, however, got bail, and partly by carrying,
and partly by playing interludes, soon raised enough money to pay his
debt.  He then made another interlude, called “Riches and Poverty,” by
which he gained a great deal of money.  He then wrote two others, one
called “The Three Associates of Man, namely the World, Nature, and
Conscience;” the other entitled “The King, the Justice, the Bishop and
the Husbandman,” both of which he and certain of his companions acted
with great success.  After he had made all that he could by acting these
pieces, he printed them.  When printed, they had a considerable sale, and
Tom was soon able to set up again as a carter.  He went on carting and
carrying for upwards of twelve years, at the end of which time he was
worth, with one thing and the other, upwards of three hundred pounds,
which was considered a very considerable property about ninety years ago
in Wales.  He then, in a luckless hour, “when,” to use his own words, “he
was at leisure at home, like King David on the top of his house,” mixed
himself up with the concerns of an uncle of his, a brother of his father.
He first became bail for him, and subsequently made himself answerable
for the amount of a bill, due by his uncle to a lawyer.  His becoming
answerable for the bill nearly proved the utter ruin of our hero.  His
uncle failed, and left him to pay it.  The lawyer took out a writ against
him.  It would have been well for Tom if he had paid the money at once,
but he went on dallying and compromising with the lawyer, till he became
terribly involved in his web.  To increase his difficulties, work became
slack; so at last he packed his things upon his carts, and with his
family, consisting of his wife and three daughters, fled into
Montgomeryshire.  The lawyer, however, soon got information of his
whereabout, and threatened to arrest him.  Tom, after trying in vain to
arrange matters with him, fled into South Wales, to Carmarthenshire,
where he carried wood for a timber-merchant, and kept a turnpike gate,
which belonged to the same individual.  But the “old cancer” still
followed him, and his horses were seized for the debt.  His neighbours,
however, assisted him, and bought the horses in at a low price when they
were put up for sale, and restored them to him, for what they had given.
Even then the matter was not satisfactorily settled, for, years
afterwards, on the decease of Tom’s father, the lawyer seized upon the
property, which by law descended to Tom O’r Nant, and turned his poor old
mother out upon the cold mountain side.

Many strange adventures occurred to Tom in South Wales, but those which
befell him whilst officiating as a turnpike-keeper were certainly the
most extraordinary.  If what he says be true, as of course it is—for who
shall presume to doubt Tom O’ the Dingle’s veracity?—whosoever fills the
office of turnpike-keeper in Wild Wales should be a person of very
considerable nerve.

“We were in the habit of seeing,” says Tom, “plenty of passengers going
through the gate without paying toll; I mean such things as are called
phantoms, or illusions—sometimes there were hearses and mourning coaches,
sometimes funeral processions on foot, the whole to be seen as distinctly
as anything could be seen, especially at night-time.  I saw myself on a
certain night a hearse go through the gate whilst it was shut; I saw the
horses and the harness, the postilion, and the coachman, and the tufts of
hair such as are seen on the tops of hearses, and I saw the wheels
scattering the stones in the road, just as other wheels would have done.
Then I saw a funeral of the same character, for all the world like a real
funeral; there was the bier and the black drapery.  I have seen more than
one.  If a young man was to be buried there would be a white sheet, or
something that looked like one—and sometimes I have seen a flaring candle
going past.

“Once a traveller passing through the gate called out to me: ‘Look!
yonder is a corpse candle coming through the fields beside the highway.’
So we paid attention to it as it moved, making apparently towards the
church from the other side.  Sometimes it would be quite near the road,
another time some way into the fields.  And sure enough after the lapse
of a little time a body was brought by exactly the same route by which
the candle had come, owing to the proper road being blocked up with snow.

“Another time there happened a great wonder connected with an old man of
Carmarthen, who was in the habit of carrying fish to Brecon, Menny, and
Monmouth, and returning with the poorer kind of Gloucester cheese: my
people knew he was on the road, and had made ready for him, the weather
being dreadful, wind blowing and snow drifting.  Well! in the middle of
the night my daughters heard the voice of the old man at the gate, and
their mother called to them to open it quick, and invite the old man to
come in to the fire!  One of the girls got up forthwith, but when she
went out there was nobody to be seen.  On the morrow, lo, and behold! the
body of the old man was brought past on a couch, he having perished in
the snow on the mountain of Tre’r Castell.  Now this is the truth of the

Many wonderful feats did Tom perform connected with loading and carrying,
which acquired for him the reputation of being the best wood carter of
the south.  His dexterity at moving huge bodies was probably never
equalled.  Robinson Crusoe was not half so handy.  Only see how he moved
a ship into the water, which a multitude of people were unable to do.

“After keeping the gate for two or three years,” says he, “I took the
lease of a piece of ground in Llandeilo Fawr, and built a house upon it,
which I got licensed as a tavern for my daughters to keep.  I myself went
on carrying wood as usual.  Now it happened that my employer, the
merchant at Abermarlais, had built a small ship, of about thirty or forty
tons, in the wood, about a mile and a quarter from the river Towy, which
is capable of floating small vessels as far as Carmarthen.  He had
resolved that the people should draw it to the river by way of sport, and
had caused proclamation to be made in four parish churches, that on such
a day a ship would be launched at Abermarlais, and that food and drink
would be given to any one who would come and lend a hand at the work.
Four hogsheads of ale were broached, a great oven full of bread was
baked, plenty of cheese and butter bought, and meat cooked for the more
respectable people.  The ship was provided with four wheels, or rather
four great rolling stocks, fenced about with iron, with great big
axle-trees in them, well greased against the appointed day.  I had been
loading in the wood that day, and sending the team forward, I went to see
the business—and a pretty piece of business it turned out.  All the food
was eaten, the drink swallowed to the last drop, the ship drawn about
three roods, and then left in a deep ditch.  By this time night was
coming on, and the multitude went away, some drunk, some hungry for want
of food, but the greater part laughing as if they would split their
sides.  The merchant cried like a child, bitterly lamenting his folly,
and told me that he should have to take the ship to pieces before he
could ever get it out of the ditch.

“I told him that I could take it to the river, provided I could but get
three or four men to help me; whereupon he said that if I could but get
the vessel to the water, he would give me anything I asked, and earnestly
begged me to come the next morning, if possible.  I did come, with the
lad and four horses.  I went before the team, and set the men to work to
break a hole through a great old wall, which stood as it were before the
ship.  We then laid a piece of timber across the hole from which was a
chain, to which the tackle—that is, the rope and pulleys—was hooked.  We
then hooked one end of the rope to the ship, and set the horses to pull
at the other.  The ship came out of the hole prosperously enough, and
then we had to hook the tackle to a tree, which was growing near, and by
this means we got the ship forward; but when we came to soft ground we
were obliged to put planks under the wheels to prevent their sinking
under the immense weight; when we came to the end of the foremost planks,
we put the hinder ones before, and so on; when there was no tree at hand
to which we could hook the tackle, we were obliged to drive a post down
to hook it to.  So from tree to post it got down to the river in a few
days.  I was promised noble wages by the merchant, but I never got
anything from him but promises and praises.  Some people came to look at
us, and gave us money to get ale, and that was all.”

The merchant subsequently turned out a very great knave, cheating Tom on
various occasions, and finally broke, very much in his debt.  Tom was
obliged to sell off everything, and left South Wales without horses or
waggon; his old friend the Muse, however, stood him in good stead.

“Before I left,” says he, “I went to Brecon, and printed the ‘Interlude
of the King, the Justice, the Bishop, and the Husbandman,’ and got an old
acquaintance of mine to play it with me, and help me to sell the books.
I likewise busied myself in getting subscribers to a book of songs called
the ‘Garden of Minstrelsy.’  It was printed at Trefecca.  The expense
attending the printing amounted to fifty-two pounds, but I was fortunate
enough to dispose of two thousand copies.  I subsequently composed an
interlude called ‘Pleasure and Care,’ and printed it; and after that I
made an interlude called the ‘Three Powerful Ones of the World: Poverty,
Love, and Death.’”

The poet’s daughters were not successful in the tavern speculation at
Llandeilo, and followed their father into North Wales.  The second he
apprenticed to a milliner, the other two lived with him till the day of
his death.  He settled at Denbigh in a small house, which he was enabled
to furnish by means of two or three small sums which he recovered for
work done a long time before.  Shortly after his return, his father died,
and the lawyer seized the little property “for the old curse,” and turned
Tom’s mother out.

After his return from the South, Tom went about for some time playing
interludes, and then turned his hand to many things.  He learnt the trade
of stonemason, took jobs, and kept workmen.  He then went amongst certain
bricklayers, and induced them to teach him their craft; “and shortly,” as
he says, “became a very lion at bricklaying.  For the last four or five
years,” says he, towards the conclusion of his history, “my work has been
to put up iron ovens, and likewise furnaces of all kinds, also grates,
stoves and boilers, and not unfrequently I have practised as a smoke

The following feats of strength he performed after his return from South
Wales, when he was probably about sixty years of age:—

“About a year after my return from the South,” says he, “I met with an
old carrier of wood, who had many a time worked along with me.  He and I
were at the Hand at Ruthyn, along with various others, and in the course
of discourse my friend said to me: ‘Tom, thou art much weaker than thou
wast when we carted wood together.’  I answered that in my opinion I was
not a bit weaker than I was then.  Now it happened that at the moment we
were talking there were some sacks of wheat in the hall, which were going
to Chester by the carrier’s waggon.  They might hold about three bushels
each, and I said that if I could get three of the sacks upon the table,
and had them tied together, I would carry them into the street and back
again; and so I did; many who were present tried to do the same thing,
but all failed.

“Another time when I was at Chester I lifted a barrel of porter from the
street to the hinder part of the waggon, solely by strength of back and

He was once run over by a loaded waggon, but, strange to say, escaped
without the slightest injury.

Towards the close of his life he had strong religious convictions, and
felt a loathing for the sins which he had committed.  “On their account,”
says he, in the concluding page of his biography, “there is a strong
necessity for me to consider my ways, and to inquire about a Saviour,
since it is utterly impossible for me to save myself without obtaining
knowledge of the merits of the Mediator, in which I hope I shall
terminate my short time on earth in the peace of God enduring unto all

He died in the year 1810, at the age of 71, shortly after the death of
his wife, who seems to have been a faithful, loving partner.  By her side
he was buried in the earth of the graveyard of the White Church, near
Denbigh.  There can be little doubt that the souls of both will be
accepted on the great day when, as Gronwy Owen says:—

“Like corn from the belly of the ploughed field, in a thick crop, those
buried in the earth shall arise, and the sea shall cast forth a thousand
myriads of dead above the deep billowy way.”


Mystery Plays—The Two Prime Opponents—Analysis of Interlude—“Riches and
Poverty”—Tom’s Grand Qualities.

In the preceding chapter I have given an abstract of the life of Tom O’
the Dingle; I will now give an analysis of his interlude; first, however,
a few words on interludes in general.  It is difficult to say, with
anything like certainty, what is the meaning of the word interlude.  It
may mean, as Warton supposes in his history of English Poetry, a short
play performed between the courses of a banquet, or festival; or it may
mean the playing of something by two or more parties, the interchange of
playing or acting which occurs when two or more people act.  It was about
the middle of the fifteenth century that dramatic pieces began in England
to be called Interludes; for some time previous they had been styled
Moralities; but the earliest name by which they were known was Mysteries.
The first Mysteries composed in England were by one Ranald, or Ranulf, a
monk of Chester, who flourished about 1322, whose verses are mentioned
rather irreverently in one of the visions of Piers Plowman, who puts them
in the same rank as the ballads about Robin Hood and Maid Marion, making
Sloth say:

    “I cannot perfitly my Paternoster as the priest it singeth,
    But I can rhymes of Robin Hood and Ranald of Chester.”

Long, however, before the time of this Ranald, Mysteries had been
composed and represented both in Italy and France.  The Mysteries were
very rude compositions; little more, as Warton says, than literal
representations of portions of Scripture.  They derived their name of
Mysteries from being generally founded on the more mysterious parts of
Holy Writ—for example, the Incarnation, the Atonement and the
Resurrection.  The Moralities displayed something more of art and
invention than the Mysteries; in them virtues, vices and qualities were
personified, and something like a plot was frequently to be discovered.
They were termed Moralities because each had its moral, which was spoken
at the end of the piece by a person called the Doctor. {349}  Much that
has been said about the moralities holds good with respect to the
interludes.  Indeed, for some time dramatic pieces were called moralities
and interludes indifferently.  In both there is a mixture of allegory and
reality.  The latter interludes, however, display more of everyday life
than was ever observable in the moralities, and more closely approximate
to modern plays.  Several writers of genius have written interludes,
amongst whom are the English Skelton and the Scottish Lindsay, the latter
of whom wrote eight pieces of that kind, the most celebrated of which is
called “The Puir Man and the Pardonar.”  Both of these writers flourished
about the same period, and made use of the interlude as a means of
satirising the vices of the popish clergy.  In the time of Charles the
First the interlude went much out of fashion in England; in fact, the
play, or regular drama, had superseded it.  In Wales, however, it
continued to the beginning of the present century, when it yielded to the
influence of Methodism.  Of all Welsh interlude composers, Twm O’r Nant,
or Tom of the Dingle, was the most famous.  Here follows the promised
analysis of his “Riches and Poverty.”

The entire title of the interlude is to this effect.  The two prime
opponents Riches and Poverty.  A brief exposition of their contrary
effects on the world; with short and appropriate explanations of their
quality and substance, according to the rule of the four elements, Water,
Fire, Earth, and Air.

First of all enter Fool, Sir Jemant Wamal, who in rather a foolish speech
tells the audience that they are about to hear a piece composed by Tom
the poet.  Then appears Captain Riches, who makes a long speech about his
influence in the world, and the general contempt in which Poverty is
held; he is, however, presently checked by the Fool, who tells him some
home truths, and asks him, among other questions, whether Solomon did not
say that it is not meet to despise a poor man, who conducts himself
rationally.  Then appears Howel Tightbelly, the miser, who in capital
verse, with very considerable glee and exultation, gives an account of
his manifold rascalities.  Then comes his wife, Esther Steady, home from
the market, between whom and her husband there is a pithy dialogue.
Captain Riches and Captain Poverty then meet, without rancour, however,
and have a long discourse about the providence of God, whose agents they
own themselves to be.  Enter then an old worthless scoundrel called
Diogyn Trwstan, or Luckless Lazybones, who is upon the parish, and who,
in a very entertaining account of his life, confesses that he was never
good for anything, but was a liar and an idler from his infancy.  Enter
again the Miser along with poor Lowry, who asks the Miser for meal, and
other articles, but gets nothing but threatening language.  There is then
a very edifying dialogue between Mr. Contemplation and Mr. Truth, who,
when they retire, are succeeded on the stage by the Miser and John the
Tavern-keeper.  The publican owes the Miser money, and begs that he will
be merciful to him.  The Miser, however, swears that he will be satisfied
with nothing but bond and judgment on his effects.  The publican very
humbly says that he will go to a friend of his, in order to get the bond
made out; almost instantly comes the Fool, who reads an inventory of the
publican’s effects.  The Miser then sings for very gladness, because
everything in the world has hitherto gone well with him; turning round,
however, what is his horror and astonishment to behold Mr. Death, close
by him.  Death hauls the Miser away, and then appears the Fool to
moralise and dismiss the audience.

The appropriate explanations mentioned in the title are given in various
songs which the various characters sing after describing themselves, or
after dialogues with each other.  The announcement that the whole
exposition, etc., will be after the rule of the four elements, is rather
startling; the dialogue, however, between Captain Riches and Captain
Poverty shows that Tom was equal to his subject, and promised nothing
that he could not perform.

                           _Enter_ CAPTAIN POVERTY.

    O Riches, thy figure is charming and bright,
    And to speak in thy praise all the world doth delight,
    But I’m a poor fellow all tatter’d and torn,
    Whom all the world treateth with insult and scorn.


    However mistaken the judgment may be
    Of the world which is never from ignorance free,
    The parts we must play, which to us are assign’d,
    According as God has enlighten’d our mind.

    Of elements four did our Master create,
    The earth and all in it with skill the most great;
    Need I the world’s four materials declare—
    Are they not water, fire, earth, and air?

    Too wise was the mighty Creator to frame
    A world from one element, water or flame;
    The one is full moist and the other full hot,
    And a world made of either were useless, I wot.

    And if it had all of mere earth been compos’d,
    And no water nor fire been within it enclos’d,
    It could ne’er have produc’d for a huge multitude
    Of all kinds of living things suitable food.

    And if God what was wanted had not fully known,
    But created the world of these three things alone,
    How would any creature the heaven beneath,
    Without the blest air have been able to breathe?

    Thus all things created, the God of all grace,
    Of four prime materials, each good in its place.
    The work of His hands, when completed, He view’d,
    And saw and pronounc’d that ’twas seemly and good.


    In the marvellous things, which to me thou hast told
    The wisdom of God I most clearly behold,
    And did He not also make man of the same
    Materials He us’d when the world He did frame?


    Creation is all, as the sages agree,
    Of the elements four in man’s body that be;
    Water’s the blood, and fire is the nature
    Which prompts generation in every creature.

    The earth is the flesh which with beauty is rife,
    The air is the breath, without which is no life;
    So man must be always accounted the same
    As the substances four which exist in his frame.

    And as in their creation distinction there’s none
    ’Twixt man and the world, so the Infinite One
    Unto man a clear wisdom did bounteously give
    The nature of everything to perceive.


    But one thing to me passing strange doth appear:
    Since the wisdom of man is so bright and so clear,
    How comes there such jarring and warring to be
    In the world betwixt Riches and Poverty?


    That point we’ll discuss without passion or fear
    With the aim of instructing the listeners here;
    And haply some few who instruction require
    May profit derive like the bee from the briar.

    Man as thou knowest, in his generation
    Is a type of the world and of all the creation;
    Difference there’s none in the manner of birth
    ’Twixt the lowliest hinds and the lords of the earth.

    The world which the same thing as man we account
    In one place is sea, in another is mount;
    A part of it rock, and a part of it dale—
    God’s wisdom has made every place to avail.

    There exist precious treasures of every kind
    Profoundly in earth’s quiet bosom enshrin’d;
    There’s searching about them, and ever has been,
    And by some they are found, and by some never seen.

    With wonderful wisdom the Lord God on high
    Has contriv’d the two lights which exist in the sky;
    The sun’s hot as fire, and its ray bright as gold,
    But the moon’s ever pale, and by nature is cold.

    The sun, which resembles a huge world of fire,
    Would burn up full quickly creation entire
    Save the moon with its temp’rament cool did assuage
    Of its brighter companion the fury and rage.

    Now I beg you the sun and the moon to behold,
    The one that’s so bright, and the other so cold,
    And say if two things in creation there be
    Better emblems of Riches and Poverty.


    In manner most brief, yet convincing and clear,
    You have told the whole truth to my wond’ring ear,
    And I see that ’twas God, who in all things is fair,
    Has assign’d us the forms, in this world which we bear.

    In the sight of the world doth the wealthy man seem
    Like the sun which doth warm everything with its beam;
    Whilst the poor needy wight with his pitiable case
    Resembles the moon which doth chill with its face.


    You know that full oft, in their course as they run,
    An eclipse cometh over the moon or the sun;
    Certain hills of the earth with their summits of pride
    The face of the one from the other do hide.

    The sun doth uplift his magnificent head,
    And illumines the moon, which were otherwise dead,
    Even as Wealth from its station on high,
    Giveth work and provision to Poverty.


    I know, and the thought mighty sorrow instils,
    The sins of the world are the terrible hills
    An eclipse which do cause, or a dread obscuration,
    To one or another in every vocation.


    It is true that God gives unto each from his birth
    Some task to perform whilst he wends upon earth,
    But He gives correspondent wisdom and force
    To the weight of the task, and the length of the course.



    I hope there are some, who ’twixt me and the youth
    Have heard this discourse, whose sole aim is the truth,
    Will see and acknowledge, as homeward they plod,
    Each thing is arrang’d by the wisdom of God.

There can be no doubt that Tom was a poet, or he could never have treated
the hackneyed subjects of Riches and Poverty in a manner so original, and
at the same time so masterly, as he has done in the interlude above
analysed; I cannot, however, help thinking that he was greater as a man
than a poet, and that his fame depends more on the cleverness, courage
and energy, which it is evident by his biography that he possessed, than
on his interludes.  A time will come when his interludes will cease to be
read, but his making ink out of elderberries, his battle with the “cruel
fighter,” his teaching his horses to turn the crane, and his getting the
ship to the water, will be talked of in Wales till the peak of Snowdon
shall fall down.


Set out for Wrexham—Craig y Forwyn—Uncertainty—The Collier—Cadogan
Hall—Methodistical Volume.

Having learnt from a newspaper that a Welsh book on Welsh Methodism had
been just published at Wrexham, I determined to walk to that place and
purchase it.  I could easily have procured the work through a bookseller
at Llangollen, but I wished to explore the hill-road which led to
Wrexham, what the farmer under the Eglwysig rocks had said of its
wildness having excited my curiosity, which the procuring of the book
afforded me a plausible excuse for gratifying.  If one wants to take any
particular walk, it is always well to have some business, however
trifling, to transact at the end of it; so having determined to go to
Wrexham by the mountain road, I set out on the Saturday next after the
one on which I had met the farmer who had told me of it.

The day was gloomy, with some tendency to rain.  I passed under the hill
of Dinas Bran.  About a furlong from its western base I turned round and
surveyed it—and perhaps the best view of the noble mountain is to be
obtained from the place where I turned round.  How grand, though sad,
from there it looked, that grey morning, with its fine ruin on its brow,
above which a little cloud hovered!  It put me in mind of some old king,
unfortunate and melancholy, but a king still, with the look of a king,
and the ancestral crown still on his furrowed forehead.  I proceeded on
my way, all was wild and solitary, and the yellow leaves were falling
from the trees of the groves.  I passed by the farmyard, where I had held
discourse with the farmer on the preceding Saturday, and soon entered the
glen, the appearance of which had so much attracted my curiosity.  A
torrent, rushing down from the north, was on my right.  It soon began to
drizzle, and mist so filled the glen that I could only distinguish
objects a short way before me, and on either side.  I wandered on a
considerable way, crossing the torrent several times by rustic bridges.
I passed two lone farm-houses, and at last saw another on my left
hand—the mist had now cleared up, but it still slightly rained—the
scenery was wild to a degree—a little way before me was a tremendous
pass, near it an enormous crag, of a strange form, rising to the very
heavens, the upper part of it of a dull white colour.  Seeing a
respectable-looking man near the house, I went up to him.  “Am I in the
right way to Wrexham?” said I, addressing him in English.

“You can get to Wrexham this way, sir,” he replied.

“Can you tell me the name of that crag?” said I, pointing to the large

“That crag, sir, is called Craig y Forwyn.”

“The maiden’s crag,” said I; “why is it called so?”

“I do not know, sir; some people say that it is called so because its
head is like that of a woman, others because a young girl in love leaped
from the top of it and was killed.”

“And what is the name of this house?” said I.

“This house, sir, is called Plas Uchaf.”

“Is it called Plas Uchaf,” said I, “because it is the highest house in
the valley?”

“It is, sir; it is the highest of three homesteads; the next below it is
Plas Canol—and the one below that Plas Isaf.”

“Middle place and lower place,” said I.  “It is very odd that I know in
England three people who derive their names from places so situated.  One
is Houghton, another Middleton, and the third Lowdon; in modern English,
Hightown, Middletown, and Lowtown.”

“You appear to be a person of great intelligence, sir.”

“No, I am not—but I am rather fond of analysing words, particularly the
names of persons and places.  Is the road to Wrexham hard to find?”

“Not very, sir; that is, in the day-time.  Do you live at Wrexham?”

“No,” I replied, “I am stopping at Llangollen.”

“But you won’t return there to-night?”

“O yes, I shall!”

“By this road?”

“No, by the common road.  This is not a road to travel by night.”

“Nor is the common road, sir, for a respectable person on foot; that is,
on a Saturday night.  You will perhaps meet drunken colliers, who may
knock you down.”

“I will take my chance for that,” said I, and bade him farewell.  I
entered the pass, passing under the strange-looking crag.  After I had
walked about half-a-mile the pass widened considerably, and a little way
farther on debouched on some wild, moory ground.  Here the road became
very indistinct.  At length I stopped in a state of uncertainty.  A
well-defined path presented itself, leading to the east, whilst northward
before me there seemed scarcely any path at all.  After some hesitation I
turned to the east by the well-defined path, and by so doing went wrong,
as I soon found.

I mounted the side of a brown hill covered with moss-like grass, and here
and there heather.  By the time I arrived at the top of the hill the sun
shone out, and I saw Rhiwabon and Cefn Mawr before me in the distance.
“I am going wrong,” said I; “I should have kept on due north.  However, I
will not go back, but will steeplechase it across the country to Wrexham,
which must be towards the north-east.”  So turning aside from the path, I
dashed across the hills in that direction; sometimes the heather was up
to my knees, and sometimes I was up to the knees in quags.  At length I
came to a deep ravine, which I descended; at the bottom was a quagmire,
which, however, I contrived to cross by means of certain stepping-stones,
and came to a cart-path up a heathery hill, which I followed.  I soon
reached the top of the hill, and the path still continuing, I followed it
till I saw some small grimy-looking huts, which I supposed were those of
colliers.  At the door of the first I saw a girl.  I spoke to her in
Welsh, and found she had little or none.  I passed on, and seeing the
door of a cabin open, I looked in—and saw no adult person, but several
grimy but chubby children.  I spoke to them in English, and found they
could only speak Welsh.  Presently I observed a robust woman advancing
towards me; she was barefooted, and bore on her head an immense lump of
coal.  I spoke to her in Welsh, and found she could only speak English.
“Truly,” said I to myself, “I am on the borders.  What a mixture of races
and languages!”  The next person I met was a man in a collier’s dress; he
was a stout-built fellow of the middle age, with a coal-dusty, surly
countenance.  I asked him in Welsh if I was in the right direction for
Wrexham, he answered in a surly manner in English that I was.  I again
spoke to him in Welsh, making some indifferent observation on the
weather, and he answered in English yet more gruffly than before.  For
the third time I spoke to him in Welsh, whereupon, looking at me with a
grin of savage contempt, and showing a set of teeth like those of a
mastiff, he said, “How’s this? why, you haven’t a word of English!  A
pretty fellow, you, with a long coat on your back, and no English on your
tongue; an’t you ashamed of yourself?  Why, here am I in a short coat,
yet I’d have you to know that I can speak English as well as Welsh, aye,
and a good deal better.”  “All people are not equally clebber,” said I,
still speaking Welsh.  “Clebber,” said he, “clebber! what is clebber? why
can’t you say clever?  Why, I never saw such a low, illiterate fellow in
my life;” and with these words he turned away, with every mark of
disdain, and entered a cottage near at hand.

“Here I have had,” said I to myself, as I proceeded on my way, “to pay
for the over-praise which I lately received.  The farmer on the other
side of the mountain called me a person of great intelligence, which I
never pretended to be, and now this collier calls me a low, illiterate
fellow, which I really don’t think I am.  There is certainly a Nemesis
mixed up with the affairs of this world; every good thing which you get,
beyond what is strictly your due, is sure to be required from you with a
vengeance.  A little over-praise by a great deal of under-rating—a gleam
of good fortune by a night of misery.”

I now saw Wrexham Church at about the distance of three miles, and
presently entered a lane which led gently down from the hills, which were
the same heights I had seen on my right hand, some months previously, on
my way from Wrexham to Rhiwabon.  The scenery now became very
pretty—hedge-rows were on either side, a luxuriance of trees, and plenty
of green fields.  I reached the bottom of the lane, beyond which I saw a
strange-looking house upon a slope on the right hand.  It was very large,
ruinous, and seemingly deserted.  A little beyond it was a farm-house,
connected with which was a long row of farming buildings along the
roadside.  Seeing a woman seated knitting at the door of a little
cottage, I asked her in English the name of the old ruinous house.

“Cadogan Hall, sir,” she replied.

“And whom does it belong to?” said I.

“I don’t know exactly,” replied the woman, “but Mr. Morris at the farm
holds it, and stows his things in it.”

“Can you tell me anything about it?” said I.

“Nothing farther,” said the woman, “than that it is said to be haunted,
and to have been a barrack many years ago.”

“Can you speak Welsh?” said I.

“No,” said the woman; “I are Welsh, but have no Welsh language.”

Leaving the woman, I put on my best speed, and in about half-an-hour
reached Wrexham.

The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to the bookshop and
purchase the Welsh methodistic book.  It cost me seven shillings, and was
a thick, bulky octavo, with a cut-and-come-again expression about it,
which was anything but disagreeable to me, for I hate your flimsy
publications.  The evening was now beginning to set in, and feeling
somewhat hungry, I hurried off to the Wynstay Arms, through streets
crowded with market people.  On arriving at the inn, I entered the grand
room and ordered dinner.  The waiters, observing me splashed with mud
from head to foot, looked at me dubiously; seeing, however, the
respectable-looking volume which I bore in my hand—none of your railroad
stuff—they became more assured, and I presently heard one say to the
other, “It’s all right—that’s Mr. So-and-so, the great Baptist preacher.
He has been preaching amongst the hills—don’t you see his Bible?”

Seating myself at a table, I inspected the volume.  And here, perhaps,
the reader expects that I shall regale him with an analysis of the
methodistical volume at least as long as that of the life of Tom O’ the
Dingle.  In that case, however, he will be disappointed; all that I shall
at present say of it is, that it contained a history of Methodism in
Wales, with the lives of the principal Welsh Methodists.  That it was
fraught with curious and original matter, was written in a
straightforward, methodical style, and that I have no doubt it will some
day or other be extensively known and highly prized.

After dinner I called for half a pint of wine.  Whilst I was trifling
over it, a commercial traveller entered into conversation with me.  After
some time he asked me if I was going further that night.

“To Llangollen,” said I.

“By the ten o’clock train?” said he.

“No,” I replied, “I am going on foot.”

“On foot!” said he; “I would not go on foot there this night for fifty

“Why not?” said I.

“For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all out and

“If not more than two attack me,” said I, “I shan’t much mind.  With this
book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can find play for the
other with my fists.”

The commercial traveller looked at me.  “A strange kind of Baptist
minister,” I thought I heard him say.


Rhiwabon Road—The Public-house Keeper—No Welsh—The Wrong Road—The Good

I paid my reckoning and started.  The night was now rapidly closing in.
I passed the toll-gate, and hurried along the Rhiwabon road, overtaking
companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many individuals, whom,
from their thick and confused speech, as well as from their staggering
gait, I judged to be intoxicated.  As I passed a red public-house on my
right hand, at the door of which stood several carts, a scream of Welsh
issued from it.

“Let any Saxon,” said I, “who is fond of fighting, and wishes for a
bloody nose, go in there.”

Coming to the small village about a mile from Rhiwabon, I felt thirsty,
and seeing a public-house, in which all seemed to be quiet, I went in.  A
thick-set man, with a pipe in his mouth, sat in the tap-room, and also a

“Where is the landlord?” said I.

“I am the landlord,” said the man huskily.  “What do you want?”

“A pint of ale,” said I.

The man got up, and, with his pipe in his mouth, went staggering out of
the room.  In about a minute he returned, holding a mug in his hand,
which he put down on a table before me, spilling no slight quantity of
the liquor as he did so.  I put down three-pence on the table.  He took
the money up slowly, piece by piece, looked at it, and appeared to
consider; then taking the pipe out of his mouth, he dashed it to seven
pieces against the table, then staggered out of the room into the
passage, and from thence apparently out of the house.  I tasted the ale,
which was very good; then turning to the woman, who seemed about
three-and-twenty, and was rather good-looking, I spoke to her in Welsh.

“I have no Welsh, sir,” said she.

“How is that?” said I; “this village is, I think, in the Welshery.”

“It is,” said she; “but I am from Shropshire.”

“Are you the mistress of the house?” said I.

“No,” said she, “I am married to a collier;” then getting up, she said,
“I must go and see after my husband.”

“Won’t you take a glass of ale first?” said I, offering to fill a glass
which stood on the table.

“No,” said she; “I am the worst in the world for a glass of ale;” and
without saying anything more she departed.

“I wonder whether your husband is anything like you with respect to a
glass of ale?” said I to myself; then finishing my ale, I got up and left
the house, which, when I departed, appeared to be entirely deserted.

It was now quite night, and it would have been pitchy-dark but for the
glare of the forges.  There was an immense glare to the south-west, which
I conceived proceeded from those of Cefn Mawr.  It lighted up the
south-western sky; then there were two other glares nearer to me,
seemingly divided by a lump of something, perhaps a grove of trees.

Walking very fast, I soon overtook a man.  I knew him at once by his
staggering gait.

“Ah, landlord!” said I; “whither bound?”

“To Rhiwabon,” said he, huskily, “for a pint.”

“Is the ale so good at Rhiwabon,” said I, “that you leave home for it?”

“No,” said he, rather shortly, “there’s not a glass of good ale in

“Then why do you go thither?” said I.

“Because a pint of bad liquor abroad is better than a quart of good at
home,” said the landlord, reeling against the hedge.

“There are many in a higher station than you who act upon that
principle,” thought I to myself as I passed on.

I soon reached Rhiwabon.  There was a prodigious noise in the
public-houses as I passed through it.  “Colliers carousing,” said I.
“Well, I shall not go amongst them to preach temperance, though perhaps
in strict duty I ought.”  At the end of the town, instead of taking the
road on the left side of the church, I took that on the right.  It was
not till I had proceeded nearly a mile that I began to be apprehensive
that I had mistaken the way.  Hearing some people coming towards me on
the road, I waited till they came up; they proved to be a man and a
woman.  On my inquiring whether I was right for Llangollen, the former
told me that I was not, and in order to get there it was necessary that I
should return to Rhiwabon.  I instantly turned round.  About half-way
back I met a man who asked me in English where I was hurrying to.  I said
to Rhiwabon, in order to get to Llangollen.  “Well, then,” said he, “you
need not return to Rhiwabon—yonder is a short cut across the fields,” and
he pointed to a gate.  I thanked him, and said I would go by it; before
leaving him, I asked to what place the road led which I had been

“To Pentre Castren,” he replied.  I struck across the fields, and should
probably have tumbled half-a-dozen times over pales and the like, but for
the light of the Cefn furnaces before me, which cast their red glow upon
my path.  I debouched upon the Llangollen road near to the tramway
leading to the collieries.  Two enormous sheets of flame shot up high
into the air from ovens, illumining two spectral chimneys as high as
steeples, also smoky buildings, and grimy figures moving about.  There
was a clanging of engines, a noise of shovels and a falling of coals
truly horrible.  The glare was so great that I could distinctly see the
minutest lines upon my hand.  Advancing along the tramway, I obtained a
nearer view of the hellish buildings, the chimneys and the demoniac
figures.  It was just such a scene as one of those described by Ellis
Wynn in his Vision of Hell.  Feeling my eyes scorching, I turned away,
and proceeded towards Llangollen, sometimes on the muddy road, sometimes
on the dangerous causeway.  For three miles at least I met nobody.  Near
Llangollen, as I was walking on the causeway, three men came swiftly
towards me.  I kept the hedge, which was my right; the two first brushed
roughly past me, the third came full upon me, and was tumbled into the
road.  There was a laugh from the two first, and a loud curse from the
last as he sprawled in the mire.  I merely said “Nos Da’ki,” and passed
on, and in about a quarter of an hour reached home, where I found my wife
awaiting me alone, Henrietta having gone to bed, being slightly
indisposed.  My wife received me with a cheerful smile.  I looked at her,
and the good wife of the Triad came to my mind.

“She is modest, void of deceit, and obedient.

“Pure of conscience, gracious of tongue, and true to her husband.

“Her heart not proud, her manners affable, and her bosom full of
compassion for the poor.

“Labouring to be tidy, skilful of hand, and fond of praying to God.

“Her conversation amiable, her dress decent, and her house orderly.

“Quick of hand, quick of eye, and quick of understanding.

“Her person shapely, her manners agreeable, and her heart innocent.

“Her face benignant, her head intelligent, and provident.

“Neighbourly, gentle, and of a liberal way of thinking.

“Able in directing, providing what is wanting, and a good mother to her

“Loving her husband, loving peace, and loving God.

“Happy the man,” adds the Triad, “who possesses such a wife.”  Very true,
O Triad, always provided he is in some degree worthy of her; but many a
man leaves an innocent wife at home for an impure Jezebel abroad, even as
many a one prefers a pint of hog’s wash abroad to a tankard of generous
liquor at home.


Preparations for Departure—Cat provided for—A Pleasant Party—Last Night
at Llangollen.

I was awakened early on the Sunday morning by the howling of wind.  There
was a considerable storm throughout the day, but unaccompanied by rain.
I went to church both in the morning and the evening.  The next day there
was a great deal of rain.  It was now the latter end of October; winter
was coming on, and my wife and daughter were anxious to return home.
After some consultation, it was agreed that they should depart for
London, and that I should join them there after making a pedestrian tour
in South Wales.

I should have been loth to quit Wales without visiting the Deheubarth, or
Southern Region, a land differing widely, as I had heard, both in
language and customs from Gwynedd, or the Northern—a land which had given
birth to the illustrious Ab Gwilym, and where the great Ryce family had
flourished, which very much distinguished itself in the Wars of the
Roses—a member of which, Ryce ap Thomas, placed Henry the Seventh on the
throne of Britain—a family of royal extraction, and which, after the
death of Roderic the Great, for a long time enjoyed the sovereignty of
the south.

We set about making the necessary preparations for our respective
journeys.  Those for mine were soon made.  I bought a small leather
satchel with a lock and key, in which I placed a white linen shirt, a
pair of worsted stockings, a razor and a prayer-book.  Along with it I
bought a leather strap with which to sling it over my shoulder; I got my
boots new soled, my umbrella, which was rather dilapidated, mended; put
twenty sovereigns into my purse, and then said I am all right for the

As my wife and daughter required much more time in making preparations
for their journey than I for mine, and as I should only be in their way
whilst they were employed, it was determined that I should depart on my
expedition on Thursday, and that they should remain at Llangollen till
the Saturday.

We were at first in some perplexity with respect to the disposal of the
ecclesiastical cat; it would, of course, not do to leave it in the
garden, to the tender mercies of the Calvinistic Methodists of the
neighbourhood, more especially those of the flannel manufactory, and my
wife and daughter could hardly carry it with them.  At length we thought
of applying to a young woman of sound Church principles, who was lately
married, and lived over the water on the way to the railroad station,
with whom we were slightly acquainted, to take charge of the animal; and
she, on the first intimation of our wish, willingly acceded to it.  So
with her poor puss was left, along with a trifle for its milk-money, and
with her, as we subsequently learned, it continued in peace and comfort,
till one morning it sprang suddenly from the hearth into the air, gave a
mew and died.  So much for the ecclesiastical cat!

The morning of Tuesday was rather fine, and Mr. Ebenezer E—, who had
heard of our intended departure, came to invite us to spend the evening
at the vicarage.  His father had left Llangollen the day before for
Chester, where he expected to be detained some days.  I told him we
should be most happy to come.  He then asked me to take a walk.  I agreed
with pleasure, and we set out, intending to go to Llansilio, at the
western end of the valley, and look at the church.  The church was an
ancient building.  It had no spire, but had the little erection on its
roof, so usual to Welsh churches, for holding a bell.

In the churchyard is a tomb, in which an old squire of the name of Jones
was buried about the middle of the last century.  There is a tradition
about this squire and tomb, to the following effect.  After the squire’s
death there was a lawsuit about his property, in consequence of no will
having been found.  It was said that his will had been buried with him in
the tomb, which after some time was opened, but with what success the
tradition sayeth not.

In the evening we went to the vicarage.  Besides the family and
ourselves, there was Mr. R—, and one or two more.  We had a very pleasant
party; and as most of those present wished to hear something connected
with Spain, I talked much about that country, sang songs of Germania, and
related in an abridged form Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is
decidedly the best ghost story in the world.

In the afternoon of Wednesday I went and took leave of certain friends in
the town; amongst others of old Mr. Jones.  On my telling him that I was
about to leave Llangollen, he expressed considerable regret, but said
that it was natural for me to wish to return to my native country.  I
told him that before returning to England I intended to make a pedestrian
tour in South Wales.  He said that he should die without seeing the
south; that he had had several opportunities of visiting it when he was
young, which he had neglected, and that he was now too old to wander far
from home.  He then asked me which road I intended to take.  I told him
that I intended to strike across the Berwyn to Llan Rhyadr, then visit
Sycharth, once the seat of Owen Glendower, lying to the east of Llan
Rhyadr, then return to that place, and after seeing the celebrated
cataract, cross the mountains to Bala—whence I should proceed due south.
I then asked him whether he had ever seen Sycharth and the Rhyadr; he
told me that he had never visited Sycharth, but had seen the Rhyadr more
than once.  He then smiled, and said that there was a ludicrous anecdote
connected with the Rhyadr, which he would relate to me.  “A traveller
once went to see the Rhyadr, and whilst gazing at it a calf, which had
fallen into the stream above whilst grazing upon the rocks, came tumbling
down the cataract.  ‘Wonderful!’ said the traveller, and going away,
reported that it was not only a fall of water, but of calves, and was
very much disappointed, on visiting the waterfall on another occasion, to
see no calf come tumbling down.”  I took leave of the kind old gentleman
with regret, never expecting to see him again, as he was in his
eighty-fourth year—he was a truly excellent character, and might be
ranked amongst the venerable ornaments of his native place.

About half-past eight o’clock at night John Jones came to bid me
farewell.  I bade him sit down, and sent for a pint of ale to regale him
with.  Notwithstanding the ale, he was very melancholy at the thought
that I was about to leave Llangollen, probably never to return.  To
enliven him I gave him an account of my late expedition to Wrexham, which
made him smile more than once.  When I had concluded, he asked me whether
I knew the meaning of the word Wrexham; I told him I believed I did, and
gave him the derivation which the reader will find in an early chapter of
this work.  He told me that with all due submission he thought he could
give me a better, which he had heard from a very clever man, gwr deallus
iawn, who lived about two miles from Llangollen, on the Corwen road.  In
the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at the
place where Wrexham now stands; when he died he left it to his wife, who
kept it after him, on which account the house was first called Tŷ wraig
Sam, the house of Sam’s wife, and then for shortness Wraig Sam, and a
town arising about it by degrees, the town, too, was called Wraig Sam,
which the Saxons corrupted into Wrexham.

I was much diverted with this Welsh derivation of Wrexham, which I did
not attempt to controvert.  After we had had some further discourse, John
Jones got up, shook me by the hand, gave a sigh, wished me a “taith
hyfryd,” and departed.  Thus terminated my last day at Llangollen.


Departure for South Wales—Tregeiriog—Pleasing Scene—Trying to Read—Garmon
and Lupus—The Cracked Voice—Effect of a Compliment—Llan Rhyadr.

The morning of the 21st of October was fine and cold; there was a rime
frost on the ground.  At about eleven o’clock I started on my journey for
South Wales, intending that my first stage should be Llan Rhyadr.  My
wife and daughter accompanied me as far as Plas Newydd.  As we passed
through the town I shook hands with honest A—, whom I saw standing at the
door of a shop, with a kind of Spanish hat on his head, and also with my
venerable friend old Mr. Jones, whom I encountered close beside his own
domicile.  At the Plas Newydd I took an affectionate farewell of my two
loved ones, and proceeded to ascend the Berwyn.  Near the top I turned
round to take a final look at the spot where I had lately passed many a
happy hour.  There lay Llangollen far below me, with its chimneys
placidly smoking, its pretty church rising in its centre, its blue river
dividing it into two nearly equal parts, and the mighty hill of Brennus,
overhanging it from the north.  I sighed, and repeating Einion Du’s verse

    “Tangnefedd i Llangollen!”

turned away.

I went over the top of the hill, and then began to descend its southern
side, obtaining a distant view of the plains of Shropshire on the east.
I soon reached the bottom of the hill, passed through Llansanfraid, and
threading the vale of the Ceiriog, at length found myself at Pont y
Meibion, in front of the house of Huw Morris, or rather of that which is
built on the site of the dwelling of the poet.  I stopped, and remained
before the house, thinking of the mighty Huw, till the door opened, and
out came the dark-featured man, the poet’s descendant, whom I saw when
visiting the place in company with honest John Jones—he had now a spade
in his hand, and was doubtless going to his labour.  As I knew him to be
of a rather sullen, unsocial disposition, I said nothing to him, but
proceeded on my way.  As I advanced the valley widened, the hills on the
west receding to some distance from the river.  Came to Tregeiriog, a
small village, which takes its name from the brook; Tregeiriog signifying
the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog.  Seeing a bridge which crossed the
rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a little beyond the village,
I turned aside to look at it.  The proper course of the Ceiriog is from
south to north; where it is crossed by the bridge, however, it runs from
west to east, returning to its usual course, a little way below the
bridge.  The bridge was small, and presented nothing remarkable in
itself: I obtained, however, as I looked over its parapet towards the
west, a view of a scene, not of wild grandeur, but of something which I
like better, which richly compensated me for the slight trouble I had
taken in stepping aside to visit the little bridge.  About a hundred
yards distant was a small watermill, built over the rivulet, the wheel
going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of pigs, the generality of
them brindled, were either browsing on the banks, or lying close to the
sides, half immersed in the water; one immense white hog, the monarch
seemingly of the herd, was standing in the middle of the current.  Such
was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life
well suited to the brushes of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or
to those of men scarcely inferior to them in their own
style—Gainsborough, Moreland, and Crome.  My mind for the last half-hour
had been in a highly-excited state; I had been repeating verses of old
Huw Morris, brought to my recollection by the sight of his
dwelling-place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads.
I admired the vigour, but disliked the principles which they displayed;
and admiration on the one hand, and disapproval on the other, bred a
commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when tide runs one way
and wind blows another.  The quiet scene from the bridge, however,
produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when I resumed my journey I
had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers.

I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley, through
which the Ceiriog, or a river very similar to it, flows.  It is half-way
between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles from each.  I went to
a small inn, or public-house, sat down, and called for ale.  A waggoner
was seated at a large table with a newspaper before him on which he was
intently staring.

“What news?” said I in English.

“I wish I could tell you,” said he in very broken English; “but I cannot

“Then why are you looking at the paper?” said I.

“Because,” said he, “by looking at the letters I hope in time to make
them out.”

“You may look at them,” said I, “for fifty years without being able to
make out one.  You should go to an evening school.”

“I am too old,” said he, “to do so now; if I did the children would laugh
at me.”

“Never mind their laughing at you,” said I, “provided you learn to read;
let them laugh who win!”

“You give good advice, mester,” said he; “I think I shall follow it.”

“Let me look at the paper,” said I.

He handed it to me.  It was a Welsh paper, and full of dismal accounts
from the seat of war.

“What news, mester?” said the waggoner.

“Nothing but bad,” said I; “the Russians are beating us and the French

“If the Rusiaid beat us,” said the waggoner, “it is because the Francod
are with us.  We should have gone alone.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said I; “at any rate, we could not have fared
worse than we are faring now.”

I presently paid for what I had had, inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr, and
departed.  The village of Llanarmon takes its name from its church, which
is dedicated to Garmon, an Armorican bishop, who, with another called
Lupus, came over into Britain in order to preach against the heresy of
Pelagius.  He and his colleague resided for some time in Flintshire, and
whilst there enabled, in a remarkable manner, the Britons to achieve a
victory over those mysterious people the Picts, who were ravaging the
country far and wide.  Hearing that the enemy were advancing towards
Mold, the two bishops gathered together a number of the Britons, and
placed them in ambush in a dark valley, through which it was necessary
for the Picts to pass in order to reach Mold, strictly enjoining them to
remain quiet till all their enemies should have entered the valley, and
then do whatever they should see them, the two bishops, do.  The Picts
arrived, and when they were about half-way through the valley, the two
bishops stepped forward from a thicket, and began crying aloud,
“Alleluia!”  The Britons followed their example, and the wooded valley
resounded with cries of “Alleluia! alleluia!”  The shouts and the
unexpected appearance of thousands of men caused such terror to the
Picts, that they took to flight in the greatest confusion, hundreds were
trampled to death by their companions, and not a few were drowned in the
river Alan {371} which runs through the valley.

There are several churches dedicated to Garmon in Wales, but whether
there are any dedicated to Lupus I am unable to say.

After leaving Llanarmon I found myself amongst lumpy hills, through which
the road led in the direction of the south.  Arriving where several roads
met, I followed one, and became bewildered amidst hills and ravines.  At
last I saw a small house close by a nant, or dingle, and turned towards
it for the purpose of inquiring my way.  On my knocking at the door, a
woman made her appearance, of whom I asked in Welsh whether I was in the
road to Llan Rhyadr.  She said that I was out of it, but that if I went
towards the south I should see a path on my left which would bring me to
it.  I asked her how far it was to Llan Rhyadr.

“Four long miles,” she replied.

“And what is the name of the place where we are now?” said I.

“Cae Hir” (the long inclosure), said she.

“Are you alone in the house?” said I.

“Quite alone,” said she; “but my husband and people will soon be home
from the field, for it is getting dusk.”

“Have you any Saxon?” said I.

“Not a word,” said she, “have I of the iaith dieithr, nor has my husband,
nor any one of my people.”

I bade her farewell, and soon reached the road, which led south and
north.  As I was bound for the south, I strode forward briskly in that
direction.  The road was between romantic hills; heard Welsh songs
proceeding from the hill fields on my right, and the murmur of a brook
rushing down a deep nant on my left.  I went on till I came to a
collection of houses which an old woman, with a cracked voice and a small
tin milk-pail, whom I assisted in getting over a stile into the road,
told me was called Pen Strit—probably the head of the street.  She spoke
English, and on my asking her how she had learnt the English tongue, she
told me that she had learnt it of her mother, who was an English woman.
She said that I was two miles from Llan Rhyadr, and that I must go
straight forward.  I did so, till I reached a place where the road
branched into two, one bearing somewhat to the left, and the other to the
right.  After standing a minute in perplexity I took the right-hand road,
but soon guessed that I had taken the wrong one, as the road dwindled
into a mere footpath.  Hearing some one walking on the other side of the
hedge, I inquired in Welsh whether I was going right for Llan Rhyadr, and
was answered by a voice in English, apparently that of a woman, that I
was not, and that I must go back.  I did so, and presently a woman came
through a gate to me.

“Are you the person,” said I, “who just now answered me in English after
I had spoken in Welsh?”

“In truth I am,” said she, with a half laugh.

“And how came you to answer me in English, after I had spoken to you in

“Because,” said she, “it was easy enough to know by your voice that you
were an Englishman.”

“You speak English remarkably well,” said I.

“And so do you Welsh,” said the woman; “I had no idea that it was
possible for any Englishman to speak Welsh half so well.”

“I wonder,” thought I to myself, “what you would have answered if I had
said that you speak English execrably.”  By her own account, she could
read both Welsh and English.  She walked by my side to the turn, and then
up the left-hand road, which she said was the way to Llan Rhyadr.  Coming
to a cottage, she bade me good-night, and went in.  The road was horribly
miry; presently, as I was staggering through a slough, just after I had
passed a little cottage, I heard a cracked voice crying, “I suppose you
lost your way?”  I recognised it as that of the old woman whom I had
helped over the stile.  She was now standing behind a little gate, which
opened into a garden before the cottage.  The figure of a man was
standing near her.  I told her that she was quite right in her

“Ah,” said she, “you should have gone straight forward.”

“If I had gone straight forward,” said I, “I must have gone over a hedge,
at the corner of a field which separated two roads; instead of bidding me
go straight forward, you should have told me to follow the left-hand

“Well,” said she, “be sure you keep straight forward now.”

I asked her who the man was standing near her.

“It is my husband,” said she.

“Has he much English?” said I.

“None at all,” said she, “for his mother was not English, like mine.”  I
bade her good-night, and went forward.  Presently I came to a meeting of
roads, and to go straight forward it was necessary to pass through a
quagmire; remembering, however, the words of my friend the beldame, I
went straight forward, though in so doing I was sloughed up to the knees.
In a little time I came to a rapid descent, and at the bottom of it to a
bridge.  It was now very dark; only the corner of the moon was casting a
faint light.  After crossing the bridge I had one or two ascents and
descents.  At last I saw lights before me, which proved to be those of
Llan Rhyadr.  I soon found myself in a dirty little street, and,
inquiring for the inn, was kindly shown by a man to one which he said was
the best, and which was called the Wynstay Arms.


Inn at Llan Rhyadr—A Low Englishman—Enquiries—The Cook—A Precious Couple.

The inn seemed very large, but did not look very cheerful.  No other
guest than myself seemed to be in it, except in the kitchen, where I
heard a fellow talking English, and occasionally yelling an English song;
the master and mistress of the house were civil, and lighted me a fire in
what was called the Commercial Room, and putting plenty of coals in the
grate, soon made the apartment warm and comfortable.  I ordered dinner,
or rather supper, which in about half-an-hour was brought in by the
woman.  The supper, whether good or bad, I despatched with the appetite
of one who had walked twenty miles over hill and dale.

Occasionally I heard a dreadful noise in the kitchen, and the woman told
me that the fellow there was making himself exceedingly disagreeable,
chiefly, she believed, because she had refused to let him sleep in the
house—she said that he was a low fellow, that went about the country with
fish, and that he was the more ready to insult her as the master of the
house was now gone out.  I asked if he was an Englishman.  “Yes,” said
she, “a low Englishman.”

“Then he must be low indeed,” said I.  “A low Englishman is the lowest of
the low.”  After a little time I heard no more noise, and was told that
the fellow was gone away.  I had a little whisky and water, and then went
to bed, sleeping in a tolerable chamber, but rather cold.  There was much
rain during the night, and also wind; windows rattled, and I occasionally
heard the noise of falling tiles.

I arose about eight.  Notwithstanding the night had been so tempestuous,
the morning was sunshiny and beautiful.  Having ordered breakfast, I
walked out in order to have a look at the town.  Llan Rhyadr is a small
place, having nothing remarkable in it save an ancient church, and a
strange little antique market-house, standing on pillars.  It is situated
at the western end of an extensive valley, and at the entrance of a glen.
A brook, or rivulet, runs through it, which comes down the glen from the
celebrated cataract, which is about four miles distant to the west.  Two
lofty mountains form the entrance of the glen, and tower above the town,
one on the south and the other on the north.  Their names, if they have
any, I did not learn.

After strolling about the little place for about a quarter of an hour,
staring at the things and the people, and being stared at by the latter,
I returned to my inn, a structure built in the modern Gothic style, and
which stands nearly opposite to the churchyard.  Whilst breakfasting, I
asked the landlady, who was bustling about the room, whether she had ever
heard of Owen Glendower.

“In truth, sir, I have.  He was a great gentleman who lived a long time
ago, and, and—”

“Gave the English a great deal of trouble,” said I.

“Just so, sir; at least, I dare say it is so, as you say it.”

“And do you know where he lived?”

“I do not, sir; I suppose a great way off, somewhere in the south.”

“Do you mean South Wales?”

“In truth, sir, I do.”

“There you are mistaken,” said I; “and also in supposing he lived a great
way off.  He lived in North Wales, and not far from this place.”

“In truth, sir, you know more about him than I.”

“Did you ever hear of a place called Sycharth?”

“Sycharth!  Sycharth!  I never did, sir.”

“It is the place where Glendower lived, and it is not far off.  I want to
go there, but do not know the way.”

“Sycharth!  Sycharth!” said the landlady musingly; “I wonder if it is the
place we call Sychnant.”

“Is there such a place?”

“Yes, sure; about six miles from here, near Llangedwin.”

“What kind of place is it?”

“In truth, sir, I do not know, for I was never there.  My cook, however,
in the kitchen, knows all about it, for she comes from there.”

“Can I see her?”

“Yes, sure; I will go at once and fetch her.”

She then left the room, and presently returned with the cook, a short,
thick girl, with blue, staring eyes.

“Here she is, sir,” said the landlady, “but she has no English.”

“All the better,” said I.  “So you come from a place called Sychnant?”
said I to the cook in Welsh.

“In truth, sir, I do,” said the cook.

“Did you ever hear of a gwr boneddig called Owen Glendower?”

“Often, sir, often; he lived in our place.”

“He lived in a place called Sycharth?” said I.

“Well, sir, and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as Sychnant;
nay, oftener.”

“Is his house standing?”

“It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing.”

“Is it a high hill?”

“It is not; it is a small, light hill.”

“A light hill!” said I to myself.  “Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower’s bard,
said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.”

    “There dwells the chief we all extol
    In timber house on lightsome knoll.”

“Is there a little river near it,” said I to the cook—“a ffrwd?”

“There is; it runs just under the hill.”

“Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?”

“There is not; that is, now,—but there was in the old time; a factory of
woollen stands now where the mill once stood.”

    “A mill, a rushing brook upon,
    And pigeon tower fram’d of stone.”

“So says Iolo Goch,” said I to myself, “in his description of Sycharth; I
am on the right road.”

I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged, and was told
of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of Carabas of
Denbighshire.  After a few more questions I thanked her and told her she
might go.  I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and, after telling
the landlady that I should return at night, started for Llangedwin and

A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in which
I was proceeding.

The valley was beautiful, and dotted with various farm-houses, and the
land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the soil of my
own Norfolk—that county so deservedly celebrated for its agriculture.
The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and towards the north the
vale is crossed by three rugged elevations, the middlemost of which,
called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas, terminates to the west in an
exceedingly high and picturesque crag.

After an hour’s walking I overtook two people, a man and a woman laden
with baskets, which hung around them on every side.  The man was a young
fellow of about eight-and-twenty, with a round face, fair flaxen hair,
and rings in his ears; the female was a blooming buxom lass of about
eighteen.  After giving them the sele of the day, I asked them if they
were English.

“Aye, aye, master,” said the man; “we are English.”

“Where do you come from?” said I.

“From Wrexham,” said the man.

“I thought Wrexham was in Wales,” said I.

“If it be,” said the man, “the people are not Welsh; a man is not a horse
because he happens to be born in a stable.”

“Is that young woman your wife?” said I.

“Yes,” said he, “after a fashion”—and then he leered at the lass, and she
leered at him.

“Do you attend any place of worship?” said I.

“A great many, master!”

“What place do you chiefly attend?” said I.

“The Chequers, master!”

“Do they preach the best sermons there?” said I.

“No, master! but they sells the best ale there.”

“Do you worship ale?” said I.

“Yes, master; I worships ale.”

“Anything else?” said I.

“Yes, master!  I and my mort worships something besides good ale; don’t
we, Sue?” and then he leered at the mort, who leered at him, and both
made odd motions backwards and forwards, causing the baskets which hung
around them to creak and rustle, and uttering loud shouts of laughter,
which roused the echoes of the neighbouring hills.

“Genuine descendants, no doubt,” said I to myself as I walked briskly on,
“of certain of the old heathen Saxons who followed Rag into Wales, and
settled down about the house which he built.  Really, if these two are a
fair specimen of the Wrexham population, my friend the Scotch policeman
was not much out when he said that the people of Wrexham were the worst
people in Wales.”


Sycharth—The kindly Welcome—Happy Couple—Sycharth—Recalling the Dead—Ode
to Sycharth.

I was now at the northern extremity of the valley near a great house,
past which the road led in the direction of the north-east.  Seeing a man
employed in breaking stones, I inquired the way to Sychnant.

“You must turn to the left,” said he, “before you come to yon great
house, follow the path which you will find behind it, and you will soon
be in Sychnant.”

“And to whom does the great house belong?”

“To whom? why, to Sir Watkin.”

“Does he reside there?”

“Not often.  He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes there
to hunt.”

“What is the place’s name?”

“Llan Gedwin.”

I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me.  The path led
upward behind the great house, round a hill thickly planted with trees.
Following it, I at length found myself on a broad road on the top
extending east and west, and having on the north and south beautiful
wooded hills.  I followed the road, which presently began to descend.  On
reaching level ground I overtook a man in a waggoner’s frock, of whom I
inquired the way to Sycharth.  He pointed westward down the vale to what
appeared to be a collection of houses, near a singular-looking monticle,
and said, “That is Sycharth.”

We walked together till we came to a road which branched off on the right
to a little bridge.

“That is your way,” said he, and pointing to a large building beyond the
bridge, towering up above a number of cottages, he said, “that is the
factory of Sycharth;” he then left me, following the high road, whilst I
proceeded towards the bridge, which I crossed, and coming to the
cottages, entered one on the right-hand, of a remarkably neat appearance.

In a comfortable kitchen, by a hearth on which blazed a cheerful billet,
sat a man and woman.  Both arose when I entered; the man was tall, about
fifty years of age, and athletically built; he was dressed in a white
coat, corduroy breeches, shoes, and grey worsted stockings.  The woman
seemed many years older than the man; she was tall also, and strongly
built, and dressed in the ancient Welsh female costume, namely, a kind of
round half-Spanish hat, long blue woollen kirtle, or gown, a crimson
petticoat, and white apron, and broad, stout shoes with buckles.

“Welcome, stranger,” said the man, after looking me a moment or two full
in the face.

“Croesaw, dyn dieithr—welcome, foreign man,” said the woman, surveying me
with a look of great curiosity.

“Won’t you sit down?” said the man, handing me a chair.

I sat down, and the man and woman resumed their seats.

“I suppose you come on business connected with the factory?” said the

“No,” said I, “my business is connected with Owen Glendower.”

“With Owen Glendower?” said the man, staring.

“Yes,” said I; “I came to see his place.”

“You will not see much of his house now,” said the man—“it is down; only
a few bricks remain.”

“But I shall see the place where his house stood,” said I; “which is all
I expected to see.”

“Yes; you can see that.”

“What does the dyn dieithr say?” said the woman in Welsh, with an
inquiring look.

“That he is come to see the place of Owen Glendower.”

“Ah!” said the woman with a smile.

“Is that good lady your wife?” said I.

“She is.”

“She looks much older than yourself.”

“And no wonder.  She is twenty-one years older.”

“How old are you?”


“Dear me,” said I, “what a difference in your ages! how came you to

“She was a widow, and I had lost my wife.  We were lone in the world, so
we thought we would marry.”

“Do you live happily together?”


“Then you did quite right to marry.  What is your name?”

“David Robert.”

“And that of your wife?”

“Gwen Robert.”

“Does she speak English?”

“She speaks some, but not much.”

“Is the place where Owen lived far from here?”

“It is not.  It is the round hill a little way above the factory.”

“Is the path to it easy to find?”

“I will go with you,” said the man.  “I work at the factory, but I need
not go there for an hour at least.”

He put on his hat, and bidding me follow him, went out.  He led me over a
gush of water which, passing under the factory, turns the wheel; thence
over a field or two towards a house at the foot of the mountain, where he
said the steward of Sir Watkin lived, of whom it would be as well to
apply for permission to ascend the hill, as it was Sir Watkin’s ground.
The steward was not at home; his wife was, however, and she, when we told
her we wished to go to the top of Owain Glendower’s Hill, gave us
permission with a smile.  We thanked her, and proceeded to mount the
hill, or monticle, once the residence of the great Welsh chieftain, whom
his own deeds and the pen of Shakespear have rendered immortal.

Owen Glendower’s hill, or mount, at Sycharth, unlike the one bearing his
name on the banks of the Dee, is not an artificial hill, but the work of
nature, save and except that to a certain extent it has been modified by
the hand of man.  It is somewhat conical, and consists of two steps, or
gradations, where two fosses scooped out of the hill go round it, one
above the other, the lower one embracing considerably the most space.
Both these fosses are about six feet deep, and at one time doubtless were
bricked, as stout, large, red bricks are yet to be seen, here and there,
in their sides.  The top of the mount is just twenty-five feet across.
When I visited it, it was covered with grass, but had once been subjected
to the plough, as various furrows indicated.  The monticle stands not far
from the western extremity of the valley, nearly midway between two hills
which confront each other north and south, the one to the south being the
hill which I had descended, and the other a beautiful wooded height which
is called in the parlance of the country Llwyn Sycharth, or the grove of
Sycharth, from which comes the little gush of water which I had crossed,
and which now turns the wheel of the factory, and once turned that of
Owen Glendower’s mill, and filled his two moats; part of the water, by
some mechanical means, having been forced up the eminence.  On the top of
this hill, or monticle, in a timber house, dwelt the great Welshman, Owen
Glendower, with his wife, a comely, kindly woman, and his progeny,
consisting of stout boys and blooming girls, and there, though
wonderfully cramped for want of room, he feasted bards, who requited his
hospitality with alliterative odes very difficult to compose, and which
at the present day only a few bookworms understand.  There he dwelt for
many years, the virtual, if not the nominal, king of North Wales;
occasionally, no doubt, looking down with self-complaisance from the top
of his fastness on the parks and fish-ponds, of which he had several; his
mill, his pigeon tower, his ploughed lands, and the cottages of a
thousand retainers, huddled round the lower part of the hill, or strewn
about the valley; and there he might have lived and died, had not events
caused him to draw the sword and engage in a war, at the termination of
which Sycharth was a fire-scathed ruin, and himself a broken-hearted old
man in anchorite’s weeds, living in a cave on the estate of Sir John
Scudamore, the great Herefordshire proprietor, who married his daughter
Elen, his only surviving child.

After I had been a considerable time on the hill, looking about me and
asking questions of my guide, I took out a piece of silver and offered it
to him, thanking him at the same time for the trouble he had taken in
showing me the place.  He refused it, saying that I was quite welcome.

I tried to force it upon him.

“I will not take it,” said he; “but if you come to my house and have a
cup of coffee, you may give sixpence to my old woman.”

“I will come,” said I, “in a short time.  In the meanwhile, do you go; I
wish to be alone.”

“What do you want to do?”

“To sit down and endeavour to recall Glendower, and the times that are

The fine fellow looked puzzled; at last he said, “Very well,” shrugged
his shoulders, and descended the hill.

When he was gone I sat down on the brow of the hill, and with my face
turned to the east, began slowly to chant a translation made by myself in
the days of my boyhood of an ode to Sycharth, composed by Iolo Goch when
upwards of a hundred years old, shortly after his arrival at that place,
to which he had been invited by Owen Glendower:—

    Twice have I pledg’d my word to thee
    To come thy noble face to see;
    His promises let every man
    Perform as far as e’er he can!
    Full easy is the thing that’s sweet,
    And sweet this journey is and meet;
    I’ve vowed to Owain’s court to go,
    And I’m resolv’d to keep my vow;
    So thither straight I’ll take my way
    With blithesome heart, and there I’ll stay,
    Respect and honour, whilst I breathe,
    To find his honour’d roof beneath.
    My chief of long lin’d ancestry
    Can harbour sons of poesy;
    I’ve heard, for so the muse has told,
    He’s kind and gentle to the old;
    Yes, to his castle I will hie;
    There’s none to match it ’neath the sky:
    It is a baron’s stately court,
    Where bards for sumptuous fare resort;
    There dwells the lord of Powis land,
    Who granteth every just demand.
    Its likeness now I’ll limn you out:
    ’Tis water girdled wide about;
    It shows a wide and stately door
    Reached by a bridge the water o’er;
    ’Tis form’d of buildings coupled fair,
    Coupled is every couple there;
    Within a quadrate structure tall
    Muster the merry pleasures all.
    Conjointly are the angles bound—
    No flaw in all the place is found.
    Structures in contact meet the eye
    Upon the hillock’s top on high;
    Into each other fastened they
    The form of a hard knot display.
    There dwells the chief we all extol
    In timber house on lightsome knoll;
    Upon four wooden columns proud
    Mounteth his mansion to the cloud;
    Each column’s thick and firmly bas’d,
    And upon each a loft is plac’d;
    In these four lofts, which coupled stand,
    Repose at night the minstrel band;
    Four lofts they were in pristine state,
    But now partitioned form they eight.
    Tiled is the roof, on each house-top
    Rise smoke-ejecting chimneys up.
    All of one form there are nine halls
    Each with nine wardrobes in its walls
    With linen white as well supplied
    As fairest shops of fam’d Cheapside.
    Behold that church with cross uprais’d
    And with its windows neatly glaz’d;
    All houses are in this comprest—
    An orchard’s near it of the best,
    Also a park where void of fear
    Feed antler’d herds of fallow deer.
    A warren wide my chief can boast,
    Of goodly steeds a countless host.
    Meads where for hay the clover grows,
    Corn-fields which hedges trim inclose,
    A mill a rushing brook upon,
    And pigeon tower fram’d of stone;
    A fish-pond deep and dark to see
    To cast nets in when need there be,
    Which never yet was known to lack
    A plenteous store of perch and jack.
    Of various plumage birds abound;
    Herons and peacocks haunt around.
    What luxury doth his hall adorn,
    Showing of cost a sovereign scorn;
    His ale from Shrewsbury town he brings;
    His usquebaugh is drink for kings;
    Bragget he keeps, bread white of look,
    And, bless the mark! a bustling cook.
    His mansion is the minstrels’ home,
    You’ll find them there whene’er you come
    Of all her sex his wife’s the best;
    The household through her care is blest.
    She’s scion of a knightly tree,
    She’s dignified, she’s kind and free.
    His bairns approach me, pair by pair,
    O what a nest of chieftains fair!
    Here difficult it is to catch
    A sight of either bolt or latch;
    The porter’s place here none will fill;
    Here largess shall be lavish’d still,
    And ne’er shall thirst or hunger rude
    In Sycharth venture to intrude.
    A noble leader, Cambria’s knight,
    The lake possesses, his by right,
    And midst that azure water plac’d,
    The castle, by each pleasure grac’d.

And when I had finished repeating these lines I said, “How much more
happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood, when I
translated Iolo’s ode, than I am at the present time!”  Then covering my
face with my hands, I wept like a child.


Cup of Coffee—Gwen—Bluff old Fellow—A Rabble Rout—All from Wrexham.

After a while I arose from my seat, and descending the hill, returned to
the house of my honest friends, whom I found sitting by their fire, as I
had first seen them.

“Well,” said the man, “did you bring back Owen Glendower?”

“Not only him,” said I, “but his house, family, and all relating to him.”

“By what means?” said the man.

“By means of a song made a long time ago, which describes Sycharth as it
was in his time, and his manner of living there.”

Presently Gwen, who had been preparing coffee in expectation of my
return, poured out a cupful, which she presented to me, at the same time
handing me some white sugar in a basin.

I took the coffee, helped myself to some sugar, and returned her thanks
in her own language.

“Ah,” said the man, in Welsh, “I see you are a Cumro.  Gwen and I have
been wondering whether you were Welsh or English; but I see you are one
of ourselves.”

“No,” said I in the same language, “I am an Englishman, born in a part of
England the farthest of any from Wales.  In fact, I am a Carn Sais.”

“And how came you to speak Welsh?” said the man.

“I took it into my head to learn it when I was a boy,” said I.
“Englishmen sometimes do strange things.”

“So I have heard,” said the man, “but I never heard before of an
Englishman learning Welsh.”

I proceeded to drink my coffee, and having finished it, and had a little
more discourse, I got up, and having given Gwen a piece of silver, which
she received with a smile and a curtsey, I said I must now be going.

“Won’t you take another cup?” said Gwen, “you are welcome.”

“No, thank you,” said I; “I have had enough.”

“Where are you going?” said the man in English.

“To Llan Rhyadr,” said I, “from which I came this morning.”

“Which way did you come?” said the man.

“By Llan Gedwin,” I replied, “and over the hill.  Is there another way?”

“There is,” said the man; “by Llan Silin.”

“Llan Silin!” said I; “is not that the place where Huw Morris is buried?”

“It is,” said the man.

“I will return by Llan Silin,” said I, “and in passing through pay a
visit to the tomb of the great poet.  Is Llan Silin far off?”

“About half-a-mile,” said the man.  “Go over the bridge, turn to the
right, and you will be there presently.”

I shook the honest couple by the hand, and bade them farewell.  The man
put on his hat, and went with me a few yards from the door, and then
proceeded towards the factory.  I passed over the bridge, under which was
a streamlet, which a little below the bridge received the brook which
once turned Owen Glendower’s corn-mill.  I soon reached Llan Silin, a
village or townlet, having some high hills at a short distance to the
westward, which form part of the Berwyn.

I entered the kitchen of an old-fashioned public-house, and sitting down
by a table, told the landlord, a red-nosed, elderly man, who came bowing
up to me, to bring me a pint of ale.  The landlord bowed and departed.  A
bluff-looking old fellow, somewhat under the middle size, sat just
opposite to me at the table.  He was dressed in a white frieze coat, and
had a small hat on his head, set rather consequentially on one side.
Before him on the table stood a jug of ale, between which and him lay a
large crabstick.  Three or four other people stood or sat in different
parts of the room.  Presently the landlord returned with the ale.

“I suppose you come on sessions business, sir?” said he, as he placed it
down before me.

“Are the sessions being held here to-day?” said I.

“They are,” said the landlord, “and there is plenty of business; two bad
cases of poaching.  Sir Watkin’s keepers are up at court, and hope to

“I am not come on sessions business,” said I; “I am merely strolling a
little about to see the country.”

“He is come from South Wales,” said the old fellow in the frieze coat to
the landlord, “in order to see what kind of country the north is.  Well,
at any rate, he has seen a better country than his own.”

“How do you know that I come from South Wales?” said I.

“By your English,” said the old fellow; “anybody may know you are South
Welsh by your English; it is so cursedly bad!  But let’s hear you speak a
little Welsh; then I shall be certain as to who you are.”

I did as he bade me, saying a few words in Welsh.

“There’s Welsh,” said the old fellow, “who but a South Welshman would
talk Welsh in that manner?  It’s nearly as bad as your English.”

I asked him if he had ever been in South Wales.

“Yes,” said he; “and a bad country I found it; just like the people.”

“If you take me for a South Welshman,” said I, “you ought to speak
civilly both of the South Welsh and their country.”

“I am merely paying tit for tat,” said the old fellow.  “When I was in
South Wales your people laughed at my folks and country, so when I meet
one of them here I serve him out as I was served out there.”

I made no reply to him, but addressing myself to the landlord, inquired
whether Huw Morris was not buried in Llan Silin churchyard.  He replied
in the affirmative.

“I should like to see his tomb,” said I.

“Well, sir,” said the landlord, “I shall be happy to show it to you
whenever you please.”

Here again the old fellow put in his word.

“You never had a prydydd like Huw Morris in South Wales,” said he; “nor
Twm o’r Nant either.”

“South Wales has produced good poets,” said I.

“No, it hasn’t,” said the old fellow; “it never produced one.  If it had
you wouldn’t have needed to come here to see the grave of a poet; you
would have found one at home.”

As he said these words he got up, took his stick, and seemed about to
depart.  Just then in burst a rabble rout of gamekeepers and
river-watchers, who had come from the petty sessions, and were in high
glee, the two poachers whom the landlord had mentioned having been
convicted and heavily fined.  Two or three of them were particularly
boisterous, running against some of the guests who were sitting or
standing in the kitchen, and pushing the landlord about, crying at the
same time that they would stand by Sir Watkin to the last, and would
never see him plundered.  One of them, a fellow of about thirty, in a
hairy cap, black coat, dirty yellow breeches, and dirty-white top-boots,
who was the most obstreperous of them all, at last came up to the old
chap who disliked South Welshmen and tried to knock off his hat, swearing
that he would stand by Sir Watkin; he, however, met a Tartar.  The enemy
of the South Welsh, like all crusty people, had lots of mettle, and with
the stick which he held in his hand forthwith aimed a blow at the
fellow’s poll, which, had he not jumped back, would probably have broken

“I will not be insulted by you, you vagabond,” said the old chap, “nor by
Sir Watkin either; go and tell him so.”

The fellow looked sheepish, and turning away, proceeded to take liberties
with other people less dangerous to meddle with than old crabstick.  He,
however, soon desisted, and sat down, evidently disconcerted.

“Were you ever worse treated in South Wales by the people there than you
have been here by your own countrymen?” said I to the old fellow.

“My countrymen?” said he; “this scamp is no countryman of mine; nor is
one of the whole kit.  They are all from Wrexham, a mixture of broken
housekeepers, and fellows too stupid to learn a trade; a set of scamps
fit for nothing in the world but to swear bodily against honest men.
They say they will stand up for Sir Watkin, and so they will, but only in
a box in the Court to give false evidence.  They won’t fight for him on
the banks of the river.  Countrymen of mine, indeed! they are no
countrymen of mine; they are from Wrexham, where the people speak neither
English nor Welsh, not even South Welsh as you do.”

Then giving a kind of flourish with his stick, he departed.


Llan Silin Church—Tomb of Huw Morris—Barbara and Richard—Welsh Country
Clergyman—The Swearing Lad—Anglo-Saxon Devils.

Having discussed my ale, I asked the landlord if he would show me the
grave of Huw Morris.  “With pleasure, sir,” said he; “pray follow me.”
He led me to the churchyard, in which several enormous yew trees were
standing, probably of an antiquity which reached as far back as the days
of Henry the Eighth, when the yew bow was still the favourite weapon of
the men of Britain.  The church fronts the south, the portico being in
that direction.  The body of the sacred edifice is ancient, but the
steeple, which bears a gilded cock on its top, is modern.  The innkeeper
led me directly up to the southern wall, then pointing to a broad
discoloured slab, which lay on the ground just outside the wall, about
midway between the portico and the oriel end, he said:

“Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir.”  Forthwith taking off my
hat, I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering the cold
remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees, proceeded to
examine it attentively.  It is covered over with letters three parts
defaced.  All I could make out of the inscription was the date of the
poet’s death, 1709.  “A great genius, a very great genius, sir,” said the
innkeeper, after I had got on my feet and put on my hat.

“He was indeed,” said I; “are you acquainted with his poetry?”

“O yes,” said the innkeeper, and then repeated the four lines composed by
the poet shortly before his death, which I had heard the intoxicated
stonemason repeat in the public-house of the Pandy, the day I went to
visit the poet’s residence with John Jones.

“Do you know any more of Huw’s poetry?” said I.

“No,” said the innkeeper.  “Those lines, however, I have known ever since
I was a child, and repeated them, more particularly of late, since age
has come upon me, and I have felt that I cannot last long.”

It was very odd how few of the verses of great poets are in people’s
mouths.  Not more than a dozen of Shakespear’s lines are in people’s
mouths; of those of Pope not more than half that number.  Of Addison’s
poetry, two or three lines may be in people’s mouths, though I have never
heard one quoted, the only line which I ever heard quoted as Addison’s
not being his, but Garth’s:

    “’Tis best repenting in a coach and six.”

Whilst of the verses of Huw Morris I never knew any one but myself, who
am not a Welshman, who could repeat a line beyond the four which I have
twice had occasion to mention, and which seem to be generally known in
North, if not in South Wales.

From the flagstone I proceeded to the portico, and gazed upon it
intensely.  It presented nothing very remarkable, but it had the greatest
interest for me, for I remembered how many times Huw Morris had walked
out of that porch at the head of the congregation, the clergyman yielding
his own place to the inspired bard.  I would fain have entered the
church, but the landlord had not the key, and told me that he imagined
there would be some difficulty in procuring it.  I was therefore obliged
to content myself with peeping through a window into the interior, which
had a solemn and venerable aspect.

“Within there,” said I to myself, “Huw Morris, the greatest songster of
the seventeenth century, knelt every Sunday during the latter thirty
years of his life, after walking from Pont y Meibion across the bleak and
savage Berwyn.  Within there was married Barbara Wynn, the Rose of
Maelai, to Richard Middleton, the handsome cavalier of Maelor, and within
there she lies buried, even as the songster who lamented her untimely
death in immortal verse lies buried out here in the graveyard.  What
interesting associations has this church for me, both outside and in; but
all connected with Huw; for what should I have known of Barbara the Rose
and gallant Richard but for the poem on their affectionate union and
untimely separation, the dialogue between the living and the dead,
composed by humble Huw, the farmer’s son of Pont y Meibion?”

After gazing through the window till my eyes watered, I turned to the
innkeeper, and inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr.  Having received from him
the desired information, I thanked him for his civility, and set out on
my return.

Before I could get clear of the town, I suddenly encountered my friend
R—, the clever lawyer and magistrate’s clerk of Llangollen.

“I little expected to see you here,” said he.

“Nor I you,” I replied.

“I came in my official capacity,” said he; “the petty sessions have been
held here to-day.”

“I know they have,” I replied; “and that two poachers have been
convicted.  I came here in my way to South Wales to see the grave of Huw
Morris, who, as you know, is buried in the churchyard.”

“Have you seen the clergyman?” said R—.

“No,” I replied.

“Then come with me,” said he; “I am now going to call upon him.  I know
he will be rejoiced to make your acquaintance.”

He led me to the clergyman’s house, which stood at the south-west end of
the village within a garden fenced with iron paling.  We found the
clergyman in a nice comfortable parlour, or study, the sides of which
were decorated with books.  He was a sharp, clever-looking man, of about
the middle age.  On my being introduced to him, he was very glad to see
me, as my friend R— told me he would be.  He seemed to know all about me,
even that I understood Welsh.  We conversed on various subjects: on the
power of the Welsh language; its mutable letters; on Huw Morris, and
likewise on ale, with an excellent glass of which he regaled me.  I was
much pleased with him, and thought him a capital specimen of the Welsh
country clergyman.  His name was Walter Jones.

After staying about half-an-hour I took leave of the good kind man, who
wished me all kind of happiness, spiritual and temporal, and said that he
should always be happy to see me at Llan Silin.  My friend R— walked with
me a little way and then bade me farewell.  It was now late in the
afternoon, the sky was grey and gloomy, and a kind of half wintry wind
was blowing.  In the forenoon I had travelled along the eastern side of
the valley, which I will call that of Llan Rhyadr, directing my course to
the north, but I was now on the western side of the valley journeying
towards the south.  In about half-an-hour I found myself nearly parallel
with the high crag which I had seen from a distance in the morning.  It
was now to the east of me.  Its western front was very precipitous, but
on its northern side it was cultivated nearly to the summit.  As I stood
looking at it from near the top of a gentle acclivity a boy with a team,
whom I had passed a little time before, came up.  He was whipping his
horses, who were straining up the ascent, and was swearing at them most
frightfully in English.  I addressed him in that language, inquiring the
name of the crag, but he answered Dim Saesneg, and then again fell to
cursing his horses in English.  I allowed him and his team to get to the
top of the ascent, and then overtaking him I said in Welsh: “What do you
mean by saying you have no English? you were talking English just now to
your horses.”

“Yes,” said the lad, “I have English enough for my horses, and that is

“You seem to have plenty of Welsh,” said I; “why don’t you speak Welsh to
your horses?”

“It’s of no use speaking Welsh to them,” said the boy; “Welsh isn’t
strong enough.”

“Isn’t Myn Diawl tolerably strong?” said I.

“Not strong enough for horses,” said the boy; “if I were to say Myn Diawl
to my horses, or even Cas András they would laugh at me.”

“Do the other carters,” said I, “use the same English to their horses
which you do to yours?”

“Yes,” said the boy, “they all use the same English words; if they didn’t
the horses wouldn’t mind them.”

“What a triumph,” thought I, “for the English language that the Welsh
carters are obliged to have recourse to its oaths and execrations to make
their horses get on!”

I said nothing more to the boy on the subject of language, but again
asked him the name of the crag.  “It is called Craig y Gorllewin,” said
he.  I thanked him, and soon left him and his team far behind.

Notwithstanding what the boy said about the milk-and-water character of
native Welsh oaths, the Welsh have some very pungent execrations, quite
as efficacious, I should say, to make a horse get on as any in the
English swearing vocabulary.  Some of their oaths are curious, being
connected with heathen times and Druidical mythology; for example that
Cas András mentioned by the boy, which means hateful enemy or horrible
András.  András or Andraste was the fury or Demigorgon of the Ancient
Cumry, to whom they built temples and offered sacrifices out of fear.
Curious that the same oath should be used by the Christian Cumry of the
present day, which was in vogue amongst their pagan ancestors some three
thousand years ago.  However, the same thing is observable amongst us
Christian English: we say the Duse take you! even as our heathen Saxon
forefathers did, who worshipped a kind of Devil so called and named a day
of the week after him, which name we still retain in our hebdomadal
calendar like those of several other Anglo-Saxon devils.  We also say: Go
to old Nick! and Nick or Nikkur was a surname of Woden, and also the name
of a spirit which haunted fords and was in the habit of drowning

Night came quickly upon me after I had passed the swearing lad.  However,
I was fortunate enough to reach Llan Rhyadr, without having experienced
any damage or impediment from Diawl, András, Duse or Nick.


Church of Llan Rhyadr—The Clerk—The Tablet-Stone—First View of the

The night was both windy and rainy like the preceding one, but the
morning which followed, unlike that of the day before, was dull and
gloomy.  After breakfast I walked out to take another view of the little
town.  As I stood looking at the church a middle-aged man of a remarkably
intelligent countenance came up and asked me if I should like to see the
inside.  I told him I should, whereupon he said that he was the clerk and
would admit me with pleasure.  Taking a key out of his pocket he unlocked
the door of the church and we went in.  The inside was sombre, not so
much owing to the gloominess of the day as the heaviness of the
architecture.  It presented something in the form of a cross.  I soon
found the clerk, what his countenance represented him to be, a highly
intelligent person.  His answers to my questions were in general ready
and satisfactory.

“This seems rather an ancient edifice,” said I; “when was it built?”

“In the sixteenth century,” said the clerk; “in the days of Harry Tudor.”

“Have any remarkable men been clergymen of this church?”

“Several, sir; amongst its vicars was Doctor William Morgan the great
South Welshman, the author of the old Welsh version of the Bible, who
flourished in the time of Queen Elizabeth.  Then there was Doctor Robert
South, an eminent divine, who though not a Welshman spoke and preached
Welsh better than many of the native clergy.  Then there was the last
vicar, Walter D—, a great preacher and writer, who styled himself in
print Gwalter Mechain.”

“Are Morgan and South buried here?” said I.

“They are not, sir,” said the clerk; “they had been transferred to other
benefices before they died.”

I did not inquire whether Walter D— was buried there, for of him I had
never heard before, but demanded whether the church possessed any ancient

“This is the oldest which remains, sir,” said the clerk, and he pointed
with his finger to a tablet-stone over a little dark pew on the right
side of the oriel window.  There was an inscription upon it, but owing to
the darkness I could not make out a letter.  The clerk however read as

                               1694.  21 Octr.
                             Hic  Sepultus  Est.
                               Sidneus Bynner.

“Do you understand Latin?” said I to the clerk.

“I do not, sir; I believe, however, that the stone is to the memory of
one Bynner.”

“That is not a Welsh name,” said I.

“It is not, sir,” said the clerk.

“It seems to be radically the same as Bonner,” said I, “the name of the
horrible Popish Bishop of London in Mary’s time.  Do any people of the
name of Bynner reside in the neighbourhood at present?”

“None, sir,” said the clerk; “and if the Bynners are the descendants of
Bonner, it is, perhaps, well that there are none.”

I made the clerk, who appeared almost fit to be a clergyman, a small
present, and returned to the inn.  After paying my bill I flung my
satchel over my shoulder, took my umbrella by the middle in my right
hand, and set off for the Rhyadr.

I entered the narrow glen at the western extremity of the town and
proceeded briskly along.  The scenery was romantically beautiful: on my
left was the little brook, the waters of which run through the town;
beyond it a lofty hill; on my right was a hill covered with wood from the
top to the bottom.  I enjoyed the scene, and should have enjoyed it more
had there been a little sunshine to gild it.

I passed through a small village, the name of which I think was Cynmen,
and presently overtook a man and boy.  The man saluted me in English and
I entered into conversation with him in that language.  He told me that
he came from Llan Gedwin, and was going to a place called Gwern something
in order to fetch home some sheep.  After a time he asked me where I was

“I am going to see the Pistyll Rhyadr,” said I.

We had then just come to the top of a rising ground.

“Yonder’s the Pistyll!” said he, pointing to the west.

I looked in the direction of his finger, and saw something at a great
distance, which looked like a strip of grey linen, hanging over a crag.

“That is the waterfall,” he continued, “which so many of the Saxons come
to see.  And now I must bid you good-bye, master; for my way to the Gwern
is on the right.”

Then followed by the boy he turned aside into a wild road at the corner
of a savage, precipitous rock.


Mountain Scenery—The Rhyadr—Wonderful Feat.

After walking about a mile with the cataract always in sight, I emerged
from the glen into an oblong valley extending from south to north, having
lofty hills on all sides, especially on the west, from which direction
the cataract comes.  I advanced across the vale till within a furlong of
this object, when I was stopped by a deep hollow or nether vale into
which the waters of the cataract tumble.  On the side of this hollow I
sat down, and gazed before me and on either side.  The water comes
spouting over a crag of perhaps two hundred feet in altitude between two
hills, one south-east and the other nearly north.  The southern hill is
wooded from the top, nearly down to where the cataract burst forth; and
so, but not so thickly, is the northern hill, which bears a singular
resemblance to a hog’s back.  Groves of pine are on the lower parts of
both; in front of a grove low down on the northern hill is a small white
house of a picturesque appearance.  The water of the cataract, after
reaching the bottom of the precipice, rushes in a narrow brook down the
vale in the direction of Llan Rhyadr.  To the north-east, between the
hog-backed hill and another strange-looking mountain, is a wild glen,
from which comes a brook to swell the waters discharged by the Rhyadr.
The south-west side of the vale is steep, and from a cleft of a hill in
that quarter a slender stream rushing impetuously joins the brook of the
Rhyadr, like the rill of the northern glen.  The principal object of the
whole is of course the Rhyadr.  What shall I liken it to?  I scarcely
know, unless to an immense skein of silk agitated and disturbed by
tempestuous blasts, or to the long tail of a grey courser at furious
speed.  Through the profusion of long silvery threads or hairs, or what
looked such, I could here and there see the black sides of the crag down
which the Rhyadr precipitated itself with something between a boom and a

After sitting on the verge of the hollow for a considerable time I got
up, and directed my course towards the house in front of the grove.  I
turned down the path which brought me to the brook which runs from the
northern glen into the waters discharged by the Rhyadr, and crossing it
by stepping-stones found myself on the lowest spur of the hog-backed
hill.  A steep path led towards the house.  As I drew near, two handsome
dogs came rushing to welcome the stranger.  Coming to a door on the
northern side of the house I tapped and a handsome girl of about thirteen
making her appearance I enquired in English the nearest way to the
waterfall; she smiled, and in her native language said that she had no
Saxon.  On my telling her in Welsh that I was come to see the Pistyll she
smiled again, and said that I was welcome, then taking me round the house
she pointed to a path and bade me follow it.  I followed the path which
led downwards to a tiny bridge of planks, a little way below the fall.  I
advanced to the middle of the bridge, then turning to the west looked at
the wonderful object before me.

There are many remarkable cataracts in Britain and the neighbouring
isles, even the little Celtic Isle of Man has its remarkable waterfall;
but this Rhyadr, the grand cataract of North Wales, far exceeds them all
in altitude and beauty, though it is inferior to several of them in the
volume of its flood.  I never saw water falling so gracefully, so much
like thin beautiful threads as here.  Yet even this cataract has its
blemish.  What beautiful object has not something which more or less mars
its loveliness?  There is an ugly black bridge or semicircle of rock,
about two feet in diameter and about twenty feet high, which rises some
little way below it, and under which the water, after reaching the
bottom, passes, which intercepts the sight, and prevents it from taking
in the whole fall at once.  This unsightly object has stood where it now
stands since the day of creation, and will probably remain there to the
day of judgment.  It would be a desecration of nature to remove it by
art, but no one could regret if nature in one of her floods were to sweep
it away.

As I was standing on the planks a woman plainly but neatly dressed came
from the house.  She addressed me in very imperfect English, saying that
she was the mistress of the house and should be happy to show me about.
I thanked her for her offer and told her that she might speak Welsh,
whereupon she looked glad and said in that tongue that she could speak
Welsh much better than Saesneg.  She took me by a winding path up a steep
bank on the southern side of the fall to a small plateau, and told me
that was the best place to see the Pistyll from.  I did not think so, for
we were now so near that we were almost blinded by the spray, though, it
is true, the semicircle of rock no longer impeded the sight; this object
we now saw nearly laterally rising up like a spectral arch, spray and
foam above it, and water rushing below.  “That is a bridge rather for
ysprydoedd {397} to pass over than men,” said I.

“It is,” said the woman; “but I once saw a man pass over it.”

“How did he get up?” said I.  “The sides are quite steep and slippery.”

“He wriggled up the side like a llysowen, {398} till he got to the top,
when he stood upright for a minute, and then slid down on the other

“Was he any one from these parts?” said I.

“He was not.  He was a dyn dieithr, a Russian; one of those with whom we
are now at war.”

“Was there as much water tumbling then as now?”

“More, for there had fallen more rain.”

“I suppose the torrent is sometimes very dreadful?” said I.

“It is indeed, especially in winter; for it is then like a sea, and roars
like thunder or a mad bull.”

After I had seen all I wished of the cataract, the woman asked me to come
to the house and take some refreshment.  I followed her to a neat little
room where she made me sit down and handed me a bowl of buttermilk.  On
the table was a book in which she told me it was customary for
individuals who visited the cataract to insert their names.  I took up
the book which contained a number of names mingled here and there with
pieces of poetry.  Amongst these compositions was a Welsh englyn on the
Rhyadr, which though incorrect in its prosody I thought stirring and
grand.  I copied it, and subjoin it with a translation which I made on
the spot.

    “Crychiawg, ewynawg anian—yw y Rhyadr
    Yn rhuo mal taran;
    Colofn o dwr, gloyw-dwr glan,
    Gorwyllt, un lliw ag arian.”

    “Foaming and frothing from mountainous height,
       Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls;
    Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight,
       Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.”


Wild Moors—The Guide—Scientific Discourse—The Land of Arthur—The
Umbrella—Arrival at Bala.

When I had rested myself and finished the buttermilk I got up, and,
making the good woman a small compensation for her civility, inquired if
I could get to Bala without returning to Llan Rhyadr.

“O yes,” said she, “if you cross the hills for about five miles you will
find yourself upon a road which will take you straight to Bala.”

“Is there any one here,” said I, “who will guide me over the hills
provided I pay him for his trouble?”

“O yes,” said she; “I know one who will be happy to guide you whether you
pay him or not.”

She went out and presently returned with a man about thirty-five, stout
and well-looking, and dressed in a waggoner’s frock.

“There,” said she, “this is the man to show you over the hills; few know
the paths better.”

I thanked her, and telling the man I was ready, bade him lead the way.
We set out, the two dogs of which I have spoken attending us and
seemingly very glad to go.  We ascended the side of the hog-backed hill
to the north of the Rhyadr.  We were about twenty minutes in getting to
the top, close to which stood a stone or piece of rock, very much
resembling a church altar, and about the size of one.  We were now on an
extensive moory elevation, having the brook which forms the Rhyadr a
little way on our left.  We went nearly due west, following no path, for
path there was none, but keeping near the brook.  Sometimes we crossed
watercourses which emptied their tribute into the brook, and every now
and then ascended and descended hillocks covered with gorse and whin.
After a little time I entered into conversation with my guide.  He had
not a word of English.  “Are you married?” said I.

“In truth I am, sir.”

“What family have you?”

“I have a daughter.”

“Where do you live?”

“At the house of the Rhyadr.”

“I suppose you live there as servant?”

“No, sir, I live there as master.”

“Is the good woman I saw there your wife?”

“In truth, sir, she is.”

“And the young girl I saw your daughter?”

“Yes, sir, she is my daughter.”

“And how came the good woman not to tell me you were her husband?”

“I suppose, sir, you did not ask who I was, and she thought you did not
care to know.”

“But can you be spared from home?”

“O yes, sir, I was not wanted at home.”

“What business are you?”

“I am a farmer, sir.”

“A sheep farmer?”

“Yes sir.”

“Who is your landlord?”

“Sir Watkin.”

“Well, it was very kind of you to come with me.”

“Not at all, sir; I was glad to come with you, for we are very lonesome
at Rhyadr, except during a few weeks in the summer, when the gentry come
to see the Pistyll.  Moreover, I have sheep lying about here which need
to be looked at now and then, and by coming hither with you I shall have
an opportunity of seeing them.”

We frequently passed sheep feeding together in small numbers.  In two or
three instances my guide singled out individuals, caught them, and
placing their heads between his knees examined the inside of their
eyelids, in order to learn by their colour whether or not they were
infected with the pwd or moor disorder.  We had some discourse about that
malady.  At last he asked me if there was a remedy for it.

“O yes,” said I; “a decoction of hoarhound.”

“What is hoarhound?” said he.

“Llwyd y Cwn,” said I.  “Pour some of that down the sheep’s throat twice
a day, by means of a horn, and the sheep will recover, for the
bitterness, do you see, will destroy the worm {400} in the liver, which
learned men say is the cause of the disorder.”

We left the brook on our left hand and passed by some ruined walls which
my guide informed me had once belonged to houses but were now used as
sheep-folds.  After walking several miles, according to my computation,
we began to ascend a considerable elevation covered with brown heath and
ling.  As we went on the dogs frequently put up a bird of a black colour,
which flew away with a sharp whirr.

“What bird is that?” said I.

“Ceiliog y grug, the cock of the heath,” replied my guide.  “It is said
to be very good eating, but I have never tasted it.  The ceiliog y grug
is not food for the like of me.  It goes to feed the rich Saxons in Caer

We reached the top of the elevation.

“Yonder,” said my guide, pointing to a white bare place a great way off
to the west, “is Bala road.”

“Then I will not trouble you to go any further,” said I; “I can find my
way thither.”

“No, you could not,” said my guide; “if you were to make straight for
that place you would perhaps fall down a steep, or sink into a peat hole
up to your middle, or lose your way and never find the road, for you
would soon lose sight of that place.  Follow me, and I will lead you into
a part of the road more to the left, and then you can find your way
easily enough to that bare place, and from thence to Bala.”  Thereupon he
moved in a southerly direction down the steep and I followed him.  In
about twenty minutes we came to the road.

“Now,” said my guide, “you are on the road; bear to the right and you
cannot miss the way to Bala.”

“How far is it to Bala?” said I.

“About twelve miles,” he replied.

I gave him a trifle, asking at the same time if it was sufficient.  “Too
much by one half,” he replied; “many, many thanks.”  He then shook me by
the hand, and accompanied by his dogs departed, not back over the moor,
but in a southerly direction down the road.

Wending my course to the north, I came to the white bare spot which I had
seen from the moor, and which was in fact the top of a considerable
elevation over which the road passed.  Here I turned and looked at the
hills I had come across.  There they stood, darkly blue, a rain cloud,
like ink, hanging over their summits.  O, the wild hills of Wales, the
land of old renown and of wonder, the land of Arthur and Merlin.

The road now lay nearly due west.  Rain came on, but it was at my back,
so I expanded my umbrella, flung it over my shoulder and laughed.  O, how
a man laughs who has a good umbrella when he has the rain at his back,
aye and over his head too, and at all times when it rains except when the
rain is in his face, when the umbrella is not of much service.  O, what a
good friend to a man is an umbrella in rain time, and likewise at many
other times.  What need he fear if a wild bull or a ferocious dog attacks
him, provided he has a good umbrella? he unfurls the umbrella in the face
of the bull or dog, and the brute turns round quite scared, and runs
away.  Or if a footpad asks him for his money, what need he care provided
he has an umbrella? he threatens to dodge the ferrule into the ruffian’s
eye, and the fellow starts back and says, “Lord, sir! I meant no harm.  I
never saw you before in all my life.  I merely meant a little fun.”
Moreover, who doubts that you are a respectable character provided you
have an umbrella? you go into a public-house and call for a pot of beer,
and the publican puts it down before you with one hand without holding
out the other for the money, for he sees that you have an umbrella and
consequently property.  And what respectable man, when you overtake him
on the way and speak to him, will refuse to hold conversation with you,
provided you have an umbrella?  No one.  The respectable man sees you
have an umbrella and concludes that you do not intend to rob him, and
with justice, for robbers never carry umbrellas.  O, a tent, a shield, a
lance and a voucher for character is an umbrella.  Amongst the very best
friends of man must be reckoned an umbrella. {402}

The way lay over dreary, moory hills: at last it began to descend and I
saw a valley below me with a narrow river running through it to which
wooded hills sloped down; far to the west were blue mountains.  The scene
was beautiful but melancholy; the rain had passed away, but a gloomy
almost November sky was above, and the mists of night were coming down

I crossed a bridge at the bottom of the valley and presently saw a road
branching to the right.  I paused, but after a little time went straight
forward.  Gloomy woods were on each side of me and night had come down.
Fear came upon me that I was not in the right road, but I saw no house at
which I could inquire, nor did I see a single individual for miles of
whom I could ask.  At last I heard the sound of hatchets in a dingle on
my right, and catching a glimpse of a gate at the head of a path, which
led down into it, I got over it.  After descending some time I hallooed.
The noise of the hatchets ceased.  I hallooed again, and a voice cried in
Welsh, “What do you want?”  “To know the way to Bala,” I replied.  There
was no answer, but presently I heard steps, and the figure of a man drew
nigh half undistinguishable in the darkness and saluted me.  I returned
his salutation, and told him I wanted to know the way to Bala.  He told
me, and I found I had been going right.  I thanked him and regained the
road.  I sped onward and in about half an hour saw some houses, then a
bridge, then a lake on my left, which I recognised as the lake of Bala.
I skirted the end of it, and came to a street cheerfully lighted up, and
in a minute more was in the White Lion Inn.


Cheerful Fire—Immense Man—Doctor Jones—Recognition—A Fast Young
Man—Excellent Remarks—Disappointment.

I was conducted into the coffee-room of the White Lion by a little
freckled maid whom I saw at the bar, and whom I told that I was come to
pass the night at the inn.  The room presented an agreeable contrast to
the gloomy, desolate places through which I had lately come.  A good fire
blazed in the grate, and there were four lights on the table.  Lolling in
a chair by one side of the fire was an individual at the sight of whom I
almost started.  He was an immense man, weighing I should say at least
eighteen stone, with brown hair, thinnish whiskers, half-ruddy,
half-tallowy complexion, and dressed in a brown sporting coat, drab
breeches and yellow-topped boots—in every respect the exact image of the
Wolverhampton gent or hog-merchant who had appeared to me in my dream at
Llangollen, whilst asleep before the fire.  Yes, the very counterpart of
the same gent looked this enormous fellow, save and except that he did
not appear to be more than seven or eight and twenty, whereas the
hog-merchant looked at least fifty.  Laying my satchel down I took a seat
and ordered the maid to get some dinner for me, and then asked what had
become of the waiter Tom Jenkins.

“He is not here at present, sir,” said the freckled maid; “he is at his
own house.”

“And why is he not here?” said I.

“Because he is not wanted, sir; he only comes in summer when the house is
full of people.”

And having said this the little freckled damsel left the room.

“Reither a cool night, sir!” said the enormous man after we had been
alone together a few minutes.

I again almost started, for he spoke with the same kind of half-piping,
half-wheezing voice, with which methought the Wolverhampton gent had
spoken to me in my dream.

“Yes,” said I; “it is rather cold out abroad, but I don’t care, as I am
not going any farther to-night.”

“That’s not my case,” said the stout man, “I have got to go ten miles, as
far as Cerrig Drudion, from which place I came this afternoon in a

“Do you reside at Cerrig Drudion?” said I.

“No,” said the stout man, whose dialect I shall not attempt further to
imitate, “but I have been staying there some time; for happening to go
there a month or two ago I was tempted to take up my quarters at the inn.
A very nice inn it is, and the landlady a very agreeable woman, and her
daughters very agreeable young ladies.”

“Is this the first time you have been at Bala?”

“Yes, the first time.  I had heard a good deal about it, and wished to
see it.  So to-day, having the offer of a vehicle at a cheap rate I came
over with two or three other gents, amongst whom is Doctor Jones.”

“Dear me,” said I; “is Doctor Jones in Bala?”

“Yes,” said the stout man; “do you know him?”

“Oh yes,” said I, “and have a great respect for him; his like for
politeness and general learning is scarcely to be found in Britain.”

“Only think,” said the stout man.  “Well, I never heard that of him

Wishing to see my sleeping room before I got my dinner, I now rose and
was making for the door, when it opened, and in came Doctor Jones.  He
had a muffler round his neck, and walked rather slowly and
disconsolately, leaning upon a cane.  He passed without appearing to
recognise me, and I, thinking it would be as well to defer claiming
acquaintance with him till I had put myself a little to rights, went out
without saying anything to him.  I was shown by the freckled maid to a
nice sleeping apartment, where I stayed some time adjusting myself.  On
my return to the coffee-room I found the doctor sitting near the
fire-place.  The stout man had left the room.  I had no doubt that he
told Doctor Jones that I had claimed acquaintance with him, and that the
doctor not having recollected me had denied that he knew anything of me,
for I observed that he looked at me very suspiciously.

I took my former seat, and after a minute’s silence said to Doctor Jones,
“I think, sir, I had the pleasure of seeing you some time ago at Cerrig

“It’s possible, sir,” said Doctor Jones in a tone of considerable
hauteur, and tossing his head so that the end of his chin was above his
comforter, “but I have no recollection of it.”

I held my head down for a little time, then raising it and likewise my
forefinger I looked Doctor Jones full in the face and said, “Don’t you
remember talking to me about Owen Pugh and Coll Gwynfa?”

“Yes, I do,” said Doctor Jones in a very low voice, like that of a person
who deliberates; “yes, I do.  I remember you perfectly, sir,” he added
almost immediately in a tone of some animation; “you are the gentleman
with whom I had a very interesting conversation one evening last summer
in the bar of the inn at Cerrig Drudion.  I regretted very much that our
conversation was rather brief, but I was called away to attend to a case,
a professional case, sir, of some delicacy, and I have since particularly
regretted that I was unable to return that night, as it would have given
me much pleasure to have been present at a dialogue which, I have been
told by my friend the landlady, you held with a certain Italian who was
staying at the house, which was highly agreeable and instructive to
herself and her daughter.”

“Well,” said I, “I am rejoiced that fate has brought us together again.
How have you been in health since I had the pleasure of seeing you?”

“Rather indifferent, sir, rather indifferent.  I have of late been
afflicted with several ailments the original cause of which, I believe,
was a residence of several years in the Ynysoedd y Gorllewin—the
West-India Islands—where I had the honour of serving her present gracious
Majesty’s gracious uncle, George the Fourth—in a medical capacity, sir.
I have likewise been afflicted with lowness of spirits, sir.  It was this
same lowness of spirits which induced me to accept an invitation made by
the individual lately in the room to accompany him in a vehicle with some
other people to Bala.  I shall always consider my coming as a fortunate
circumstance inasmuch as it has given me an opportunity of renewing my
acquaintance with you.”

“Pray,” said I, “may I take the liberty of asking who that individual

“Why,” said Doctor Jones, “he is what they call a Wolverhampton gent.”

“A Wolverhampton gent,” said I to myself; “only think!”

“Were you pleased to make any observation, sir?” said the doctor.

“I was merely saying something to myself,” said I.  “And in what line of
business may he be?  I suppose in the hog line.”

“O no,” said Doctor Jones.  “His father it is true is a hog-merchant, but
as for himself he follows no business; he is what is called a fast young
man, and goes about here and there on the spree, as I think they term it,
drawing, whenever he wants money, upon his father, who is in affluent
circumstances.  Some time ago he came to Cerrig Drudion, and was so much
pleased with the place, the landlady and her daughters that he has made
it his head-quarters ever since.  Being frequently at the house I formed
an acquaintance with him, and have occasionally made one in his parties
and excursions, though I can’t say I derive much pleasure from his
conversation, for he is a person of little or no literature.”

“The son of a hog-merchant,” thought I to myself.  “Depend upon it, that
immense fellow whom I saw in my dream purchase the big hog at Llangollen
fair, and who wanted me to give him a poond for his bargain, was this
gent’s father.  O there is much more in dreams than is generally dreamt
of by philosophy!”

Doctor Jones presently began to talk of Welsh literature, and we were
busily engaged in discussing the subject when in walked the fast young
man, causing the floor to quake beneath his ponderous tread.  He looked
rather surprised at seeing the doctor and me conversing, but Doctor Jones
turning to him said, “O I remember this gentleman perfectly.”

“Oh!” said the fast young man; “very good!” then flinging himself down in
a chair with a force that nearly broke it and fixing his eyes upon me
said, “I think I remember the gentleman too.  If I am not much mistaken,
sir, you are one of our principal engineers at Wolverhampton.  O yes!  I
remember you now perfectly.  The last time I saw you was at a public
dinner given to you at Wolverhampton, and there you made a speech, and a
capital speech it was.”

Just as I was about to reply Doctor Jones commenced speaking Welsh,
resuming the discourse on Welsh literature.  Before, however, he had
uttered a dozen words he was interrupted by the Wolverhampton gent, who
exclaimed in a blubbering tone: “O Lord, you are surely not going to
speak Welsh.  If I had thought I was to be bothered with Welsh I wouldn’t
have asked you to come.”

“If I spoke Welsh, sir,” said the Doctor, “it was out of compliment to
this gentleman, who is a proficient in the ancient language of my
country.  As, however, you dislike Welsh, I shall carry on the
conversation with him in English, though peradventure you may not be more
edified by it in that language than if it were held in Welsh.”

He then proceeded to make some very excellent remarks on the history of
the Gwedir family, written by Sir John Wynn; to which the Wolverhampton
gent listened with open mouth and staring eyes.  My dinner now made its
appearance, brought in by the little freckled maid—the cloth had been
laid during my absence from the room.  I had just begun to handle my
knife and fork, Doctor Jones still continuing his observations on the
history of the Gwedir family, when I heard a carriage drive up to the
inn, and almost immediately after two or three young fellows rollicked
into the room.  “Come, let’s be off,” said one of them to the
Wolverhampton gent; “the carriage is ready.”  “I’m glad of it,” said the
fast young man, “for it’s rather slow work here.  Come, doctor! are you
going with us or do you intend to stay here all night?”  Thereupon the
doctor got up, and coming towards me, leaning on his cane, said: “Sir! it
gives me infinite pleasure that I have met a second time a gentleman of
so much literature.  That we shall ever meet a third time I may wish but
can scarcely hope, owing to certain ailments under which I suffer,
brought on, sir, by a residence of many years in the Occidental Indies.
However, at all events I wish you health and happiness.”  He then shook
me gently by the hand and departed with the Wolverhampton gent and his
companions; the gent as he stumped out of the room saying, “Good night,
sir; I hope it will not be long before I see you at another public dinner
at Wolverhampton, and hear another speech from you as good as the last.”
In a minute or two I heard them drive off.

Left to myself I began to discuss my dinner.  Of the dinner I had nothing
to complain, but the ale which accompanied it was very bad.  This was the
more mortifying, for remembering the excellent ale I had drunk at Bala
some months previously I had, as I came along the gloomy roads the
present evening, been promising myself a delicious treat on my arrival.

“This is very bad ale!” said I to the freckled maid, “very different from
what I drank in the summer, when I was waited on by Tom Jenkins.”

“It is the same ale, sir,” said the maid, “but the last in the cask; and
we shan’t have any more for six months, when he will come again to brew
for the summer; but we have very good porter, sir, and first-rate

“Allsopp’s ale,” said I, “will do for July and August, but scarcely for
the end of October.  However, bring me a pint; I prefer it at all times
to porter.”

My dinner concluded, I trifled away the time till about ten o’clock, and
then went to bed.


Breakfast—The Freckled Maid—Llan uwch Llyn—The Landlady—Llewarch
Hen—Conversions to the Church.

Awaking occasionally in the night I heard much storm and rain.  The
following morning it was gloomy and lowering.  As it was Sunday I
determined to pass the day at Bala, and accordingly took my prayer-book
out of my satchel, and also my single white shirt, which I put on.

Having dressed myself I went to the coffee-room and sat down to
breakfast.  What a breakfast! pot of hare; ditto of trout; pot of
prepared shrimps; dish of plain shrimps; tin of sardines; beautiful
beef-steak; eggs, muffin; large loaf, and butter, not forgetting capital
tea.  There’s a breakfast for you!

As the little freckled maid was removing the breakfast things I asked her
how old she was.

“Eighteen, sir, last Candlemas,” said the freckled maid.

“Are your parents alive?”

“My mother is, sir, but my father is dead.”

“What was your father?”

“He was an Irishman, sir! and boots to this inn.”

“Is your mother Irish?”

“No, sir, she is of this place; my father married her shortly after he
came here.”

“Of what religion are you?”

“Church, sir, church.”

“Was your father of the church?”

“Not always, sir; he was once what is called a Cartholic.  He turned to
the church after he came here.”

“A’n’t there a great many Methodists in Bala?”

“Plenty, sir, plenty.”

“How came your father not to go over to the Methodists instead of the

“’Cause he didn’t like them, sir; he used to say they were a trumpery,
cheating set; that they wouldn’t swear, but would lie through a
three-inch board.”

“I suppose your mother is a churchwoman?”

“She is now, sir; but before she knew my father she was a Methodist.”

“Of what religion is the master of the house?”

“Church, sir, church; so is all the family.”

“Who is the clergyman of the place?”

“Mr. Pugh, sir!”

“Is he a good preacher?”

“Capital, sir! and so is each of his curates; he and they are convarting
the Methodists left and right.”

“I should like to hear him.”

“Well, sir! that you can do.  My master, who is going to church
presently, will be happy to accommodate you in his pew.”

I went to the church with the landlord, a tall gentlemanly man of the
name of Jones—O that eternal name of Jones!  Rain was falling fast, and
we were glad to hold up our umbrellas.  We did not go to the church at
Bala, at which there was no service that morning, but to that of a little
village close by, on the side of the lake, the living of which is
incorporated with that of Bala.  The church stands low down by the lake
at the bottom of a little nook.  Its name, which is Llan uwch Llyn, is
descriptive of its position, signifying the Church above the Lake.  It is
a long, low, ancient edifice, standing north-east by south-west.  The
village is just above it on a rising ground, behind which are lofty hills
pleasantly dotted with groves, trees and houses.  The interior of the
edifice has a somewhat dilapidated appearance.  The service was in Welsh.
The clergyman was about forty years of age, and had a highly-intelligent
look.  His voice was remarkably clear and distinct.  He preached an
excellent practical sermon, text 14th chapter 22nd verse of Luke, about
sending out servants to invite people to the supper.  After the sermon
there was a gathering for the poor.

As I returned to the inn I had a good deal of conversation with the
landlord on religious subjects.  He told me that the Church of England,
which for a long time had been a down-trodden Church in Wales, had of
late begun to raise its head, and chiefly owing to the zeal and activity
of its present ministers; that the former ministers of the Church were
good men but had not energy enough to suit the times in which they lived;
that the present ministers fought the Methodist preachers with their own
weapon, namely extemporary preaching, and beat them, winning shoals from
their congregations.  He seemed to think that the time was not far
distant when the Anglican Church would be the popular as well as the
established church of Wales.

Finding myself rather dull in the inn I went out again notwithstanding
that it rained.  I ascended the toman or mound which I had visited on a
former occasion.  Nothing could be more desolate and dreary than the
scene around.  The woods were stript of their verdure and the hills were
half shrouded in mist.  How unlike was this scene to the smiling,
glorious prospect which had greeted my eyes a few months before.  The
rain coming down with redoubled violence I was soon glad to descend and
regain the inn.

Shortly before dinner I was visited by the landlady, a fine tall woman of
about fifty with considerable remains of beauty in her countenance.  She
came to ask me if I was comfortable.  I told her that it was my own fault
if I was not.  We were soon in very friendly discourse.  I asked her her
maiden name.

“Owen,” said she laughing, “which after my present name of Jones is the
most common name in Wales.”

“They were both one and the same originally,” said I, “Owen and Jones
both mean John.”

She too was a staunch member of the Church of England, which she said was
the only true church.  She spoke in terms of high respect and admiration
of her minister, and said that a new church was being built, the old one
not being large enough to accommodate the numbers who thronged to hear

I had a noble goose for dinner to which I did ample justice.  About four
o’clock the weather having cleared up I took a stroll.  It was a
beautiful evening, though rain clouds still hovered about.  I wandered to
the northern end of Llyn Tegid which I had passed in the preceding
evening.  The wind was blowing from the south, and tiny waves were
beating against the shore which consisted of small brown pebbles.  The
lake has certainly not its name, which signifies Lake of Beauty, for
nothing.  It is a beautiful sheet of water, and beautifully situated.  It
is oblong and about six miles in length.  On all sides, except to the
north, it is bounded by hills.  Those at the southern end are very lofty;
the tallest of which is Arran, which lifts its head to the clouds like a
huge loaf.  As I wandered on the strand I thought of a certain British
prince and poet, who in the very old time sought a refuge in the vicinity
of the lake from the rage of the Saxons.  His name was Llewarch Hen, of
whom I will now say a few words.

Llewarch Hen, or Llewarch the Aged, was born about the commencement of
the sixth and died about the middle of the seventh century, having
attained to the prodigious age of one hundred and forty or fifty years,
which is perhaps the lot of about forty individuals in the course of a
millenium.  If he was remarkable for the number of his years he was no
less so for the number of his misfortunes.  He was one of the princes of
the Cumbrian Britons; but Cumbria was invaded by the Saxons, and a scene
of horrid war ensued.  Llewarch and his sons, of whom he had twenty-four,
put themselves at the head of their forces, and in conjunction with the
other Cumbrian princes made a brave but fruitless opposition to the
invaders.  Most of his sons were slain, and he himself with the remainder
sought shelter in Powys in the hall of Cynddylan its prince.  But the
Saxon bills and bows found their way to Powys too.  Cynddylan was slain,
and with him the last of the sons of Llewarch, who, reft of his
protector, retired to a hut by the side of the lake of Bala, where he
lived the life of a recluse and composed elegies on his sons and
slaughtered friends, and on his old age, all of which abound with so much
simplicity and pathos that the heart of him must be hard indeed who can
read them unmoved.  Whilst a prince he was revered for his wisdom and
equity, and he is said in one of the historical triads to have been one
of the three consulting warriors of Arthur.

In the evening I attended service in the old church at Bala.  The
interior of the edifice was remarkably plain; no ornament of any kind was
distinguishable; the congregation was overflowing, amongst whom I
observed the innkeeper and his wife, the little freckled maid and the
boots.  The entire service was in Welsh.  Next to the pew in which I sat
was one filled with young singing women, all of whom seemed to have
voices of wonderful power.  The prayers were read by a strapping young
curate at least six feet high.  The sermon was preached by the rector,
and was a continuation of the one which I had heard him preach in the
morning.  It was a very comforting discourse, as the preacher clearly
proved that every sinner will be pardoned who comes to Jesus.  I was
particularly struck with one part.  The preacher said that Jesus’ arms
being stretched out upon the cross was emblematic of his surprising love
and his willingness to receive anybody.  The service concluded with the
noble anthem Teyrnasa Jesu Mawr, “May Mighty Jesus reign!”

The service over I returned to the parlour of the inn.  There I sat for a
long time lone and solitary, staring at the fire in the grate.  I was the
only guest in the house; a great silence prevailed both within and
without; sometimes five minutes elapsed without my hearing a sound, and
then perhaps the silence would be broken by a footstep at a distance in
the street—at length finding myself yawning I determined to go to bed.
The freckled maid, as she lighted me to my room, inquired how I liked the
sermon.  “Very much,” said I.  “Ah,” said she, “did I not tell you that
Mr. Pugh was a capital preacher?”  She then asked me how I liked the
singing of the gals who sat in the next pew to mine.  I told her that I
liked it exceedingly.  “Ah!” said she, “them gals have the best voices in
Bala.  They were once Methody gals, and sang in the chapels, but were
convarted, and are now as good Church as myself.  Them gals have been the
cause of a great many convarsions, for all the young fellows of their
acquaintance amongst the Methodists—”

“Follow them to church,” said I, “and in time become converted.  That’s a
thing of course.  If the Church gets the girls she is quite sure of the


Proceed on Journey—The Lad and Dog—Old Bala—The Pass—Extensive View—The
Two Men—The Tap Nyth—The Meeting of the Waters—The Wild Valley—Dinas

The Monday morning was gloomy and misty, but it did not rain, a
circumstance which gave me no little pleasure, as I intended to continue
my journey without delay.  After breakfast I bade farewell to my kind
hosts and also to the freckled maid, and departed, my sachel o’er my
shoulder and my umbrella in my hand.

I had consulted the landlord on the previous day as to where I had best
make my next halt, and had been advised by him to stop at Mallwyd.  He
said that if I felt tired I could put up at Dinas Mawddwy, about two
miles on this side of Mallwyd, but that if I were not he would advise me
to go on, as I should find very poor accommodation at Dinas.  On my
inquiring as to the nature of the road he told me that the first part of
it was tolerably good, lying along the eastern side of the lake, but that
the greater part of it was very rough, over hills and mountains belonging
to the great chain of Arran, which constituted upon the whole the wildest
part of all Wales.

Passing by the northern end of the lake I turned to the south and
proceeded along a road a little way above the side of the lake.  The day
had now to a certain extent cleared up, and the lake was occasionally
gilded by beams of bright sunshine.  After walking a little way I
overtook a lad dressed in a white great coat and attended by a tolerably
large black dog.  I addressed him in English, but finding that he did not
understand me I began to talk to him in Welsh.

“That’s a fine dog,” said I.

_Lad_.—Very fine, sir, and a good dog; though young, he has been known to
kill rats.

_Myself_.—What is his name?

_Lad_.—His name is Toby, sir.

_Myself_.—And what is your name?

_Lad_.—John Jones, sir.

_Myself_.—And what is your father’s?

_Lad_.—Waladr Jones, sir.

_Myself_.—Is Waladr the same as Cadwaladr?

_Lad_.—In truth, sir, it is.

_Myself_.—That is a fine name.

_Lad_.—It is, sir; I have heard my father say that it was the name of a

_Myself_.—What is your father?

_Lad_.—A farmer, sir.

_Myself_.—Does he farm his own land?

_Lad_.—He does not, sir; he is tenant to Mr. Price of Hiwlas.

_Myself_.—Do you live far from Bala?

_Lad_.—Not very far, sir.

_Myself_.—Are you going home now?

_Lad_.—I am not, sir; our home is on the other side of Bala.  I am going
to see a relation up the road.

_Myself_.—Bala is a nice place.

_Lad_.—It is, sir; but not so fine as old Bala.

_Myself_.—I never heard of such a place.  Where is it?

_Lad_.—Under the lake, sir.

_Myself_.—What do you mean?

_Lad_.—It stood in the old time where the lake now is, and a fine city it
was, full of fine houses, towers and castles, but with neither church nor
chapel, for the people neither knew God nor cared for Him, and thought of
nothing but singing and dancing and other wicked things.  So God was
angry with them, and one night, when they were all busy at singing and
dancing and the like, God gave the word and the city sank down into
Unknown, and the lake boiled up where it once stood.

_Myself_.—That was a long time ago.

_Lad_.—In truth, sir, it was.

_Myself_.—Before the days of King Cadwaladr.

_Lad_.—I dare say it was, sir.

I walked fast, but the lad was a shrewd walker, and though encumbered
with his great coat contrived to keep tolerably up with me.  The road
went over hill and dale, but upon the whole more upward than downward.
After proceeding about an hour and a half we left the lake, to the
southern extremity of which we had nearly come, somewhat behind, and bore
away to the south-east, gradually ascending.  At length the lad pointing
to a small farm-house on the side of a hill told me he was bound thither,
and presently bidding me farewell turned aside up a footpath which led
towards it.

About a minute afterwards a small delicate furred creature with a white
mark round its neck and with a little tail trailing on the ground ran
swiftly across the road.  It was a weasel or something of that genus; on
observing it I was glad that the lad and the dog were gone, as between
them they would probably have killed it.  I hate to see poor wild animals
persecuted and murdered, lose my appetite for dinner at hearing the
screams of a hare pursued by greyhounds, and am silly enough to feel
disgust and horror at the squeals of a rat in the fangs of a terrier,
which one of the sporting tribe once told me were the sweetest sounds in

I crossed a bridge over a deep gulley which discharged its waters into a
river in a valley on the right.  Arran rose in great majesty on the
farther side of this vale, its head partly shrouded in mist.  The day now
became considerably overcast.  I wandered on over much rough ground till
I came to a collection of houses at the bottom of a pass leading up a
steep mountain.  Seeing the door of one of the houses open I peeped in,
and a woman who was sitting knitting in the interior rose and came out to
me.  I asked the name of the place.  The name which she told me sounded
something like Tŷ Capel Saer—the House of the Chapel of the Carpenter.  I
inquired the name of the river in the valley.  Cynllwyd, hoary-headed,
she seemed to say; but here as well as with respect to her first answer I
speak under correction, for her Welsh was what my old friends the
Spaniards would call muy cerrado, that is close or indistinct.  She asked
me if I was going up the bwlch.  I told her I was.

“Rather you than I,” said she, looking up to the heavens which had
assumed a very dismal, not to say awful appearance.

Presently I began to ascend the pass or bwlch, a green hill on my right
intercepting the view of Arran, another very lofty hill on my left with
wood towards the summit.  Coming to a little cottage which stood on the
left I went to the door and knocked.  A smiling young woman opened it, of
whom I asked the name of the house.

“Tŷ Nant—the House of the Dingle,” she replied.

“Do you live alone?” said I.

“No; mother lives here.”

“Any Saesneg?”

“No,” said she with a smile, “S’sneg of no use here.”

Her face looked the picture of kindness, I was now indeed in Wales
amongst the real Welsh.  I went on some way.  Suddenly there was a
moaning sound, and rain came down in torrents.  Seeing a deserted cottage
on my left I went in.  There was fodder in it, and it appeared to serve
partly as a barn, partly as a cowhouse.  The rain poured upon the roof
and I was glad I had found shelter.  Close behind this place a small
brook precipitated itself down rocks in four successive falls.

The rain having ceased I proceeded and after a considerable time reached
the top of the pass.  From thence I had a view of the valley and lake of
Bala, the lake looking like an immense sheet of steel.  A round hill,
however, somewhat intercepted the view of the latter.  The scene in my
immediate neighbourhood was very desolate; moory hillocks were all about
me of a wretched russet colour; on my left, on the very crest of the hill
up which I had so long been toiling, stood a black pyramid of turf, a
pole on the top of it.  The road now wore nearly due west down a steep
descent, Arran was slightly to the north of me.  I, however, soon lost
sight of it, as I went down the farther side of the hill which lies over
against it to the south-east.  The sun, now descending, began to shine
out.  The pass down which I was now going was yet wilder than the one up
which I had lately come.  Close on my right was the steep hill’s side out
of which the road or path had been cut, which was here and there overhung
by crags of wondrous forms; on my left was a very deep glen, beyond which
was a black, precipitous, rocky wall, from a chasm near the top of which
tumbled with a rushing sound a slender brook seemingly the commencement
of a mountain stream which hurried into a valley far below towards the
west.  When nearly at the bottom of the descent I stood still to look
around me.  Grand and wild was the scenery.  On my left were noble green
hills, the tops of which were beautifully gilded by the rays of the
setting sun.  On my right a black, gloomy, narrow valley or glen showed
itself; two enormous craggy hills of immense altitude, one to the west
and the other to the east of the entrance; that to the east terminating
in a peak.  The background to the north was a wall of rocks forming a
semicircle, something like a bent bow with the head downward; behind this
bow, just in the middle, rose the black loaf of Arran.  A torrent tumbled
from the lower part of the semicircle, and after running for some
distance to the south turned to the west, the way I was going.

Observing a house a little way within the gloomy vale I went towards it
in the hope of finding somebody in it who could give me information
respecting this wild locality.  As I drew near the door two tall men came
forth, one about sixty, and the other about half that age.  The elder had
a sharp, keen look; the younger a lumpy and a stupid one.  They were
dressed like farmers.  On my saluting them in English the elder returned
my salutation in that tongue, but in rather a gruff tone.  The younger
turned away his head and said nothing.

“What is the name of this house?” said I, pointing to the building.

“The name of it,” said the old man, “is Tŷ Mawr.”

“Do you live in it?” said I.

“Yes, I live in it.”

“What waterfall is that?” said I, pointing to the torrent tumbling down
the crag at the farther end of the gloomy vale.

“The fountain of the Royal Dyfi.”

“Why do you call the Dyfy royal?” said I.

“Because it is the king of the rivers in these parts.”

“Does the fountain come out of a rock?”

“It does not; it comes out of a lake, a llyn.”

“Where is the llyn?”

“Over that crag at the foot of Aran Vawr.”

“Is it a large lake?”

“It is not; it is small.”



“Strange things in it?”

“I believe there are strange things in it.”  His English now became


“I do not know what cracadailes be.”


“Ah!  No I do not tink there be efync dere.  Hu Gadarn in de old time
kill de efync dere and in all de lakes in Wales.  He draw them out of the
water with his ychain banog his humpty oxen, and when he get dem out he
burn deir bodies on de fire, he good man for dat.”

“What do you call this allt?” said I, looking up to the high pinnacled
hill on my right.

“I call that Tap Nyth yr Eryri.”

“Is not that the top nest of the eagles?”

“I believe it is.  Ha, I see you understand Welsh.”

“A little,” said I; “are there eagles there now?”

“No, no eagle now.”

“Gone like avanc?”

“Yes, gone like avanc, but not so long.  My father see eagle on Tap Nyth,
but my father never see avanc in de llyn.”

“How far to Dinas?”

“About three mile.”

“Any thieves about?”

“No, no thieves here, but what come from England,” and he looked at me
with a strange, grim smile.

“What is become of the red-haired robbers of Mawddwy?”

“Ah,” said the old man, staring at me, “I see you are a Cumro.  The
red-haired thieves of Mawddwy!  I see you are from these parts.”

“What’s become of them?”

“Oh, dead, hung.  Lived long time ago; long before eagle left Tap Nyth.”

He spoke true.  The red-haired banditti of Mawddwy were exterminated long
before the conclusion of the sixteenth century, after having long been
the terror not only of these wild regions but of the greater part of
North Wales.  They were called the red-haired banditti because certain
leading individuals amongst them had red foxy hair.

“Is that young man your son?” said I, after a little pause.

“Yes, he my son.”

“Has he any English?”

“No, he no English, but he plenty of Welsh—that is if he see reason.”

I spoke to the young man in Welsh, asking him if he had ever been up to
the Tap Nyth, but he made no answer.

“He no care for your question,” said the old man; “ask him price of pig.”
I asked the young fellow the price of hogs, whereupon his face brightened
up, and he not only answered my question, but told me that he had a fat
hog to sell.  “Ha, ha,” said the old man; “he plenty of Welsh now, for he
see reason.  To other question he no Welsh at all, no more than English,
for he see no reason.  What business he on Tap Nyth with eagle?  His
business down below in sty with pig.  Ah, he look lump, but he no fool;
know more about pig than you or I, or any one ’twixt here and

He now asked me where I came from, and on my telling him from Bala, his
heart appeared to warm towards me, and saying that I must be tired, he
asked me to step in and drink buttermilk, but I declined his offer with
thanks, and bidding the two adieu returned to the road.

I hurried along and soon reached a valley which abounded with trees and
grass; I crossed a bridge over a brook, not what the old man had called
the Dyfi, but the stream whose source I had seen high up the bwlch, and
presently came to a place where the two waters joined.  Just below the
confluence on a fallen tree was seated a man decently dressed; his eyes
were fixed on the rushing stream.  I stopped and spoke to him.

He had no English, but I found him a very sensible man.  I talked to him
about the source of the Dyfi.  He said it was a disputed point which was
the source.  He himself was inclined to believe that it was the Pistyll
up the bwlch.  I asked him of what religion he was.  He said he was of
the Church of England, which was the Church of his father and his
grandfather, and which he believed to be the only true Church.  I
inquired if it flourished.  He said it did, but that it was dreadfully
persecuted by all classes of dissenters, who though they were continually
quarrelling with one another agreed in one thing namely to persecute the
Church.  I asked him if he ever read.  He said he read a great deal,
especially the works of Huw Morris, and that reading them had given him a
love for the sights of nature.  He added that his greatest delight was to
come to the place where he then was, of an evening, and look at the
waters and hills.  I asked him what trade he was.  “The trade of Joseph,”
said he smiling.  “Saer.  Farewell, brother,” said I; “I am not a
carpenter, but like you I read the works of Huw Morris and am of the
Church of England.”  I then shook him by the hand and departed.

I passed a village with a stupendous mountain just behind it to the
north, which I was told was called Moel Vrith or the party-coloured moel.
I was now drawing near to the western end of the valley.  Scenery of the
wildest and most picturesque description was rife and plentiful to a
degree: hills were here, hills were there; some tall and sharp, others
huge and humpy; hills were on every side; only a slight opening to the
west seemed to present itself.  “What a valley!” I exclaimed.  But on
passing through the opening I found myself in another, wilder and
stranger, if possible.  Full to the west was a long hill rising up like
the roof of a barn, a enormous round hill on its north-east side, and on
its south-east the tail of the range which I had long had on my
left—there were trees and groves and running waters, but all in deep
shadow, for night was now close at hand.

“What is the name of this place?” I shouted to a man on horseback, who
came dashing through a brook with a woman in a Welsh dress behind him.

“Aber Cowarch, Saxon!” said the man in a deep guttural voice, and lashing
his horse disappeared rapidly in the shades of night.

“Aber Cywarch!” I cried, springing half a yard into the air.  “Why that’s
the place where Ellis Wynn composed his immortal _Sleeping Bard_, the
book which I translated in the blessed days of my youth.  O no wonder
that the _Sleeping Bard_ is a wild and wondrous work, seeing that it was
composed amidst the wild and wonderful scenes which I here behold.”

I proceeded onwards up an ascent; after some time I came to a bridge
across a stream which a man told me was called Avon Gerres.  It runs into
the Dyfi, coming down with a rushing sound from a wild vale to the
north-east between the huge barn-like hill and Moel Vrith.  The barn-like
hill I was informed was called Pen Dyn.  I soon reached Dinas Mawddwy
which stands on the lower part of a high hill connected with the Pen Dyn.
Dinas, though at one time a place of considerable importance, if we may
judge from its name which signifies a fortified city, is at present
little more than a collection of filthy huts.  But though a dirty squalid
place, I found it anything but silent and deserted.  Fierce-looking
red-haired men, who seemed as if they might be descendants of the
red-haired banditti of old, were staggering about, and sounds of drunken
revelry echoed from the huts.  I subsequently learned that Dinas was the
head-quarters of miners, the neighbourhood abounding with mines both of
lead and stone.  I was glad to leave it behind me.  Mallwyd is to the
south of Dinas—the way to it is by a romantic gorge down which flows the
Royal Dyfi.  As I proceeded along this gorge the moon rising above Moel
Vrith illumined my path.  In about half-an-hour I found myself before the
inn at Mallwyd.


Inn at Mallwyd—A Dialogue—The _Cumro_.

I entered the inn and seeing a comely-looking damsel at the bar I told
her that I was in need of supper and a bed.  She conducted me into a neat
sanded parlour where a good fire was blazing and asked me what I would
have for supper.  “Whatever you can most readily provide,” said I; “I am
not particular.”  The maid retired, and taking off my hat, and
disencumbering myself of my satchel I sat down before the fire and fell
into a doze, in which I dreamed of some of the wild scenes through which
I had lately passed.

I dozed and dozed till I was roused by the maid touching me on the
shoulder and telling me that supper was ready.  I got up and perceived
that during my doze she had laid the cloth and put supper upon the table.
It consisted of bacon and eggs.  During supper I had some conversation
with the maid.

_Myself_.—Are you a native of this place?

_Maid_.—I am not, sir; I come from Dinas.

_Myself_.—Are your parents alive?

_Maid_.—My mother is alive, sir, but my father is dead.

_Myself_.—Where does your mother live?

_Maid_.—At Dinas, sir.

_Myself_.—How does she support herself?

_Maid_.—By letting lodgings to miners, sir.

_Myself_.—Are the miners quiet lodgers?

_Maid_.—Not always, sir; sometimes they get up at night and fight with
each other.

_Myself_.—What does your mother do on those occasions?

_Maid_.—She draws the quilt over her head, and says her prayers, sir.

_Myself_.—Why doesn’t she get up and part them?

_Maid_.—Lest she should get a punch or a thwack for her trouble, sir.

_Myself_.—Of what religion are the miners?

_Maid_.—They are Methodists, if they are anything; but they don’t trouble
their heads much about religion.

_Myself_.—Of what religion are you?

_Maid_.—I am of the Church, sir.

_Myself_.—Did you always belong to the Church?

_Maid_.—Not always.  When I was at Dinas I used to hear the preacher, but
since I have been here I have listened to the clergyman.

_Myself_.—Is the clergyman here a good man?

_Maid_.—A very good man indeed, sir.  He lives close by.  Shall I go and
tell him you want to speak to him?

_Myself_.—O dear me, no!  He can employ his time much more usefully than
in waiting upon me.

After supper I sat quiet for about an hour.  Then ringing the bell I
inquired of the maid whether there was a newspaper in the house.  She
told me there was not, but that she thought she could procure me one.  In
a little time she brought me a newspaper, which she said she had borrowed
at the parsonage.  It was the _Cumro_, an excellent Welsh journal written
in the interest of the Church.  In perusing its columns I passed a couple
of hours very agreeably, and then went to bed.


Mallwydd and its Church—Sons of Shoemakers—Village Inn—Dottings.

The next day was the thirty-first of October, and was rather fine for the
season.  As I did not intend to journey farther this day than
Machynlleth, a principal town in Montgomeryshire, distant only twelve
miles, I did not start from Mallwyd till just before noon.

Mallwyd is a small but pretty village.  The church is a long edifice
standing on a slight elevation on the left of the road.  Its pulpit is
illustrious from having for many years been occupied by one of the very
celebrated men of Wales, namely Doctor John Davies, author of the great
Welsh and Latin dictionary, an imperishable work.  An immense yew tree
grows in the churchyard, and partly overshadows the road with its
branches.  The parsonage stands about a hundred yards to the south near a
grove of firs.  The village is overhung on the north by the mountains of
the Arran range, from which it is separated by the murmuring Dyfi.  To
the south for many miles the country is not mountainous, but presents a
pleasant variety of hill and dale.

After leaving the village a little way behind me I turned round to take a
last view of the wonderful region from which I had emerged on the
previous evening.  Forming the two sides of the pass down which comes
“the royal river” stood the Dinas mountain and Cefn Coch, the first on
the left, and the other on the right.  Behind, forming the background of
the pass, appearing, though now some miles distant, almost in my close
proximity, stood Pen Dyn.  This hill has various names, but the one which
I have noted here, and which signifies the head of a man, perhaps
describes it best.  From where I looked at it on that last day of October
it was certainly like an enormous head, and put me in mind of the head of
Mambrino mentioned in the master work which commemorates the achievements
of the Manchegan knight.  This mighty mountain is the birth-place of more
than one river.  If the Gerres issues from its eastern side, from its
western springs the Maw that singularly picturesque stream, which enters
the ocean at the place which the Saxons corruptly call Barmouth and the
Cumry with great propriety Aber Maw or the disemboguement of the Maw.

Just as I was about to pursue my journey, two boys came up, bound in the
same direction as myself.  One was a large boy, dressed in a waggoner’s
frock, the other was a little fellow, in a brown coat and yellowish
trowsers.  As we walked along together, I entered into conversation with
them.  They came from Dinas Mawddwy.  The large boy told me that he was
the son of a man who carted mwyn, or lead ore, and the little fellow that
he was the son of a shoemaker.  The latter was by far the cleverest, and
no wonder, for the sons of shoemakers are always clever, which assertion,
should anybody doubt, I beg him to attend the examinations at Cambridge,
at which he will find that in three cases out of four the senior
wranglers are the sons of shoemakers.  From this little chap I got a
great deal of information about Pen Dyn, every part of which he appeared
to have traversed.  He told me, amongst other things, that there was a
castle upon it.  Like a true son of a shoemaker, however, he was an arch
rogue.  Coming to a small house, with a garden attached to it, in which
there were apple-trees, he stopped, whilst I went on with the other boy,
and after a minute or two came running up with a couple of apples in his
hand.  “Where did you get those apples?” said I; “I hope you did not
steal them.”

He made no reply, but bit one, then making a wry face, he flung it away,
and so he served the other.  Presently afterwards, coming to a side lane,
the future senior wrangler—for a senior wrangler he is destined to be,
always provided he finds his way to Cambridge—darted down it like an
arrow, and disappeared.

I continued my way with the other lad, occasionally asking him questions
about the mines of Mawddwy.  The information, however, which I obtained
from him was next to nothing, for he appeared to be as heavy as the stuff
which his father carted.  At length we reached a village, forming a kind
of semicircle on a green, which looked something like a small English
common.  To the east were beautiful green hills; to the west the valley,
with the river running through it, beyond which rose other green hills,
yet more beautiful than the eastern ones.  I asked the lad the name of
the place, but I could not catch what he said, for his answer was merely
an indistinct mumble, and before I could question him again he left me,
without a word of salutation, and trudged away across the green.

Descending a hill, I came to a bridge, under which ran a beautiful river,
which came foaming down from a gulley between two of the eastern hills.
From a man whom I met I learned that the bridge was called Pont Coomb
Linau, and that the name of the village I had passed was Linau.  The
river carries an important tribute to the Dyfi—at least it did when I saw
it, though perhaps in summer it is little more than a dry water-course.

Half-an-hour’s walking brought me from this place to a small town, or
large village, with a church at the entrance, and the usual yew-tree in
the churchyard.  Seeing a kind of inn, I entered it, and was shown by a
lad-waiter into a large kitchen, in which were several people.  I had
told him in Welsh that I wanted some ale, and as he opened the door he
cried with a loud voice, “Cumro!” as much as to say, Mind what you say
before this chap, for he understands Cumraeg—that word was enough.  The
people, who were talking fast and eagerly as I made my appearance,
instantly became silent, and stared at me with most suspicious looks.  I
sat down, and when my ale was brought I took a hearty draught, and
observing that the company were still watching me suspiciously, and
maintaining the same suspicious silence, I determined to comport myself
in a manner which should, to a certain extent, afford them ground for
suspicion.  I therefore slowly and deliberately drew my note-book out of
my waistcoat pocket, unclasped it, took my pencil from the loops at the
side of the book, and forthwith began to dot down observations upon the
room and company, now looking to the left, now to the right, now aloft,
now alow, now skewing at an object, now leering at an individual, my eyes
half closed, and my mouth drawn considerably aside.  Here follow some of
my dottings:—

“A very comfortable kitchen with a chimney-corner on the south
side—immense grate and brilliant fire—large kettle hanging over it by a
chain attached to a transverse iron bar—a settle on the left-hand side of
the fire—seven fine large men near the fire—two upon the settle, two upon
chairs, one in the chimney-corner smoking a pipe, and two standing
up—table near the settle with glasses, amongst which is that of myself,
who sit nearly in the middle of the room a little way on the right-hand
side of the fire.

“The floor is of slate; a fine brindled greyhound lies before it on the
hearth, and a shepherd’s dog wanders about, occasionally going to the
door and scratching as if anxious to get out.  The company are dressed
mostly in the same fashion—brown coats, broad-brimmed hats, and yellowish
corduroy breeches with gaiters.  One who looks like a labouring man has a
white smock and a white hat, patched trowsers, and highlows covered with
gravel—one has a blue coat.

“There is a clock on the right-hand side of the kitchen; a warming-pan
hangs close by it on the projecting side of the chimney-corner.  On the
same side is a large rack containing many plates and dishes of
Staffordshire ware.  Let me not forget a pair of fire-irons which hang on
the right-hand side of the chimney-corner!”

I made a great many more dottings, which I shall not insert here.  During
the whole time I was dotting the most marvellous silence prevailed in the
room, broken only by the occasional scratching of the dog against the
inside of the door, the ticking of the clock, and the ruttling of the
smoker’s pipe in the chimney-corner.  After I had dotted to my heart’s
content I closed my book, put the pencil into the loops, then the book
into my pocket, drank what remained of my ale, got up, and, after another
look at the apartment and its furniture and a leer at the company,
departed from the house without ceremony, having paid for the ale when I
received it.  After walking some fifty yards down the street I turned
half round and beheld, as I knew I should, the whole company! at the door
staring after me.  I leered sideways at them for about half a minute, but
they stood my leer stoutly.  Suddenly I was inspired by a thought.
Turning round I confronted them, and pulling my note-book out of my
pocket, and seizing my pencil, I fell to dotting vigorously.  That was
too much for them.  As if struck by a panic, my quondam friends turned
round and bolted into the house; the rustic-looking man with the
smock-frock and gravelled highlows nearly falling down in his eagerness
to get in.

The name of the place where this adventure occurred was Cemmaes.


The Deaf Man—Funeral Procession—The Lone Family—The Welsh and their
Secrets—The Vale of the Dyfi—The Bright Moon.

A Little way from Cemmaes I saw a respectable-looking old man, like a
little farmer, to whom I said:

“How far to Machynlleth?”

Looking at me in a piteous manner in the face, he pointed to the side of
his head and said:

“Dim clywed.”

It was no longer no English, but no hearing.

Presently I met one yet more deaf.  A large procession of men came along
the road.  Some distance behind them was a band of women, and between the
two bands was a kind of bier, drawn by a horse, with plumes at each of
the four corners.  I took off my hat, and stood close against the hedge
on the right-hand side till the dead had passed me some way to its final

Crossed a river, which, like that on the other side of Cemmaes, streamed
down from a gully between two hills into the valley of the Dyfi.  Beyond
the bridge on the right-hand side of the road was a pretty cottage, just
as there was in the other locality.  A fine, tall woman stood at the
door, with a little child beside her.  I stopped and inquired in English
whose body it was that had just been borne by.

“That of a young man, sir, the son of a farmer, who lives a mile or so up
the road.”

_Myself_.—He seems to have plenty of friends.

_Woman_.—O yes, sir, the Welsh have plenty of friends both in life and

_Myself_.—An’t you Welsh, then?

_Woman_.—O no, sir, I am English, like yourself, as I suppose.

_Myself_.—Yes, I am English.  What part of England do you come from?

_Woman_.—Shropshire, sir.

_Myself_.—Is that little child yours?

_Woman_.—Yes, sir, it is my husband’s child and mine.

_Myself_.—I suppose your husband is Welsh?

_Woman_.—O no, sir, we are all English.

_Myself_.—And what is your husband?

_Woman_.—A little farmer, sir; he farms about forty acres under Mrs. —.

_Myself_.—Well, are you comfortable here?

_Woman_.—O dear me, no, sir! we are anything but comfortable.  Here we
are three poor lone creatures in a strange land, without a soul to speak
to but one another.  Every day of our lives we wish we had never left

_Myself_.—Why don’t you make friends amongst your neighbours?

_Woman_.—O, sir, the English cannot make friends amongst the Welsh.  The
Welsh won’t neighbour with them, or have anything to do with them, except
now and then in the way of business.

_Myself_.—I have occasionally found the Welsh very civil.

_Woman_.—O yes, sir, they can be civil enough to passers-by, especially
those who they think want nothing from them—but if you came and settled
amongst them you would find them, I’m afraid, quite the contrary.

_Myself_.—Would they be uncivil to me if I could speak Welsh?

_Woman_.—Most particularly, sir; the Welsh don’t like any strangers, but
least of all those who speak their language.

_Myself_.—Have you picked up anything of their language?

_Woman_.—Not a word, sir, nor my husband neither.  They take good care
that we shouldn’t pick up a word of their language.  I stood the other
day and listened whilst two women were talking just where you stand now,
in the hope of catching a word, and as soon as they saw me they passed to
the other side of the bridge, and began buzzing there.  My poor husband
took it into his head that he might possibly learn a word or two at the
public-house, so he went there, called for a jug of ale and a pipe, and
tried to make himself at home just as he might in England, but it
wouldn’t do.  The company instantly left off talking to one another, and
stared at him, and before he could finish his pot and pipe took
themselves off to a man, and then came the landlord, and asked him what
he meant by frightening away his customers.  So my poor husband came home
as pale as a sheet, and sitting down in a chair said, “Lord, have mercy
upon me!”

_Myself_.—Why are the Welsh afraid that strangers should pick up their

_Woman_.—Lest, perhaps, they should learn their secrets, sir!

_Myself_.—What secrets have they?

_Woman_.—The Lord above only knows, sir!

_Myself_.—Do you think they are hatching treason against Queen Victoria?

_Woman_.—O dear no, sir.

_Myself_.—Is there much murder going on amongst them?

_Woman_.—Nothing of the kind, sir.


_Woman_.—O no, sir!


_Woman_.—No, sir!

_Myself_.—Duck or hen stealing?

_Woman_.—Haven’t lost a duck or hen since I have been here, sir.

_Myself_.—Then what secrets can they possibly have?

_Woman_.—I don’t know, sir! perhaps none at all, or at most only a pack
of small nonsense, that nobody would give three farthings to know.
However, it is quite certain they are as jealous of strangers hearing
their discourse as if they were plotting gunpowder treason, or something

_Myself_.—Have you been long here?

_Woman_.—Only since last May, sir! and we hope to get away by next, and
return to our own country, where we shall have some one to speak to.

_Myself_.—Good bye!

_Woman_.—Good bye, sir, and thank you for your conversation; I haven’t
had such a treat of talk for many a weary day.

The Vale of the Dyfi became wider and more beautiful as I advanced.  The
river ran at the bottom amidst green and seemingly rich meadows.  The
hills on the farther side were cultivated a great way up, and various
neat farm-houses were scattered here and there on their sides.  At the
foot of one of the most picturesque of these hills stood a large white
village.  I wished very much to know its name, but saw no one of whom I
could inquire.  I proceeded for about a mile, and then perceiving a man
wheeling stones in a barrow for the repairing of the road, I thought I
would inquire of him.  I did so, but the village was then out of sight,
and though I pointed in its direction, and described its situation, I
could not get its name out of him.  At length I said hastily, “Can you
tell me your own name?”

“Dafydd Tibbot, sir,” said he.

“Tibbot, Tibbot,” said I; “why, you are a Frenchman.”

“Dearie me, sir,” said the man, looking very pleased, “am I indeed?”

“Yes, you are,” said I, rather repenting of my haste, and giving him
sixpence, I left him.

“I’d bet a trifle,” said I to myself, as I walked away, “that this poor
creature is the descendant of some desperate Norman Tibault who helped to
conquer Powisland under Roger de Montgomery, or Earl Baldwin.  How
striking that the proud old Norman names are at present only borne by
people in the lowest station.  Here’s a Tibbot, or Tibault, harrowing
stones on a Welsh road, and I have known a Mortimer munching poor cheese
and bread under a hedge on an English one.  How can we account for this
save by the supposition that the descendants of proud, cruel and violent
men—and who so proud, cruel and violent as the old Normans—are doomed by
God to come to the dogs?”

Came to Pont Velin Cerrig, the bridge of the mill of the Cerrig, a river
which comes foaming down from between two rocky hills.  This bridge is
about a mile from Machynlleth, at which place I arrived at about five
o’clock in the evening—a cool, bright moon shining upon me.  I put up at
the principal inn, which was of course called the Wynstay Arms.


Welsh Poems—Sessions Business—The Lawyer and his Client—The Court—The Two
Keepers—The Defence.

During supper I was waited upon by a brisk, buxom maid, who told me that
her name was Mary Evans.  The repast over, I ordered a glass of
whiskey-and-water, and when it was brought I asked the maid if she could
procure me some book to read.  She said she was not aware of any book in
the house which she could lay her hand on except one of her own, which if
I pleased she would lend me.  I begged her to do so.  Whereupon she went
out, and presently returned with a very small volume, which she laid on
the table and then retired.  After taking a sip of my whiskey-and-water,
I proceeded to examine it.  It turned out to be a volume of Welsh poems
entitled _Blodau Glyn Dyfi_, or, Flowers of Glyn Dyfi, by one Lewis
Meredith, whose poetical name is Lewis Clyn Dyfi.  The author indites his
preface from Cemmaes, June, 1852.  The best piece is called “Dyffryn
Dyfi”; and is descriptive of the scenery of the vale through which the
Dyfi runs.  It commences thus:

    “Heddychol ddyffryn tlws,”
    Peaceful, pretty vale,

and contains many lines breathing a spirit of genuine poetry.

The next day I did not get up till nine, having no journey before me, as
I intended to pass that day at Machynlleth.  When I went down to the
parlour I found another guest there, breakfasting.  He was a tall, burly,
and clever-looking man of about thirty-five.  As we breakfasted together
at the same table, we entered into conversation.  I learned from him that
he was an attorney from a town at some distance, and was come over to
Machynlleth to the petty sessions, to be held that day, in order to
defend a person accused of spearing a salmon in the river.  I asked him
who his client was.

“A farmer,” said he, “a tenant of Lord V—, who will probably preside over
the bench which will try the affair.”

“O,” said I, “a tenant spearing his landlord’s fish—that’s bad.”

“No,” said he, “the fish which he speared—that is, which he is accused of
spearing—did not belong to his landlord, but to another person; he hires
land of Lord V—, but the fishing of the river which runs through that
land belongs to Sir Watkin.”

“O, then,” said I, “supposing he did spear the salmon, I shan’t break my
heart if you get him off; do you think you shall?”

“I don’t know,” said he.  “There’s the evidence of two keepers against
him; one of whom I hope, however, to make appear a scoundrel, in whose
oath the slightest confidence is not to be placed.  I shouldn’t wonder if
I make my client appear a persecuted lamb.  The worst is, that he has the
character of being rather fond of fish—indeed, of having speared more
salmon than any other six individuals in the neighbourhood.”

“I really should like to see him,” said I; “what kind of person is he?
some fine, desperate-looking fellow, I suppose?”

“You will see him presently,” said the lawyer; “he is in the passage,
waiting till I call him in to take some instructions from him; and I
think I had better do so now, for I have breakfasted, and time is wearing

He then got up, took some papers out of a carpet bag, sat down, and after
glancing at them for a minute or two, went to the door and called to
somebody in Welsh to come in.  Forthwith in came a small, mean,
wizened-faced man of about sixty, dressed in a black coat and hat, drab
breeches and gaiters, and looking more like a decayed Methodist preacher
than a spearer of imperial salmon.

“Well,” said the attorney, “this is my client; what do you think of him?”

“He is rather a different person from what I had expected to see,” said
I; “but let us mind what we say, or we shall offend him.”

“Not we,” said the attorney; “that is, unless we speak Welsh, for he
understands not a word of any other language.”

Then sitting down at the farther table, he said to his client in Welsh:
“Now, Mr. So-and-so, have you learnt anything more about that first

The client bent down, and placing both his hands upon the table, began to
whisper in Welsh to his professional adviser.  Not wishing to hear any of
their conversation, I finished my breakfast as soon as possible, and left
the room.  Going into the inn-yard, I had a great deal of learned
discourse with an old ostler about the glanders in horses.  From the
inn-yard I went to my own private room, and made some dottings in my
notebook, and then went down again to the parlour, which I found
unoccupied.  After sitting some time before the fire, I got up, and
strolling out, presently came to a kind of market-place, in the middle of
which stood an old-fashioned-looking edifice supported on pillars.
Seeing a crowd standing round it, I asked what was the matter, and was
told that the magistrates were sitting in the town-hall above, and that a
grand poaching-case was about to be tried.  “I may as well go and hear
it,” said I.

Ascending a flight of steps, I found myself in the hall of justice, in
the presence of the magistrates, and amidst a great many people, amongst
whom I observed my friend the attorney and his client.  The magistrates
upon the whole were rather a fine body of men.  Lord V— was in the chair,
a highly-intelligent-looking person, with fresh complexion, hooked nose,
and dark hair.  A policeman very civilly procured me a commodious seat.
I had scarcely taken possession of it when the poaching case was brought
forward.  The first witness against the accused was a fellow dressed in a
dirty snuff-coloured suit, with a debauched look, and having much the
appearance of a town shack.  He deposed that he was a hired keeper, and
went with another to watch the river at about four o’clock in the
morning; that they placed themselves behind a bush, and that a little
before daylight they saw the farmer drive some cattle across the river.
He was attended by a dog.  Suddenly they saw him put a spear upon a stick
which he had in his hand, run back to the river, and plunging the spear
in, after a struggle pull out a salmon; that they then ran forward, and
he himself asked the farmer what he was doing, whereupon the farmer flung
the salmon and spear into the river, and said that if he did not take
himself off he would fling him in too.  The attorney then got up, and
began to cross-question him.  “How long have you been a keeper?”

“About a fortnight.”

“What do you get a week?”

“Ten shillings.”

“Have you not lately been in London?”

“I have.”

“What induced you to go to London?”

“The hope of bettering my condition.”

“Were you not driven out of Machynlleth?”

“I was not.”

“Why did you leave London?”

“Because I could get no work, and my wife did not like the place.”

“Did you obtain possession of the salmon and the spear?”

“I did not.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“The pool was deep where the salmon was struck, and I was not going to
lose my life by going into it.”

“How deep was it?”

“Over the tops of the houses,” said the fellow, lifting up his hands.

The other keeper then came forward; he was brother to the former, but had
much more the appearance of a keeper, being rather a fine fellow and
dressed in a wholesome, well-worn suit of velveteen.  He had no English,
and what he said was translated by a sworn interpreter.  He gave the same
evidence as his brother about watching behind the bush, and seeing the
farmer strike a salmon.  When cross-questioned, however, he said that no
words passed between the farmer and his brother, at least, that he heard.
The evidence for the prosecution being given, my friend the attorney
entered upon the defence.  He said that he hoped the court were not going
to convict his client, one of the most respectable farmers in the county,
on the evidence of two such fellows as the keepers, one of whom was a
well-known bad one, who for his evil deeds had been driven from
Machynlleth to London, and from London back again to Machynlleth, and the
other, who was his brother, a fellow not much better, and who, moreover,
could not speak a word of English—the honest lawyer forgetting, no doubt,
that his own client had just as little English as the keeper.  He
repeated that he hoped the court would not convict his respectable client
on the evidence of these fellows, more especially as they flatly
contradicted each other in one material point, one saying that words had
passed between the farmer and himself, and the other that no words at all
had passed, and were unable to corroborate their testimony by anything
visible or tangible.  If his client speared the salmon, and then flung
the salmon with the spear sticking in its body into the pool, why didn’t
they go into the pool and recover the spear and salmon?  They might have
done so with perfect safety, there being an old proverb—he need not
repeat it—which would have secured them from drowning had the pool been
not merely over the tops of the houses, but over the tops of the
steeples.  But he would waive all the advantage which his client derived
from the evil character of the witnesses, the discrepancy of their
evidence, and their not producing the spear and salmon in court.  He
would rest the issue of the affair with confidence, on one argument, on
one question; it was this.  Would any man in his senses—and it was well
known that his client was a very sensible man—spear a salmon not his own,
when he saw two keepers close at hand watching him—staring at him?  Here
the chairman observed that there was no proof that he saw them—that they
were behind a bush.  But my friend the attorney very properly, having the
interest of his client and his own character for consistency in view,
stuck to what he had said, and insisted that the farmer must have seen
them, and he went on reiterating that he must have seen them,
notwithstanding that several magistrates shook their heads.

Just as he was about to sit down, I moved up behind him and whispered,
“Why don’t you mention the dog?  Wouldn’t the dog have been likely to
have scented the fellows out, even if they had been behind the bush.”

He looked at me for a moment, and then said with a kind of sigh, “No, no!
twenty dogs would be of no use here.  It’s no go—I shall leave the case
as it is.”

The court was cleared for a time, and when the audience were again
admitted, Lord V— said that the Bench found the prisoner guilty; that
they had taken into consideration what his counsel had said in his
defence, but that they could come to no other conclusion, more especially
as the accused was known to have been frequently guilty of similar
offences.  They fined him four pounds, including costs.

As the people were going out I said to the farmer in Welsh, “A bad affair

“Drwg iawn—very bad indeed,” he replied.

“Did those fellows speak truth?” said I.

“Nage—Dim ond celwydd—not they! nothing but lies.”

“Dear me!” said I to myself, “what an ill-treated individual!”


Machynlleth—Remarkable Events—Ode to Glendower—Dafydd Gam—Lawdden’s

Machynlleth, pronounced Machuncleth, is one of the principal towns of the
district which the English call Montgomeryshire, and the Welsh Shire
Trefaldwyn, or the Shire of Baldwin’s town; Trefaldwyn, or the town of
Baldwin, being the Welsh name for the town which is generally termed
Montgomery.  It is situated in nearly the centre of the valley of the
Dyfi, amidst pleasant green meadows, having to the north the river, from
which, however, it is separated by a gentle hill.  It possesses a stately
church, parts of which are of considerable antiquity, and one or two good
streets.  It is a thoroughly Welsh town, and the inhabitants, who amount
in number to about four thousand, speak the ancient British language with
considerable purity.

Machynlleth has been the scene of remarkable events, and is connected
with remarkable names, some of which have rung through the world.  At
Machynlleth in 1402 Owen Glendower, after several brilliant victories
over the English, held a parliament in a house which is yet to be seen in
the Eastern Street, and was formally crowned King of Wales; in his
retinue was the venerable bard Iolo Goch, who, imagining that he now saw
the old prophecy fulfilled, namely that a prince of the race of Cadwaladr
should rule the Britons, after emancipating them from the Saxon yoke,
greeted the chieftain with an ode to the following effect:—

    Here’s the life I’ve sigh’d for long:
    Abash’d is now the Saxon throng,
    And Britons have a British lord
    Whose emblem is the conquering sword;
    There’s none I trow but knows him well
    The hero of the watery dell,
    Owain of bloody spear in field,
    Owain his country’s strongest shield;
    A sovereign bright in grandeur drest,
    Whose frown affrights the bravest breast.
    Let from the world upsoar on high
    A voice of splendid prophecy!
    All praise to him who forth doth stand
    To ’venge his injured native land!
    Of him, of him a lay I’ll frame
    Shall bear through countless years his name:
    In him are blended portents three,
    Their glories blended sung shall be:
    There’s Owain meteor of the glen,
    The head of princely generous men;
    Owain the lord of trenchant steel,
    Who makes the hostile squadrons reel;
    Owain besides of warlike look,
    A conqueror who no stay will brook;
    Hail to the lion leader gay,
    Marshaller of Griffith’s war array;
    The scourger of the flattering race,
    For them a dagger has his face;
    Each traitor false he loves to smite,
    A lion is he for deeds of might;
    Soon may he tear, like lion grim,
    All the Lloegrians limb from limb!
    May God and Rome’s blest father high
    Deck him in surest panoply!
    Hail to the valiant carnager,
    Worthy three diadems to bear!
    Hail to the valley’s belted king!
    Hail to the widely conquering,
    The liberal, hospitable, kind,
    Trusty and keen as steel refined!
    Vigorous of form he nations bows,
    Whilst from his breast-plate bounty flows.
    Of Horsa’s seed on hill and plain
    Four hundred thousand he has slain.
    The cope-stone of our nation’s he,
    In him our weal, our all we see;
    Though calm he looks his plans when breeding,
    Yet oaks he’d break his clans when leading.
    Hail to this partisan of war,
    This bursting meteor flaming far!
    Where’er he wends Saint Peter guard him,
    And may the Lord five lives award him!

To Machynlleth on the occasion of the parliament came Dafydd Gam, so
celebrated in after time; not, however, with the view of entering into
the counsels of Glendower, or of doing him homage, but of assassinating
him.  This man, whose surname Gam signifies crooked, was a petty
chieftain of Breconshire.  He was small of stature, and deformed in
person, though possessed of great strength.  He was very sensitive of
injury, though quite as alive to kindness; a thorough-going enemy and a
thorough-going friend.  In the earlier part of his life he had been
driven from his own country for killing a man, called Big Richard of
Slwch, in the High Street of Aber Honddu, or Brecon, and had found refuge
in England, and kind treatment in the house of John of Gaunt, for whose
son Henry, generally called Bolingbroke, he formed one of his violent
friendships.  Bolingbroke, on becoming King Henry the Fourth, not only
restored the crooked little Welshman to his possessions, but gave him
employments of great trust and profit in Herefordshire.  The insurrection
of Glendower against Henry was quite sufficient to kindle against him the
deadly hatred of Dafydd, who swore “by the nails of God” that he would
stab his countryman for daring to rebel against his friend King Henry,
the son of the man who had received him in his house and comforted him,
when his own countrymen were threatening his destruction.  He therefore
went to Machynlleth with the full intention of stabbing Glendower,
perfectly indifferent as to what might subsequently be his own fate.
Glendower, however, who had heard of his threat, caused him to be seized
and conducted in chains to a prison which he had in the mountains of
Sycharth.  Shortly afterwards, passing through Breconshire with his host,
he burnt Dafydd’s house, a fair edifice called the Cyrnigwen, situated on
a hillock, near the river Honddu, to the ground, and seeing one of Gam’s
dependents gazing mournfully on the smouldering ruins, he uttered the
following taunting englyn:—

    “Shouldst thou a little red man descry
       Asking about his dwelling fair,
    Tell him it under the bank doth lie,
       And its brow the mark of the coal doth bear.”

Dafydd remained confined till the fall of Glendower, shortly after which
event he followed Henry the Fifth to France, where he achieved that glory
which will for ever bloom, dying covered with wounds in the field of
Agincourt after saving the life of the king, to whom in the dreadest and
most critical moment of the fight he stuck closer than a brother, not
from any abstract feeling of loyalty, but from the consideration that
King Henry the Fifth was the son of King Henry the Fourth, who was the
son of the man who received and comforted him in his house, after his own
countrymen had hunted him from house and land.

Connected with Machynlleth is a name not so widely celebrated as those of
Glendower and Dafydd Gam, but well known to and cherished by the lovers
of Welsh song.  It is that of Lawdden, a Welsh bard in holy orders, who
officiated as priest at Machynlleth from 1440 to 1460.  But though
Machynlleth was his place of residence for many years, it was not the
place of his birth, Llychwr in Carmarthenshire being the spot where he
first saw the light.  He was an excellent poet, and displayed in his
compositions such elegance of language, and such a knowledge of prosody,
that it was customary long after his death, when any master-piece of
vocal song or eloquence was produced, to say that it bore the traces of
Lawdden’s hatchet.  At the request of Griffith ap Nicholas, a powerful
chieftain of South Wales, and a great patron of the muse, he drew up a
statute relating to poets and poetry, and at the great Eisteddfod, or
poetical congress, held at Carmarthen, in the year 1450, under the
auspices of Griffith, which was attended by the most celebrated bards of
the north and south, he officiated as judge in conjunction with the
chieftain upon the compositions of the bards who competed for the prize,
a little silver chair.  Not without reason, therefore, do the inhabitants
of Machynlleth consider the residence of such a man within their walls,
though at a far, bygone period, as conferring a lustre on their town, and
Lewis Meredith has probability on his side when, in his pretty poem on
Glen Dyfi, he says:—

    “Whilst fair Machynlleth decks thy quiet plain
    Conjoined with it shall Lawdden’s name remain.”


The Old Ostler—Directions—Church of England Man—The Deep Dingle—The Two
Women—The Cutty Pipe—Waen y Bwlch—The Deaf and Dumb—The Glazed Hat.

I rose on the morning of the 2nd of November intending to proceed to the
Devil’s Bridge, where I proposed halting a day or two in order that I
might have an opportunity of surveying the far-famed scenery of that
locality.  After paying my bill, I went into the yard to my friend the
old ostler, to make inquiries with respect to the road.

“What kind of road,” said I, “is it to the Devil’s Bridge?”

“There are two roads, sir, to the Pont y Gwr Drwg; which do you mean to

“Why do you call the Devil’s Bridge the Pont y Gwr Drwg, or the bridge of
the evil man?”

“That we may not bring a certain gentleman upon us, sir, who doesn’t like
to have his name taken in vain.”

“Is there much difference between the roads?”

“A great deal, sir; one is over the hills, and the other round by the

“Which is the shortest?”

“O that over the hills, sir; it is about twenty miles from here to the
Pont y Gwr Drwg over the hills, but more than twice that by the valleys.”

“Well, I suppose you would advise me to go by the hills.”

“Certainly, sir.  That is, if you wish to break your neck, or to sink in
a bog, or to lose your way, or perhaps, if night comes on, to meet the
Gwr Drwg himself taking a stroll.  But to talk soberly.  The way over the
hills is an awful road, and indeed for the greater part is no road at

“Well, I shall go by it.  Can’t you give me some directions?”

“I’ll do my best, sir; but I tell you again that the road is a horrible
one, and very hard to find.”

He then went with me to the gate of the inn, where he began to give me
directions, pointing to the south, and mentioning some names of places
through which I must pass, amongst which were Waen y Bwlch and Long
Bones; at length he mentioned Pont Erwyd, and said, “If you can but get
there you are all right, for from thence there is a very fair road to the
bridge of the evil man.  Though I dare say if you get to Pont Erwyd—and I
wish you may get there—you will have had enough of it, and will stay
there for the night, more especially as there is a good inn.”

Leaving Machynlleth, I ascended a steep hill which rises to the south of
it.  From the top of this hill there is a fine view of the town, the
river and the whole valley of Dyfi.  After stopping for a few minutes to
enjoy the prospect I went on.  The road at first was exceedingly good,
though up and down, and making frequent turnings.  The scenery was
beautiful to a degree, lofty hills were on either side clothed most
luxuriantly with trees of various kinds, but principally oaks.  “This is
really very pleasant,” said I, “but I suppose it is too good to last
long.”  However, I went on for a considerable way, the road neither
deteriorating nor the scenery decreasing in beauty; “surely I can’t be in
the right road,” said I; “I wish I had an opportunity of asking.”
Presently seeing an old man working with a spade in a field near a gate,
I stopped and said in Welsh, “Am I in the road to the Pont y Gwr Drwg?”
The old man looked at me for a moment, then shouldering his spade he came
up to the gate, and said in English, “In truth, sir, you are.”

“I was told that the road thither was a very bad one,” said I, “but this
is quite the contrary.”

“This road does not go much farther, sir,” said he; “it was made to
accommodate grand folks who live about here.”

“You speak very good English,” said I; “where did you get it?”

He looked pleased, and said that in his youth he had lived some years in

“Can you read?” said I.

“O yes,” said he, “both Welsh and English.”

“What have you read in Welsh?” said I.

“The Bible and Twm O’r Nant.”

“What pieces of Twm O’r Nant have you read?”

“I have read two of his interludes and his life.”

“And which do you like best—his life or his interludes.”

“O, I like his life best.”

“And what part of his life do you like best?”

“O, I like that part best where he gets the ship into the water at

“You have a good judgment,” said I; “his life is better than his
interludes, and the best part of his life is where he describes his
getting the ship into the water.  But do the Methodists about here in
general read Twm O’r Nant?”

“I don’t know,” said he; “I am no Methodist.”

“Do you belong to the Church?”

“I do.”

“And why do you belong to the Church?”

“Because I believe it is the best religion to get to heaven by.”

“I am much of your opinion,” said I.  “Are there many Church-people about

“Not many,” said he, “but more than when I was young.”

“How old are you?”


“You are not very old,” said I.

“Ain’t I? I only want one year of fulfilling my proper time on earth.”

“You take things very easily,” said I.

“Not so very easily, sir; I have often my quakings and fears, but then I
read my Bible, say my prayers, and find hope and comfort.”

“I really am very glad to have seen you,” said I; “and now can you tell
me the way to the bridge?”

“Not exactly, sir, for I have never been there, but you must follow this
road some way farther, and then bear away to the right along yon
hill”—and he pointed to a distant mountain.

I thanked him, and proceeded on my way.  I passed through a deep dingle,
and shortly afterwards came to the termination of the road; remembering,
however, the directions of the old man, I bore away to the right, making
for the distant mountain.  My course lay now over very broken ground,
where there was no path—at least that I could perceive.  I wandered on
for some time; at length, on turning round a bluff, I saw a lad tending a
small herd of bullocks.  “Am I in the road,” said I, “to the Pont y Gwr

“Nis gwn!  I don’t know,” said he sullenly.  “I am a hired servant, and
have only been here a little time.”

“Where’s the house,” said I, “where you serve?”

But as he made no answer I left him.  Some way further on I saw a house
on my left, a little way down the side of a deep dingle, which was partly
overhung with trees, and at the bottom of which a brook murmured.
Descending a steep path, I knocked at the door.  After a little time it
was opened, and two women appeared, one behind the other.  The first was
about sixty; she was very powerfully made, had stern grey eyes and harsh
features, and was dressed in the ancient Welsh female fashion, having a
kind of riding-habit of blue, and a high conical hat like that of the
Tyrol.  The other seemed about twenty years younger; she had dark
features, was dressed like the other, but had no hat.  I saluted the
first in English, and asked her the way to the Bridge.  Whereupon she
uttered a deep guttural “augh” and turned away her head, seemingly in
abhorrence.  I then spoke to her in Welsh, saying I was a foreign man—I
did not say a Saxon—was bound to the Devil’s Bridge, and wanted to know
the way.  The old woman surveyed me sternly for some time, then turned to
the other and said something, and the two began to talk to each other,
but in a low, buzzing tone, so that I could not distinguish a word.  In
about half-a-minute the eldest turned to me, and extending her arm, and
spreading out her five fingers wide, motioned to the side of the hill in
the direction which I had been following.

“If I go that way shall I get to the bridge of the evil man?” said I; but
got no other answer than a furious grimace and violent agitations of the
arm and fingers in the same direction.  I turned away, and scarcely had I
done so when the door was slammed to behind me with great force, and I
heard two “aughs,” one not quite so deep and abhorrent as the other,
probably proceeding from the throat of the younger female.

“Two regular Saxon-hating Welsh women,” said I, philosophically; “just
the same sort, no doubt, as those who played such pranks on the slain
bodies of the English soldiers, after the victory achieved by Glendower
over Mortimer on the Severn’s side.”

I proceeded in the direction indicated, winding round the side of the
hill, the same mountain which the old man had pointed out to me some time
before.  At length, on making a turn, I saw a very lofty mountain in the
far distance to the south-west, a hill right before me to the south, and
on my left a meadow overhung by the southern hill, in the middle of which
stood a house, from which proceeded a violent barking of dogs.  I would
fain have made immediately up to it for the purpose of inquiring my way,
but saw no means of doing so, a high precipitous bank lying between it
and me.  I went forward and ascended the side of the hill before me, and
presently came to a path running east and west.  I followed it a little
way towards the east.  I was now just above the house, and saw some
children and some dogs standing beside it.  Suddenly I found myself close
to a man who stood in a hollow part of the road from which a narrow path
led down to the house; a donkey with panniers stood beside him.  He was
about fifty years of age, with a carbuncled countenance, high but narrow
forehead, grey eyebrows, and small, malignant grey eyes.  He had a white
hat with narrow eaves, and the crown partly knocked out, a torn blue
coat, corduroy breeches, long stockings and high-lows.  He was sucking a
cutty pipe, but seemed unable to extract any smoke from it.  He had all
the appearance of a vagabond, and of a rather dangerous vagabond.  I
nodded to him, and asked him in Welsh the name of the place.  He glared
at me malignantly, then taking the pipe out of his mouth, said that he
did not know, that he had been down below to inquire and light his pipe,
but could get neither light nor answer from the children.  I asked him
where he came from, but he evaded the question by asking where I was
going to.

“To the Pont y Gwr Drwg,” said I.

He then asked me if I was an Englishman.

“O yes!” said I, “I am Carn Sais;” whereupon with a strange mixture in
his face of malignity and contempt, he answered in English that he didn’t
understand me.

“You understood me very well,” said I, without changing my language,
“till I told you I was an Englishman.  Harkee, man with the broken hat,
you are one of the bad Welsh, who don’t like the English to know the
language, lest they should discover your lies and rogueries.”  He
evidently understood what I said, for he gnashed his teeth though he said
nothing.  “Well,” said I, “I shall go down to those children and inquire
the name of the house,” and I forthwith began to descend the path, the
fellow uttering a contemptuous “humph” behind me, as much as to say, much
you’ll make out down there.  I soon reached the bottom, and advanced
towards the house.  The dogs had all along been barking violently; as I
drew near to them, however, they ceased, and two of the largest came
forward wagging their tails.  “The dogs were not barking at me,” said I,
“but at that vagabond above.”  I went up to the children; they were four
in number, two boys and two girls, all red-haired, but tolerably
good-looking.  They had neither shoes nor stockings.  “What is the name
of this house?” said I to the eldest, a boy about seven years old.  He
looked at me, but made no answer.  I repeated my question; still there
was no answer, but methought I heard a humph of triumph from the hill.
“Don’t crow quite yet, old chap,” thought I to myself, and putting my
hand into my pocket, I took out a penny; and offering it to the child,
said, “Now, small man, Peth wy y enw y lle hwn?”  Instantly the boy’s
face became intelligent, and putting out the fat little hand, he took the
ceiniog, and said in an audible whisper, “Waen y Bwlch.”  “I am all
right,” said I to myself, “that is one of the names of the places which
the old ostler said I must go through.”  Then addressing myself to the
child, I said, “Where’s your father and mother?”

“Out on the hill,” whispered the child.

“What’s your father?”

“A shepherd.”

“Good,” said I.  “Now can you tell me the way to the bridge of the evil
man?”  But the features became blank, the finger was put to the mouth,
and the head was hung down.  That question was evidently beyond the
child’s capacity.  “Thank you!” said I, and turning round, I regained the
path on the top of the bank.  The fellow and his donkey were still there.
“I had no difficulty,” said I, “in obtaining information; the place’s
name is Waen y Bwlch.  But oes genoch dim Cumraeg—you have no Welsh.”
Thereupon I proceeded along the path in the direction of the east.
Forthwith the fellow said something to his animal, and both came
following fast behind.  I quickened my pace, but the fellow and his beast
were close in my rear.  Presently I came to a place where another path
branched off to the south.  I stopped, looked at it, and then went on,
but scarcely had done so when I heard another exulting “humph” behind.
“I am going wrong,” said I to myself; “that other path is the way to the
Devil’s Bridge, and the scamp knows it, or he would not have grunted.”
Forthwith I faced round, and brushing past the fellow without a word
turned into the other path and hurried along it.  By a side glance which
I cast I could see him staring after me; presently, however, he uttered a
sound very much like a Welsh curse, and kicking his beast proceeded on
his way, and I saw no more of him.  In a little time I came to a slough
which crossed the path.  I did not like the look of it at all; and to
avoid it ventured upon some green mossy-looking ground to the left, and
had scarcely done so when I found myself immersed to the knees in a bog.
I, however, pushed forward, and with some difficulty got to the path on
the other side of the slough.  I followed the path, and in about
half-an-hour saw what appeared to be houses at a distance.  “God grant
that I may be drawing near some inhabited place,” said I.  The path now
grew very miry, and there were pools of water on either side.  I moved
along slowly.  At length I came to a place where some men were busy in
erecting a kind of building.  I went up to the nearest and asked him the
name of the place.  He had a crow-bar in his hand, was half-naked, had a
wry mouth and only one eye.  He made me no answer, but moved and gibbered
at me.

“For God’s sake,” said I, “don’t do so, but tell me where I am!”  He
still uttered no word, but mowed and gibbered yet more frightfully than
before.  As I stood staring at him another man came to me and said in
broken English, “It is of no use speaking to him, sir, he is deaf and

“I am glad he is no worse,” said I, “for I really thought he was
possessed with the evil one.  My good person, can you tell me the name of
this place?”

“Esgyrn Hirion, sir,” said he.

“Esgyrn Hirion,” said I to myself; “Esgyrn means bones, and Hirion means
long.  I am doubtless at the place which the old ostler called Long
Bones.  I shouldn’t wonder if I get to the Devil’s Bridge to-night after
all.”  I then asked the man if he could tell me the way to the bridge of
the evil man, but he shook his head and said that he had never heard of
such a place, adding, however, that he would go with me to one of the
overseers, who could perhaps direct me.  He then proceeded towards a row
of buildings, which were in fact those objects which I had guessed to be
houses in the distance.  He led me to a corner house, at the door of
which stood a middle-aged man, dressed in a grey coat, and saying to me,
“This person is an overseer,” returned to his labour.  I went up to the
man, and saluting him in English, asked whether he could direct me to the
devil’s bridge, or rather to Pont Erwyd.

“It would be of no use directing you, sir,” said he, “for with all the
directions in the world it would be impossible for you to find the way.
You would not have left these premises five minutes before you would be
in a maze, without knowing which way to turn.  Where do you come from?”

“From Machynlleth,” I replied.

“From Machynlleth!” said he.  “Well, I only wonder you ever got here, but
it would be madness to go further alone.”

“Well,” said I, “can I obtain a guide?”

“I really don’t know,” said he; “I am afraid all the men are engaged.”

As we were speaking a young man made his appearance at the door from the
interior of the house.  He was dressed in a brown short coat, had a
glazed hat on his head, and had a pale but very intelligent countenance.

“What is the matter?” said he to the other man.

“This gentleman,” replied the latter, “is going to Pont Erwyd, and wants
a guide.”

“Well,” said the young man, “we must find him one.  It will never do to
let him go by himself.”

“If you can find me a guide,” said I, “I shall be happy to pay him for
his trouble.”

“O, you can do as you please about that,” said the young man; “but, pay
or not, we would never suffer you to leave this place without a guide,
and as much for our own sake as yours, for the directors of the company
would never forgive us if they heard we had suffered a gentleman to leave
these premises without a guide, more especially if he were lost, as it is
a hundred to one you would be if you went by yourself.”

“Pray,” said I, “what company is this, the directors of which are so
solicitous about the safety of strangers?”

“The Potosi Mining Company,” said he, “the richest in all Wales.  But
pray walk in and sit down, for you must be tired.”


The Mining Compting Room—Native of Aberystwyth—Story of a Bloodhound—The
Young Girls—The Miner’s Tale—Gwen Frwd—The Terfyn.

I followed the young man with the glazed hat into a room, the other man
following behind me.  He of the glazed hat made me sit down before a turf
fire, apologising for its smoking very much.  The room seemed half
compting room, half apartment.  There was a wooden desk with a ledger
upon it by the window which looked to the west, and a camp bedstead
extended from the southern wall nearly up to the desk.  After I had sat
for about a minute the young man asked me if I would take any
refreshment.  I thanked him for his kind offer, which I declined, saying,
however, that if he would obtain me a guide I should feel much obliged.
He turned to the other man and told him to go and inquire whether there
was any one who would be willing to go.  The other nodded, and forthwith
went out.

“You think, then,” said I, “that I could not find the way by myself?”

“I am sure of it,” said he, “for even the people best acquainted with the
country frequently lose their way.  But I must tell you that if we do
find you a guide it will probably be one who has no English.”

“Never mind,” said I, “I have enough Welsh to hold a common discourse.”

A fine girl about fourteen now came in, and began bustling about.

“Who is this young lady?” said I.

“The daughter of a captain of a neighbouring mine,” said he; “she
frequently comes here with messages, and is always ready to do a turn
about the house, for she is very handy.”

“Has she any English?” said I.

“Not a word,” he replied.  “The young people of these hills have no
English, except they go abroad to learn it.”

“What hills are these?” said I.

“Part of the Plynlimmon range,” said he.

“Dear me,” said I, “am I near Plynlimmon?”

“Not very far from it,” said the young man, “and you will be nearer when
you reach Pont Erwyd.”

“Are you a native of these parts?” said I.

“I am not,” he replied.  “I am a native of Aberystwyth, a place on the
sea-coast about a dozen miles from here.”

“This seems to be a cold, bleak spot,” said I; “is it healthy?”

“I have reason to say so,” said he; “for I came here from Aberystwyth
about four months ago very unwell, and am now perfectly recovered.  I do
not believe there is a healthier spot in all Wales.”

We had some further discourse.  I mentioned to him the adventure which I
had on the hill with the fellow with the donkey.  The young man said that
he had no doubt that he was some prowling thief.

“The dogs of the shepherd’s house,” said I, “didn’t seem to like him, and
dogs generally know an evil customer.  A long time ago I chanced to be in
a posada, or inn, at Valladolid in Spain.  One hot summer’s afternoon I
was seated in a corridor which ran round a large, open court in the
middle of the inn; a fine yellow, three-parts-grown bloodhound was lying
on the ground beside me, with whom I had been playing a little time
before.  I was just about to fall asleep, when I heard a ‘hem’ at the
outward door of the posada, which was a long way below at the end of a
passage which communicated with the court.  Instantly the hound started
upon his legs, and with a loud yell, and with eyes flashing fire, ran
nearly round the corridor down a flight of steps and through the passage
to the gate.  There was then a dreadful noise, in which the cries of a
human being and the yells of the hound were blended.  I forthwith started
up and ran down, followed by several other guests who came rushing out of
their chambers round the corridor.  At the gate we saw a man on the
ground, and the hound trying to strangle him.  It was with the greatest
difficulty, and chiefly through the intervention of the master of the
dog, who happened to be present, that the animal could be made to quit
his hold.  The assailed person was a very powerful man, but had an evil
countenance, was badly dressed, and had neither hat, shoes nor stockings.
We raised him up and gave him wine, which he drank greedily, and
presently without saying a word disappeared.  The guests said they had no
doubt that he was a murderer flying from justice, and that the dog by his
instinct, even at a distance, knew him to be such.  The master said that
it was the first time the dog had ever attacked any one or shown the
slightest symptom of ferocity.  Not the least singular part of the matter
was, that the dog did not belong to the house, but to one of the guests
from a distant village; the creature therefore could not consider itself
the house’s guardian.”

I had scarcely finished my tale when the other man came in and said that
he had found a guide, a young man from Pont Erwyd, who would be glad of
such an opportunity to go and see his parents; that he was then dressing
himself and would shortly make his appearance.  In about twenty minutes
he did so.  He was a stout young fellow with a coarse blue coat, and
coarse white felt hat; he held a stick in his hand.  The kind young
book-keeper now advised us to set out without delay as the day was
drawing to a close, and the way was long.  I shook him by the hand, told
him that I should never forget his civility, and departed with the guide.

The fine young girl, whom I have already mentioned, and another about two
years younger, departed with us.  They were dressed in the graceful
female attire of old Wales.

We bore to the south down a descent, and came to some moory quaggy ground
intersected with watercourses.  The agility of the young girls surprised
me; they sprang over the water-courses, some of which were at least four
feet wide, with the ease and alacrity of fawns.  After a short time we
came to a road, which, however, we did not long reap the benefit of as it
only led to a mine.  Seeing a house on the top of a hill, I asked my
guide whose it was.

“Ty powdr,” said he, “a powder house,” by which I supposed he meant a
magazine of powder used for blasting in the mines.  He had not a word of

If the young girls were nimble with their feet, they were not less so
with their tongues, as they kept up an incessant gabble with each other
and with the guide.  I understood little of what they said, their
volubility preventing me from catching more than a few words.  After we
had gone about two miles and a half they darted away with surprising
swiftness down a hill towards a distant house, where as I learned from my
guide the father of the eldest lived.  We ascended a hill, passed between
two craggy elevations, and then wended to the south-east over a strange
miry place, in which I thought any one at night not acquainted with every
inch of the way would run imminent risk of perishing.  I entered into
conversation with my guide.  After a little time he asked me if I was a
Welshman.  I told him no.

“You could teach many a Welshman,” said he.

“Why do you think so?” said I.

“Because many of your words are quite above my comprehension,” said he.

“No great compliment,” thought I to myself, but putting a good face upon
the matter, I told him that I knew a great many old Welsh words.

“Is Potosi an old Welsh word?” said he.

“No,” said I; “it is the name of a mine in the Deheubarth of America.”

“Is it a lead mine?”

“No!” said I; “it is a silver mine.”

“Then why do they call our mine, which is a lead mine, by the name of a
silver mine?”

“Because they wish to give people to understand,” said I, “that it is
very rich, as rich in lead as Potosi in silver.  Potosi is, or was, the
richest silver mine in the world, and from it has come at least one-half
of the silver which we use in the shape of money and other things.”

“Well,” said he, “I have frequently asked, but could never learn before,
why our mine was called Potosi.”

“You did not ask at the right quarter,” said I; “the young man with the
glazed hat could have told you as well as I.”  I inquired why the place
where the mine was bore the name of Esgyrn Hirion, or Long Bones.  He
told me that he did not know, but believed that the bones of a cawr, or
giant, had been found there in ancient times.  I asked him if the mine
was deep.

“Very deep,” he replied.

“Do you like the life of a miner?” said I.

“Very much,” said he, “and should like it more, but for the noises of the

“Do you mean the powder blasts?” said I.

“O no!” said he; “I care nothing for them, I mean the noises made by the
spirits of the hill in the mine.  Sometimes they make such noises as
frighten the poor fellow who works underground out of his senses.  Once
on a time I was working by myself very deep underground, in a little
chamber to which a very deep shaft led.  I had just taken up my light to
survey my work, when all of a sudden I heard a dreadful rushing noise, as
if an immense quantity of earth had come tumbling down.  ‘O God!’ said I,
and fell backwards, letting the light fall, which instantly went out.  I
thought the whole shaft had given way, and that I was buried alive.  I
lay for several hours half stupefied, thinking now and then what a
dreadful thing it was to be buried alive.  At length I thought I would
get up, go to the mouth of the shaft, feel the mould with which it was
choked up, and then come back, lie down and die.  So I got up and
tottered to the mouth of the shaft, put out my hand and felt—nothing.
All was clear.  I went forward and presently felt the ladder.  Nothing
had fallen; all was just the same as when I came down.  I was dreadfully
afraid that I should never be able to get up in the dark without breaking
my neck; however, I tried, and at last, with a great deal of toil and
danger, got to a place where other men were working.  The noise was
caused by the spirits of the hill in the hope of driving the miner out of
his senses.  They very nearly succeeded.  I shall never forget how I felt
when I thought I was buried alive.  If it were not for those noises in
the hill the life of a miner would be quite heaven below.”

We came to a cottage standing under a hillock, down the side of which
tumbled a streamlet close by the northern side of the building.  The door
was open, and inside were two or three females and some children.  “Have
you any enwyn?” said the lad, peeping in.

“O yes!” said a voice—“digon! digon!”  Presently a buxom laughing girl
brought out two dishes of buttermilk, one of which she handed to me and
the other to the guide.  I asked her the name of the place.

“Gwen Frwd: the Fair Rivulet,” said she.

“Who lives here?”

“A shepherd.”

“Have you any English?”

“Nagos!” said she, bursting into a loud laugh.  “What should we do with
English here?”  After we had drunk the buttermilk I offered the girl some
money, but she drew back her hand angrily, and said, “We don’t take money
from tired strangers for two drops of buttermilk; there’s plenty within,
and there are a thousand ewes on the hill.  Farvel!”

“Dear me!” thought I to myself as I walked away, “that I should once in
my days have found shepherd life something as poets have represented it!”

I saw a mighty mountain at a considerable distance on the right, the same
I believe which I had noted some hours before.  I inquired of my guide
whether it was Plynlimmon.

“O no!” said he, “that is Gaverse; Pumlimmon is to the left.”

“Plynlimmon is a famed hill,” said I; “I suppose it is very high.”

“Yes!” said he, “it is high, but it is not famed because it is high, but
because the three grand rivers of the world issue from its breast; the
Hafren, the Rheidol, and the Gwy.”

Night was now coming rapidly on, attended with a drizzling rain.  I
inquired if we were far from Pont Erwyd.  “About a mile,” said my guide;
“we shall soon be there.”  We quickened our pace.  After a little time he
asked me if I was going farther than Pont Erwyd.

“I am bound for the bridge of the evil man,” said I; “but I dare say I
shall stop at Pont Erwyd tonight.”

“You will do right,” said he; “it is only three miles from Pont Erwydd to
the bridge of the evil man, but I think we shall have a stormy night.”

“When I get to Pont Erwyd,” said I, “how far shall I be from South

“From South Wales!” said he; “you are in South Wales now; you passed the
Terfyn of North Wales a quarter of an hour ago.”

The rain now fell fast, and there was so thick a mist that I could only
see a few yards before me.  We descended into a valley, at the bottom of
which I heard a river roaring.

“That’s the Rheidol,” said my guide, “coming from Pumlimmon, swollen with

Without descending to the river we turned aside up a hill, and after
passing by a few huts came to a large house, which my guide told me was
the inn of Pont Erwyd.


Consequential Landlord—Cheek—Darfel Gatherel—Dafydd Nanmor—Sheep
Farms—Wholesome Advice—The Old Postman—The Plant de Bat—The Robber’s

My guide went to a side door, and opening it without ceremony, went in.
I followed, and found myself in a spacious and comfortable-looking
kitchen; a large fire blazed in a huge grate, on one side of which was a
settle; plenty of culinary utensils, both pewter and copper, hung around
on the walls, and several goodly rows of hams and sides of bacon were
suspended from the roof.  There were several people present, some on the
settle, and others on chairs in the vicinity of the fire.  As I advanced
a man arose from a chair and came towards me.  He was about thirty-five
years of age, well and strongly made, with a fresh complexion, a hawk
nose and a keen grey eye.  He wore top boots and breeches, a half-jockey
coat, and had a round cap made of the skin of some animal on his head.

“Servant, sir!” said he in rather a sharp tone, and surveying me with
something of a supercilious air.

“Your most obedient humble servant!” said I; “I presume you are the
landlord of this house.”

“Landlord!” said he, “landlord!  It is true I receive guests sometimes
into my house, but I do so solely with the view of accommodating them; I
do not depend upon innkeeping for a livelihood.  I hire the principal
part of the land in this neighbourhood.”

“If that be the case,” said I, “I had better continue my way to the
Devil’s Bridge; I am not at all tired, and I believe it is not very far

“O, as you are here,” said the farmer-landlord, “I hope you will stay.  I
should be very sorry if any gentleman should leave my house at night
after coming with an intention of staying, more especially in a night
like this.  Martha!” said he, turning to a female between thirty and
forty, who I subsequently learned was the mistress—“prepare the parlour
instantly for this gentleman, and don’t fail to make up a good fire.”

Martha forthwith hurried away, attended by a much younger female.

“Till your room is prepared, sir,” said he, “perhaps you will have no
objection to sit down before our fire?”

“Not in the least,” said I; “nothing gives me greater pleasure than to
sit before a kitchen fire.  First of all, however, I must settle with my
guide, and likewise see that he has something to eat and drink.”

“Shall I interpret for you?” said the landlord; “the lad has not a word
of English; I know him well.”

“I have not been under his guidance for the last three hours,” said I,
“without knowing that he cannot speak English; but I want no

“You do not mean to say, sir,” said the landlord, with a surprised and
dissatisfied air, “that you understand Welsh?”

I made no answer, but turning to the guide, thanked him for his kindness,
and giving him some money, asked him if that was enough.

“More than enough, sir,” said the lad; “I did not expect half as much.

He was then about to depart, but I prevented him, saying:

“You must not go till you have eaten and drunk.  What will you have?”

“Merely a cup of ale, sir,” said the lad.

“That won’t do,” said I; “you shall have bread and cheese and as much ale
as you can drink.  Pray,” said I to the landlord, “let this young man
have some bread and cheese and a large quart of ale.”

The landlord looked at me for a moment, then turning to the lad he said:

“What do you think of that, Shon?  It is some time since you had a quart
of ale to your own cheek.”

“Cheek,” said I, “cheek!  Is that a Welsh word?  Surely it is an
importation from the English, and not a very genteel one.”

“O come, sir!” said the landlord, “we can dispense with your criticisms.
A pretty thing indeed for you, on the strength of knowing half-a-dozen
words of Welsh, to set up for a Welsh critic in the house of a person who
knows the ancient British language perfectly.”

“Dear me!” said I, “how fortunate I am! a person thoroughly versed in the
ancient British language is what I have long wished to see.  Pray what is
the meaning of Darfel Gatherel?”

“O sir,” said the landlord, “you must answer that question yourself; I
don’t pretend to understand gibberish!”

“Darfel Gatherel,” said I, “is not gibberish; it was the name of the
great wooden image at Ty Dewi, or Saint David’s, in Pembrokeshire, to
which thousands of pilgrims in the days of popery used to repair for the
purpose of adoring it, and which at the time of the Reformation was sent
up to London as a curiosity, where it eventually served as firewood to
burn the monk Forrest upon, who was sentenced to the stake by Henry the
Eighth for denying his supremacy.  What I want to know is, the meaning of
the name, which I could never get explained, but which you who know the
ancient British language perfectly can doubtless interpret.”

“O sir,” said the landlord, “when I said I knew the British language
perfectly, I perhaps went too far; there are of course some obsolete
terms in the British tongue, which I don’t understand.  Dar, Dar—what is
it?  Darmod Cotterel amongst the rest, but to a general knowledge of the
Welsh language I think I may lay some pretensions; were I not well
acquainted with it I should not have carried off the prize at various
eisteddfodau, as I have done.  I am a poet, sir, a prydydd.”

“It is singular enough,” said I, “that the only two Welsh poets I have
seen have been innkeepers—one is yourself, the other a person I met in
Anglesey.  I suppose the Muse is fond of cwrw da.”

“You would fain be pleasant, sir,” said the landlord; “but I beg leave to
inform you that I am not fond of pleasantries; and now as my wife and the
servant are returned, I will have the pleasure of conducting you to the

“Before I go,” said I, “I should like to see my guide provided with what
I ordered.”  I stayed till the lad was accommodated with bread and cheese
and a foaming tankard of ale, and then bidding him farewell, I followed
the landlord into the parlour, where I found a fire kindled, which,
however, smoked exceedingly.  I asked my host what I could have for
supper, and was told that he did not know, but that if I would leave the
matter to him he would send the best he could.  As he was going away, I
said, “So you are a poet.  Well, I am very glad to hear it, for I have
been fond of Welsh poetry from my boyhood.  What kind of verse do you
employ in general?  Did you ever write an awdl in the four-and-twenty
measures?  What are the themes of your songs?  The deeds of the ancient
heroes of South Wales, I suppose, and the hospitality of the great men of
the neighbourhood who receive you as an honoured guest at their tables.
I’ll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be you never sang
anything in praise of your landlord’s housekeeping equal to what Dafydd
Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago:

    ‘For Ryce if hundred thousands plough’d,
    The lands around his fair abode;
    Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed,
    Still corn and wine great Ryce would need;
    If all the earth had bread’s sweet savour,
    And water all had cyder’s flavour,
    Three roaring feasts in Ryce’s hall
    Would swallow earth and ocean all.’


“Really, sir,” said the landlord, “I don’t know how to reply to you, for
the greater part of your discourse is utterly unintelligible to me.
Perhaps you are a better Welshman than myself; but however that may be, I
shall take the liberty of retiring in order to give orders about your

In about half-an-hour the supper made its appearance in the shape of some
bacon and eggs; on tasting them I found them very good, and calling for
some ale I made a very tolerable supper.  After the things had been
removed I drew near to the fire, but, as it still smoked, I soon betook
myself to the kitchen.  My guide had taken his departure, but the others
whom I had left were still there.  The landlord was talking in Welsh to a
man in a rough great-coat about sheep.  Setting myself down near the fire
I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, and then observing that the
landlord and his friend had suddenly become silent, I said, “Pray go on
with your discourse!  Don’t let me be any hindrance to you.”

“Yes, sir,” said the landlord snappishly, “go on with our discourse; for
your edification, I suppose?”

“Well,” said I, “suppose it is for my edification, surely you don’t
grudge a stranger a little edification which will cost you nothing?”

“I don’t know that, sir,” said the landlord; “I don’t know that.  Really,
sir, the kitchen is not the place for a gentleman.”

“Yes, it is,” said I, “provided the parlour smokes.  Come, come, I am
going to have a glass of whiskey-and-water; perhaps you will take one
with me.”

“Well, sir!” said the landlord in rather a softened tone, “I have no
objection to take a glass with you.”

Two glasses of whiskey-and-water were presently brought, and the landlord
and I drank to each other’s health.

“Is this a sheep district?” said I, after a pause of a minute or two.

“Yes, sir!” said the landlord; “it may to a certain extent be called a
sheep district.”

“I suppose the Southdown and Norfolk breeds would not do for these here
parts,” said I with a regular Norfolk whine.

“No, sir!  I don’t think they would exactly,” said the landlord, staring
at me.  “Do you know anything about sheep?”

“Plenty, plenty,” said I; “quite as much indeed as about Welsh words and
poetry.”  Then in a yet more whining tone than before, I said, “Do you
think that a body with money in his pocket could hire a comfortable sheep
farm hereabouts?”

“O sir!” said the landlord in a furious tone, “you have come to look out
for a farm, I see, and to outbid us poor Welshmen; it is on that account
you have studied Welsh; but, sir, I would have you know—”

“Come,” said I, “don’t be afraid; I wouldn’t have all the farms in your
country, provided you would tie them in a string and offer them to me.
If I talked about a farm it was because I am in the habit of talking
about everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting
to be so, which comes much to the same thing.  My real business in this
neighbourhood is to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery about it.”

“Very good, sir!” said the landlord; “I thought so at first.  A great
many English go to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery near it, though
I really don’t know why, for there is nothing so very particular in
either.  We have a bridge here too quite as good as the Devil’s Bridge;
and as for scenery, I’ll back the scenery about this house against
anything of the kind in the neighbourhood of the Devil’s Bridge.  Yet
everybody goes to the Devil’s Bridge and nobody comes here.”

“You might easily bring everybody here,” said I, “if you would but employ
your talent.  You should celebrate the wonders of your neighbourhood in
cowydds, and you would soon have plenty of visitors; but you don’t want
them, you know, and prefer to be without them.”

The landlord looked at me for a moment, then taking a sip of his
whiskey-and-water, he turned to the man with whom he had previously been
talking, and recommenced the discourse about sheep.  I made no doubt,
however, that I was a restraint upon them; they frequently glanced at me,
and soon fell to whispering.  At last both got up and left the room; the
landlord finishing his glass of whiskey-and-water before he went away.

“So you are going to the Devil’s Bridge, sir!” said an elderly man,
dressed in a grey coat with a broad-brimmed hat, who sat on the settle
smoking a pipe in company with another elderly man with a leather hat,
with whom I had heard him discourse, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in
English, the Welsh which he spoke being rather broken.

“Yes!” said I, “I am going to have a sight of the bridge and the
neighbouring scenery.”

“Well, sir, I don’t think you will be disappointed, for both are

“Are you a Welshman?” said I.

“No, sir!  I am not; I am an Englishman from Durham, which is the best
county in England.”

“So it is,” said I; “for some things, at any rate.  For example, where do
you find such beef as in Durham?”

“Ah, where indeed, sir?  I have always said that neither the Devonshire
nor the Lincolnshire beef is to be named in the same day with that of

“Well,” said I, “what business do you follow in these parts?  I suppose
you farm?”

“No, sir!  I do not; I am what they call a mining captain.”

“I suppose that gentleman,” said I, motioning to the man in the leather
hat, “is not from Durham?”

“No, sir, he is not; he is from the neighbourhood.”

“And does he follow mining?”

“No, sir, he does not; he carries about the letters.”

“Is your mine near this place?” said I.

“Not very, sir; it is nearer the Devil’s Bridge.”

“Why is the bridge called the Devil’s Bridge?” said I.

“Because, sir, ’tis said that the Devil built it in the old time, though
that I can hardly believe, for the Devil, do ye see, delights in nothing
but mischief, and it is not likely that such being the case he would have
built a thing which must have been of wonderful service to people by
enabling them to pass in safety over a dreadful gulf.”

“I have heard,” said the old postman with the leather hat, “that the
Devil had no hand in de work at all, but that it was built by a Mynach,
or monk, on which account de river over which de bridge is built is
called Afon y Mynach—dat is de Monk’s River.”

“Did you ever hear,” said I, “of three creatures who lived a long time
ago near the Devil’s Bridge called the Plant de Bat?”

“Ah, master!” said the old postman, “I do see that you have been in these
parts before; had you not you would not know of the Plant de Bat.”

“No,” said I, “I have never been here before; but I heard of them when I
was a boy from a Cumro who taught me Welsh, and had lived for some time
in these parts.  Well, what do they say here about the Plant de Bat? for
he who mentioned them to me could give me no further information about
them than that they were horrid creatures who lived in a cave near the
Devil’s Bridge several hundred years ago.”

“Well, master,” said the old postman, thrusting his forefinger twice or
thrice into the bowl of his pipe, “I will tell you what they says here
about the Plant de Bat.  In de old time two, three hundred year ago, a
man lived somewhere about here called Bat, or Bartholomew; this man had
three children, two boys and one girl, who, because their father’s name
was Bat, were generally called Plant de Bat, or Bat’s children.  Very
wicked children they were from their cradle, giving their father and
mother much trouble and uneasiness; no good in any one of them, neither
in the boys nor the girl.  Now the boys, once when they were rambling
idly about, lighted by chance upon a cave near the Devil’s Bridge.  Very
strange cave it was, with just one little hole at top to go in by.  So
the boys said to one another, ‘Nice cave this for thief to live in.
Suppose we come here when we are a little more big and turn thief
ourselves.’  Well, they waited till they were a little more big, and then
leaving their father’s house they came to de cave and turned thief, lying
snug there all day, and going out at night to rob upon the roads.  Well,
there was soon much talk in the country about the robberies which were
being committed, and people often went out in search of de thieves, but
all in vain; and no wonder, for they were in a cave very hard to light
upon, having as I said before merely one little hole at top to go in by.
So Bat’s boys went on swimmingly for a long time, lying snug in cave by
day and going out at night to rob, letting no one know where they were
but their sister, who was as bad as themselves, and used to come to them
and bring them food, and stay with them for weeks, and sometimes go out
and rob with them.  But as de pitcher which goes often to de well comes
home broke at last, so it happened with Bat’s children.  After robbing
people upon the roads by night many a long year and never being found
out, they at last met one great gentleman upon the roads by night, and
not only robbed but killed him, leaving his body all cut and gashed near
to Devil’s Bridge.  That job was the ruin of Plant de Bat, for the great
gentleman’s friends gathered together and hunted after his murderers with
dogs, and at length came to the cave, and going in found it stocked with
riches, and the Plant de Bat sitting upon the riches, not only the boys
but the girl also.  So they took out the riches and the Plant de Bat, and
the riches they did give to churches and spyttys, and the Plant de Bat
they did execute, hanging the boys and burning the girl.  That, master,
is what they says in dese parts about the Plant de Bat.”

“Thank you!” said I.  “Is the cave yet to be seen?”

“O yes! it is yet to be seen, or part of it, for it is not now what it
was, having been partly flung open to hinder other thieves from nestling
in it.  It is on the bank of the river Mynach, just before it joins the
Rheidol.  Many gentlefolk in de summer go to see the Plant de Bat’s

“Are you sure?” said I, “that Plant de Bat means Bat’s children?”

“I am not sure, master; I merely says what I have heard other people say.
I believe some says that it means the wicked children, or the Devil’s
children.  And now, master, we may as well have done with them, for
should you question me through the whole night I could tell you nothing
more about the Plant de Bat.”

After a little farther discourse, chiefly about sheep and the weather, I
retired to the parlour, where the fire was now burning brightly; seating
myself before it, I remained for a considerable time staring at the
embers and thinking over the events of the day.  At length I rang the
bell and begged to be shown to my chamber, where I soon sank to sleep,
lulled by the pattering of rain against the window and the sound of a
neighbouring cascade.


Wild Scenery—Awful Chasm—John Greaves—Durham County—Queen Philippa—The
Two Aldens—Welsh Wife—The Noblest Business—The Welsh and the Salve—The
Lad John.

A rainy and boisterous night was succeeded by a bright and beautiful
morning.  I arose, and having ordered breakfast, went forth to see what
kind of country I had got into.  I found myself amongst wild,
strange-looking hills, not, however, of any particular height.  The
house, which seemed to front the east, stood on the side of a hill on a
wide platform abutting on a deep and awful chasm, at the bottom of which
chafed and foamed the Rheidol.  This river enters the valley of Pont
Erwyd from the north-west, then makes a variety of snake-like turns, and
at last bears away to the south-east just below the inn.  The banks are
sheer walls from sixty to a hundred feet high, and the bed of the river
has all the appearance of a volcanic rent.  A brook running from the
south past the inn, tumbles into the chasm at an angle, and forms the
cascade whose sound had lulled me to sleep the preceding night.

After breakfasting, I paid my bill, and set out for the Devil’s Bridge
without seeing anything more of that remarkable personage in whom were
united landlord, farmer, poet, and mighty fine gentleman—the master of
the house.  I soon reached the bottom of the valley, where are a few
houses, and the bridge from which the place takes its name, Pont Erwyd
signifying the Bridge of Erwyd.  As I was looking over the bridge near
which are two or three small waterfalls, an elderly man in a grey coat,
followed by a young lad and dog, came down the road which I had myself
just descended.

“Good day, sir,” said he, stopping, when he came upon the bridge.  “I
suppose you are bound my road?”

“Ah,” said I, recognising the old mining captain with whom I had talked
in the kitchen the night before, “is it you?  I am glad to see you.  Yes!
I am bound your way, provided you are going to the Devil’s Bridge.”

“Then, sir, we can go together, for I am bound to my mine, which lies
only a little way t’other side of the Devil’s Bridge.”

Crossing the bridge of Erwyd, we directed our course to the south-east.

“What young man is that?” said I, “who is following behind us?”

“The young man, sir, is my son John, and the dog with him is his dog

“And what may your name be, if I may take the liberty of asking?”

“Greaves, sir; John Greaves from the county of Durham.”

“Ah! a capital county that,” said I.

“You like the county, sir!  God bless you!  John!” said he in a loud
voice, turning to the lad, “why don’t you offer to carry the gentleman’s

“Don’t let him trouble himself,” said I.  “As I was just now saying, a
capital county is Durham county.”

“You really had better let the boy carry your bag, sir.”

“No!” said I; “I would rather carry it myself.  I question upon the whole
whether there is a better county in England.”

“Is it long since your honour was in Durham county?”

“A good long time.  A matter of forty years.”

“Forty years! why that’s the life of a man.  That’s longer than I have
been out of the county myself.  I suppose your honour can’t remember much
about the county.”

“O yes I can, I remember a good deal.”

“Please your honour tell me what you remember about the county.  It would
do me good to hear it.”

“Well, I remember it was a very fine county in more respects than one.
One part of it was full of big hills and mountains, where there were
mines of coal and lead with mighty works with tall chimneys spouting out
black smoke, and engines roaring and big wheels going round, some turned
by steam, and others by what they called forces, that is brooks of water
dashing down steep channels.  Another part was a more level country with
beautiful woods, happy-looking farmhouses, well-filled fields and rich
glorious meadows, in which stood stately with brown sides and short horns
the Durham ox.”

“O dear, O dear!” said my companion.  “Ah, I see your honour knows
everything about Durham county.  Forces! none but one who had been in
Durham county would have used that word.  I haven’t heard it for
five-and-thirty years.  Forces! there was a force close to my village.  I
wonder if your honour has ever been in Durham city.”

“O yes!  I have been there.”

“Does your honour remember anything about Durham city?”

“O yes!  I remember a good deal about it.”

“Then, your honour, pray tell us what you remember about it—pray do!
perhaps it will do me good.”

“Well, then, I remember that it was a fine old city standing on a hill
with a river running under it, and that it had a fine old church, one of
the finest in the whole of Britain; likewise a fine old castle; and last,
not least, a capital old inn, where I got a capital dinner off roast
Durham beef, and a capital glass of ale, which I believe was the cause of
my being ever after fond of ale.”

“Dear me!  Ah, I see your honour knows all about Durham city.  And now
let me ask one question.  How came your honour to Durham city and county?
I don’t think your honour is a Durham man, either of town or field.”

“I am not; but when I was a little boy I passed through Durham county
with my mother and brother to a place called Scotland.”

“Scotland! a queer country that, your honour!”

“So it is,” said I; “a queerer country I never saw in all my life.”

“And a queer set of people, your honour.”

“So they are,” said I; “a queerer set of people than the Scotch you would
scarcely see in a summer’s day.”

“The Durham folks, neither of town or field, have much reason to speak
well of the Scotch, your honour.”

“I dare say not,” said I; “very few people have.”

“And yet the Durham folks, your honour, generally contrived to give them
as good as they brought.”

“That they did,” said I; “a pretty licking the Durham folks once gave the
Scots under the walls of Durham city, after the scamps had been
plundering the country for three weeks—a precious licking they gave them,
slaying I don’t know how many thousands, and taking their king prisoner.”

“So they did, your honour, and under the command of a woman too.”

“Very true,” said I; “Queen Philippa.”

“Just so, your honour! the idea that your honour should know so much
about Durham, both field and town!”

“Well,” said I, “since I have told you so much about Durham, perhaps you
will now tell me something about yourself.  How did you come here?”

“I had better begin from the beginning, your honour.  I was born in
Durham county close beside the Great Force, which no doubt your honour
has seen.  My father was a farmer and had a bit of a share in a mining
concern.  I was brought up from my childhood both to farming and mining
work, but most to mining, because, do you see, I took most pleasure in
it, being the more noble business of the two.  Shortly after I had come
to man’s estate my father died leaving me a decent little property,
whereupon I forsook farming altogether and gave myself up, body, soul and
capital, to mining, which at last I thoroughly understood in all its
branches.  Well, your honour, about five-and-thirty years ago, that was
when I was about twenty-eight, a cry went through the north country that
a great deal of money might be made by opening Wales, that is, by mining
in Wales in the proper fashion, which means the north-country fashion,
for there is no other fashion of mining good for much—there had long been
mines in Wales, but they had always been worked in a poor, weak, languid
manner, very different from that of the north country.  So a company was
formed, at the head of which were the Aldens, George and Thomas, for
opening Wales, and they purchased certain mines in these districts, which
they knew to be productive, and which might be made yet more so, and
settling down here called themselves the Rheidol United.  Well, after
they had been here a little time they found themselves in want of a man
to superintend their concerns, above all in the smelting department.  So
they thought of me, who was known to most of the mining gentry in the
north country, and they made a proposal to me through George Alden,
afterwards Sir George, to come here and superintend.  I said no, at
first, for I didn’t like the idea of leaving Durham county to come to
such an outlandish place as Wales; howsomever, I at last allowed myself
to be overpersuaded by George Alden, afterwards Sir George, and here I
came with my wife and family, for I must tell your honour I had married a
respectable young woman of Durham county, by whom I had two little
ones—here I came and did my best for the service of the Rheidol United.
The company was terribly set to it for a long time, spending a mint of
money and getting very poor returns.  To my certain knowledge the two
Aldens, George and Tom, spent between them thirty thousand pounds—the
company, however, persevered, chiefly at the instigation of the Aldens,
who were in the habit of saying ‘Never say die!’ and at last got the
better of all their difficulties and rolled in riches, and had the credit
of being the first company that ever opened Wales, which they richly
deserved, for I will uphold it that the Rheidol United, particularly the
Aldens, George and Thomas, were the first people who really opened Wales.
In their service I have been for five-and-thirty years, and dare say
shall continue so till I die.  I have been tolerably comfortable, your
honour, though I have had my griefs, the bitterest of which was the death
of my wife, which happened about eight years after I came to this
country.  I thought I should have gone wild at first, your honour!
Having, however, always plenty to do, I at last got the better of my
affliction.  I continued single till my English family grew up and left
me, when feeling myself rather lonely I married a decent young
Welshwoman, by whom I had one son, the lad John, who is following behind
with his dog Joe.  And now your honour knows the whole story of John
Greaves, miner from the county of Durham.”

“And a most entertaining and instructive history it is,” said I.  “You
have not told me, however, how you contrived to pick up Welsh: I heard
you speaking it last night with the postman.”

“Why, through my Welsh wife, your honour!  Without her I don’t think I
should ever have picked up the Welsh manner of discoursing—she is a good
kind of woman, my Welsh wife, though—”

“The loss of your Durham wife must have been a great grief to you,” said

“It was the bitterest grief, your honour, as I said before, that I ever
had—my next worst I think was the death of a dear friend.”

“Who was that?” said I.

“Who was it, your honour? why, the Duke of Newcastle.”

“Dear me!” said I; “how came you to know him?”

“Why, your honour, he lived at a place not far from here, called Hafod,
and so—”

“Hafod!” said I; “I have often heard of Hafod and its library; but I
thought it belonged to an old Welsh family called Johnes.”

“Well, so it did, your honour! but the family died away, and the estate
was put up for sale, and purchased by the Duke, who built a fine house
upon it, which he made his chief place of residence—the old family house,
I must tell your honour, in which the library was had been destroyed by
fire: well, he hadn’t been long settled there before he found me out and
took wonderfully to me, discoursing with me and consulting me about his
farming and improvements.  Many is the pleasant chat and discourse I have
had with his Grace for hours and hours together, for his Grace had not a
bit of pride, at least he never showed any to me, though, perhaps, the
reason of that was that we were both north-country people.  Lord!  I
would have laid down my life for his Grace and have done anything but one
which he once asked me to do: ‘Greaves,’ said the Duke to me one day, ‘I
wish you would give up mining and become my steward.’  ‘Sorry I can’t
oblige your Grace,’ said I; ‘but give up mining I cannot.  I will at any
time give your Grace all the advice I can about farming and such like,
but give up mining I cannot: because why?  I conceive mining to be the
noblest business in the ‘versal world.’  Whereupon his Grace laughed, and
said he dare say I was right, and never mentioned the subject again.”

“Was his Grace very fond of farming and improving?”

“O yes, your honour! like all the great gentry, especially the
north-country gentry, his Grace was wonderfully fond of farming and
improving—and a wonderful deal of good he did, reclaiming thousands of
acres of land which was before good for nothing, and building capital
farm-houses and offices for his tenants.  His grand feat, however, was
bringing the Durham bull into this country, which formed a capital cross
with the Welsh cows.  Pity that he wasn’t equally fortunate with the
north-country sheep.”

“Did he try to introduce them into Wales?”

“Yes; but they didn’t answer, as I knew they wouldn’t.  Says I to the
Duke, ‘It won’t do, your Grace, to bring the north-country sheep here:
because why? the hills are too wet and cold for their constitutions;’ but
his Grace, who had sometimes a will of his own, persisted and brought the
north-country sheep to these parts, and it turned out as I said: the
sheep caught the disease and the wool parted and—”

“But,” said I, “you should have told him about the salve made of bran,
butter and oil; you should have done that.”

“Well, so I did, your honour; I told him about the salve, and the Duke
listened to me, and the salve was made by these very hands; but when it
was made, what do you think? the foolish Welsh wouldn’t put it on, saying
that it was against their laws and statties and religion to use it, and
talked about Devil’s salves and the Witch of Endor, and the sin against
the Holy Ghost, and such-like nonsense.  So to prevent a regular
rebellion, the Duke gave up the salve and the poor sheep pined away and
died, till at last there was not one left.”

“Who holds the estate at present?” said I.

“Why, a great gentleman from Lancashire, your honour, who bought it when
the Duke died; but he doesn’t take the same pleasure in it which the Duke
did, nor spend so much money about it, the consequence being that
everything looks very different from what it looked in the Duke’s time.
The inn at the Devil’s Bridge and the grounds look very different from
what they looked in the Duke’s time, for you must know that the inn and
the grounds form part of the Hafod estate, and are hired from the

By this time we had arrived at a small village, with a toll-bar and a
small church or chapel at some little distance from the road, which here
made a turn nearly full south.  The road was very good, but the country
was wild and rugged; there was a deep vale on the right, at the bottom of
which rolled the Rheidol in its cleft, rising beyond which were steep,
naked hills.

“This village,” said my companion, “is called Ysbytty Cynfyn.  Down on
the right, past the church, is a strange bridge across the Rheidol, which
runs there through a horrid kind of a place.  The bridge is called Pont
yr Offeiriad, or the Parson’s Bridge, because in the old time the
clergyman passed over it every Sunday to do duty in the church here.”

“Why is this place called Ysbytty Cynfyn?” said I, “which means the
hospital of the first boundary; is there a hospital of the second
boundary near here?”

“I can’t say anything about boundaries, your honour; all I know is, that
there is another Spytty farther on beyond Hafod called Ysbytty Ystwyth,
or the ’Spytty upon the Ystwyth.  But to return to the matter of the
Minister’s Bridge: I would counsel your honour to go and see that bridge
before you leave these parts.  A vast number of gentry go to see it in
the summer time.  It was the bridge which the landlord was mentioning
last night, though it scarcely belongs to his district, being quite as
near the Devil’s Bridge inn, as it is to his own, your honour.”

We went on discoursing for about half-a-mile farther, when, stopping by a
road which branched off to the hills on the left, my companion said, “I
must now wish your honour good day, being obliged to go a little way up
here to a mining work on a small bit of business; my son, however, and
his dog Joe will show your honour the way to the Devil’s Bridge, as they
are bound to a place a little way past it.  I have now but one word to
say, which is, that should ever your honour please to visit me at my
mine, your honour shall receive every facility for inspecting the works,
and moreover have a bellyfull of drink and victuals from Jock Greaves,
miner from the county of Durham.”

I shook the honest fellow by the hand and went on in company with the lad
John and his dog as far as the Devil’s Bridge.  John was a highly
intelligent lad, spoke Welsh and English fluently, could read, as he told
me, both languages, and had some acquaintance with the writings of Twm
o’r Nant, as he showed by repeating the following lines of the carter
poet, certainly not the worst which he ever wrote:—

    “Twm o’r Nant mae cant a’m galw
    Tomas Edwards yw fy enw.

    Tom O Nant is a nickname I’ve got,
    My name’s Thomas Edwards, I wot.”


The Hospice—The Two Rivers—The Devil’s Bridge—Pleasant Recollections.

I arrived at the Devil’s Bridge at about eleven o’clock of a fine but
cold day, and took up my quarters at the inn, of which I was the sole
guest during the whole time that I continued there, for the inn, standing
in a lone, wild district, has very few guests except in summer, when it
is thronged with tourists, who avail themselves of that genial season to
view the wonders of Wales, of which the region close by is considered