Morning—A Cheerless Scene—The Carter—Ode to Glamorgan—Startling Halloo—One-sided Liberty—Clerical Profession—De Courcy—Love of the Drop—Independent Spirit—Another People.
I slept soundly through the night. At about eight o’clock on the following morning I got up and lookedout of the window of my room, which fronted the north. A strange scene presented itself: a roaring brook was foaming along towards the west, just under the window. Immediately beyond it was a bank, not of green turf, grey rock, or brown mould, but of coal rubbish, coke and cinders; on the top of this bank was a fellow performing some dirty office or other, with a spade and barrow; beyond him, on the side of a hill, was a tramway, up which a horse was straining, drawing a load of something towards the north-west. Beyond the tramway was a grove of yellow-looking firs; beyond the grove a range of white houses with blue roofs, occupied, I supposed, by miners and their families; and beyond these I caught a sight of the mountain on the top of which I had been the night before, only a partial one, however, as large masses of mist were still hanging about it. The morning was moist and dripping, and nothing could look more cheerless and uncomfortable than the entire scene.
I put on my things, which were still not half dry, and went down into the little parlour, where I found an excellent fire awaiting me, and a table spread for breakfast. The breakfast was delicious, consisting of excellent tea, buttered toast and Glamorgan sausages, which I really think are not a whit inferior to those of Epping. After breakfast I went into the kitchen, which was now only occupied by two or three people. Seeing a large brush on a dresser, I took it up, and was about to brush my nether habiliments, which were terribly bespattered with half-dried mire. Before, however, I could begin, up started one of the men, a wild shock-headed fellow dressed like a carter, in rough blue frieze coat, yellow broad corduroy trowsers, grey woollen stockings and highlows, and snatching the brush out of my hand, fell to brushing me most vigorously, purring and blowing all the time in a most tremendous manner. I did not refuse his services, but let him go on, and to reward him, as I thought, spoke kindly to him, asking him various questions. “Are you a carter?” said I. No answer. “One of Twm O’r Nant’s people?” No answer. “Famous fellow that Twm O’r Nant, wasn’t he? Did you ever hear how he got the great tree in at Carmarthen Gate? What is woodper foot at present? Whom do you cart for? Or are you your own master? If so, how many horses do you keep?”
To not one of these questions, nor to a dozen others which I put, both in English and Welsh, did my friend with the brush return any verbal answer, though I could occasionally hear a kind of stifled giggle proceeding from him. Having at length thoroughly brushed not only my clothes, but my boots and my hat, which last article he took from my head, and placed on again very dexterously, after brushing it, he put the brush down on the dresser, and then advancing to me made me a bow, and waving his forefinger backwards and forwards before my face, he said, with a broad grin: “Nice gentleman—will do anything for him but answer questions, and let him hear my discourse. Love to listen to his pleasant stories of foreign lands, ghosts and tylwith teg; but before him deem it wise to be mum, quite mum. Know what he comes about. Wants to hear discourse of poor man, that he may learn from it poor man’s little ways and invirmities, and mark them down in one small, little book to serve for fun to Lord Palmerston and the other great gentlefolks in London. Nice man, civil man, I don’t deny; and clebber man too, for he knows Welsh, and has been everywhere—but fox—old fox—lives at Plas y Cadno.”[570]
Having been informed that there was a considerable iron foundry close by, I thought it would be worth my while to go and see it. I entered the premises, and was standing and looking round, when a man with the appearance of a respectable mechanic came up and offered to show me over the place. I gladly accepted his offer, and he showed me all about the iron-foundry. I saw a large steam-engine at full play, terrible furnaces, and immense heaps of burning, crackling cinders, and a fiery stream of molten metal rolling along. After seeing what there was to be seen, I offered a piece of silver to my kind conductor, which he at once refused. On my asking him, however, to go to the inn and have a friendly glass, he smiled, and said he had no objection. So we went to the inn, and had two friendly glasses of whiskey-and-water together, and also somediscourse. I asked him if there were any English employed on the premises. “None,” said he, “nor Irish either; we are all Welsh.” Though he was a Welshman, his name was a very common English one.
After paying the reckoning, which only amounted to three and sixpence, I departed for Swansea, distant about thirteen miles. Gutter Vawr consists of one street, extending for some little way along the Swansea road, the foundry, and a number of huts and houses scattered here and there. The population is composed almost entirely of miners, the workers at the foundry, and their families. For the first two or three miles the country through which I passed did not at all prepossess me in favour of Glamorganshire: it consisted of low, sullen, peaty hills. Subsequently, however, it improved rapidly, becoming bold, wild, and pleasantly wooded. The aspect of the day improved, also, with the appearance of the country. When I first started the morning was wretched and drizzly, but in less than an hour it cleared up wonderfully, and the sun began to flash out. As I looked on the bright luminary I thought of Ab Gwilym’s ode to the sun and Glamorgan, and with breast heaving and with eyes full of tears, I began to repeat parts of it, or rather of a translation made in my happy boyish years:
“Each morn, benign of countenance,Upon Glamorgan’s pennon glance!Each afternoon in beauty clearAbove my own dear bounds appear!Bright outline of a blessed clime,Again, though sunk, arise sublime—Upon my errand, swift repair,And unto green Glamorgan bearGood days and terms of courtesyFrom my dear country and from me!Move round—but need I thee command?—Its chalk-white halls, which cheerful stand—Pleasant thy own pavilions too—Its fields and orchards fair to view.“O, pleasant is thy task and highIn radiant warmth to roam the sky,To keep from ill that kindly ground,Its meads and farms, where mead is found,A land whose commons live content,Where each man’s lot is excellent.Where hosts to hail thee shall upstand,Where lads are bold and lasses bland,A land I oft from hill that’s highHave gazed upon with raptur’d eye;Where maids are trained in virtue’s school,Where duteous wives spin dainty wool;A country with each gift supplied,Confronting Cornwall’s cliffs of pride.”
“Each morn, benign of countenance,Upon Glamorgan’s pennon glance!Each afternoon in beauty clearAbove my own dear bounds appear!Bright outline of a blessed clime,Again, though sunk, arise sublime—Upon my errand, swift repair,And unto green Glamorgan bearGood days and terms of courtesyFrom my dear country and from me!Move round—but need I thee command?—Its chalk-white halls, which cheerful stand—Pleasant thy own pavilions too—Its fields and orchards fair to view.
“O, pleasant is thy task and highIn radiant warmth to roam the sky,To keep from ill that kindly ground,Its meads and farms, where mead is found,A land whose commons live content,Where each man’s lot is excellent.Where hosts to hail thee shall upstand,Where lads are bold and lasses bland,A land I oft from hill that’s highHave gazed upon with raptur’d eye;Where maids are trained in virtue’s school,Where duteous wives spin dainty wool;A country with each gift supplied,Confronting Cornwall’s cliffs of pride.”
Came to Llanguick, a hamlet situated near a tremendous gorge, the sides of which were covered with wood. Thence to the village of Tawy Bridge, at the bottom of a beautiful valley, through which runs the Tawy, which, after the Taf, is the most considerable river in Glamorganshire. Continuing my course, I passed by an enormous edifice which stood on my right hand. It had huge chimneys, which were casting forth smoke, and from within I heard the noise of a steam-engine and the roar of furnaces.
“What place is this?” said I to a boy.
“Gwaith haiarn, sir; ym perthyn i Mr. Pearson. Mr. Pearson’s iron works, sir.”
I proceeded, and in about half-an-hour saw a man walking before me in the same direction in which I was. He was going very briskly, but I soon came up to him. He was a small, well-made fellow, with reddish hair and ruddy, determined countenance, somewhat tanned. He wore a straw hat, checkered shirt, open at the neck, canvas trowsers, and blue jacket. On his feet were shoes remarkably thin, but no stockings, and in his hand he held a stout stick, with which, just before I overtook him, he struck a round stone which lay on the ground, sending it flying at least fifty yards before him on the road, and following it in its flight with a wild and somewhat startling halloo.
“Good day, my friend,” said I; “you seem to be able to use a stick.”
“And sure I ought to be, your honour, seeing as how my father taught me, who was the best fighting man with a stick that the Shanavests ever had. Many is the head of a Caravaut that he has broken with some such an Alpeen wattle as the one I am carrying with me here.”
“A good thing,” said I, “that there are no OldWaistcoats and Cravats at present, at least bloody factions bearing those names.”
“Your honour thinks so! Faith! I am clane of a contrary opinion. I wish the ould Shanavests and Caravauts were fighting still; and I among them. Faith! there was some life in Ireland in their days.”
“And plenty of death too,” said I. “How fortunate it is that the Irish have the English among them, to prevent their cutting each other’s throats.”
“The English prevent the Irish from cutting each other’s throats! Well! if they do, it is only that they may have the pleasure of cutting them themselves. The bloody tyrants! too long has their foot been upon the neck of poor old Ireland.”
“How do the English tyrannise over Ireland?”
“How do they tyrannise over her? Don’t they prevent her from having the free exercise of her Catholic religion, and make her help to support their own Protestant one?”
“Well, and don’t the Roman Catholics prevent the Protestants from having the free exercise of their religion, whenever they happen to be the most numerous, and don’t they make them help to support the Roman Catholic religion?”
“Of course they do, and quite right. Had I my will there shouldn’t be a place of Protestant worship left standing, or a Protestant churl allowed to go about with a head unbroken.”
“Then why do you blame the Protestants for keeping the Romans a little under?”
“Why do I blame them? A purty question! Why, an’t they wrong, and an’t we right?”
“But they say that they are right and you wrong.”
“They say! who minds what they say? Havn’t we the word of the blessed Pope that we are right?”
“And they say that they have the word of the blessed Gospel that you are wrong.”
“The Gospel! who cares for the Gospel? Surely you are not going to compare the Gospel with the Pope?”
“Well, they certainly are not to be named in the same day.”
“They are not? Then good luck to you! We are both of the same opinion. Ah, I thought your honourwas a rale Catholic. Now, tell me from what kingdom of Ireland does your honour hail?”
“Why, I was partly educated in Munster.”
“In Munster! Hoorah! Here’s the hand of a countryman to your honour. Ah, it was asy to be seen from the learning which your honour shows, that your honour is from Munster. There’s no spot in Ireland like Munster for learning. What says the old song?
“‘Ulster for a soldierConnaught for a thief,Munster for learning,And Leinster for beef.’”
“‘Ulster for a soldierConnaught for a thief,Munster for learning,And Leinster for beef.’”
“Hoorah for learned Munster! and down with beggarly, thievish Connaught! I would that a Connaught man would come athwart me now, that I might break his thief’s head with my Alpeen.”
“You don’t seem to like the Connaught men,” said I.
“Like them! who can like them? a parcel of beggarly thievish blackguards. So your honour was edicated in Munster, I mane partly edicated. I suppose by your saying that you were partly edicated, that your honour was intended for the clerical profession, but being over fond of the drop was forced to lave college before your edication was quite completed, and so for want of a better profession took up with that of merchandise. Ah, the love of the drop at college has prevented many a clever young fellow from taking holy orders. Well, it’s a pity, but it can’t be helped. I am fond of a drop myself, and when we get to — shall be happy to offer your honour a glass of whiskey. I hope your honour and I shall splice the mainbrace together before we part.”
“I suppose,” said I, “by your talking of splicing the mainbrace that you are a sailor.”
“I am, your honour, and hail from the Cove of Cork in the kingdom of Munster.”
“I know it well,” said I. “It is the best sea-basin in the world. Well, how came you into these parts?”
“I’ll tell your honour; my ship is at Swansea, and having a relation working at the foundry behind us, I came to see him.”
“Are you in the royal service?”
“I am not, your honour; I was once in the royal service, but having a dispute with the boatswain at Spithead, I gave him a wipe, jumped overboard and swam ashore. After that I sailed for Cuba, got into the merchants’ service there and made several voyages to the Black Coast. At present I am in the service of the merchants of Cork.”
“I wonder that you are not now in the royal service,” said I, “since you are so fond of fighting. There is hot work going on at present up the Black Sea, and brave men, especially Irishmen, are in great request.”
“Yes, brave Irishmen are always in great request with England when she has a battle to fight. At other times they are left to lie in the mud with the chain round their necks. It has been so ever since the time of De Courcy, and I suppose always will be so, unless Irishmen all become of my mind, which is not likely. Were the Irish all of my mind, the English would find no Irish champion to fight their battles when the French or the Russians come to beard them.”
“By De Courcy,” said I, “you mean the man whom the King of England confined in the Tower of London after taking him from his barony in the county of Cork.”
“Of course, your honour, and whom he kept in the Tower till the King of France sent over a champion to insult and beard him, when the king was glad to take De Courcy out of the dungeon to fight the French champion, for divil a one of his own English fighting men dared take the Frenchman in hand.”
“A fine fellow that De Courcy,” said I.
“Rather too fond of the drop though, like your honour and myself, for after he had caused the French champion to flee back into France he lost the greater part of the reward which the King of England promised him solely by making too free with the strong drink. Does your honour remember that part of the story?”
“I think I do,” said I, “but I should be very glad to hear you relate it.”
“Then your honour shall. Right glad was the Kingof England when the French champion fled back to France, for no sooner did the dirty spalpeen hear that they were going to bring De Courcy against him, the fame of whose strength and courage filled the whole world, than he betook himself back to his own country and was never heard of more. Right glad, I say, was the King of England, and gave leave to De Courcy to return to Ireland, ‘And you shall have,’ said he, ‘of the barony which I took from you all that you can ride round on the first day of your return.’ So De Courcy betook himself to Ireland and to his barony, but he was anything but a lucky man, this De Courcy, for his friends and relations and tenantry, hearing of his coming, prepared a grand festival for him with all kinds of illigant viands and powerful liquors, and when he arrived there it was waiting for him, and down to it he sat, and ate and drank, and for joy of seeing himself once more amongst his friends and tenantry in the hall of his forefathers and for love of the drop, which he always had, he drank of the powerful liquors more than he ought, and the upshot was that he became drunk, agus do bhi an duine maith sin misgeadh do ceathar o glog; the good gentleman was drunk till four o’clock, and when he awoke he found that he had but two hours of day remaining to win back his brave barony. However, he did not lose heart, but mounted his horse and set off riding as fast as a man just partly recovered from intoxication could be expected to do, and he contrived to ride round four parishes, and only four, and these four parishes were all that he recovered of his brave barony, and all that he had to live upon till his dying day, and all that he had to leave to his descendants, so that De Courcy could scarcely be called a very lucky man, after all.”
Shortly after my friend the sailor had concluded his account of De Courcy we arrived in the vicinity of a small town or rather considerable village. It stood on the right-hand side of the road, fronting the east, having a high romantic hill behind it on the sides of which were woods, groves, and pleasant-looking white houses.
“What place is this?” said I to my companion.
“This is —, your honour; and here, if your honourwill accept a glass of whiskey we will splice the mainbrace together.”
“Thank you,” said I; “but I am in haste to get to Swansea. Moreover, if I am over fond of the drop, as you say I am, the sooner I begin to practise abstinence the better.”
“Very true, your honour! Well, at any rate, when your honour gets to Swansea you will not be able to say that Pat Flannagan walked for miles with your honour along the road without offering your honour a glass of whiskey.”
“Nor shall Pat Flannagan be able to say the same thing of my honour. I have a shilling in my pocket at Pat Flannagan’s service, if he chooses to splice with it the mainbrace for himself and for me.”
“Thank your honour; but I have a shilling in my own pocket, and a dollar too, and a five-pound note besides; so I needn’t be beholden for drink money to anybody under the sun.”
“Well then, farewell! Here’s my hand!—Slan leat a Phatraic ui Flannagan!”
“Slan leat a dhuine-uasail!” said Patrick, giving me his hand; “and health, hope and happiness to ye.”
Thereupon he turned aside to —, and I continued my way to Swansea. Arrived at a place called Glandwr, about two miles from Swansea, I found that I was splashed from top to toe, for the roads were frightfully miry, and was sorry to perceive that my boots had given way at the soles, large pieces of which were sticking out. I must, however, do the poor things the justice to say that it was no wonder that they were in this dilapidated condition, for in those boots I had walked at least two hundred miles, over all kinds of paths, since I had got them soled at Llangollen. “Well,” said I to myself, “it won’t do to show myself at Swansea in this condition, more especially as I shall go to the best hotel; I must try and get myself made a little decent here.” Seeing a little inn on my right I entered it, and addressing myself to a neat, comfortable landlady, who was standing within the bar, I said—
“Please to let me have a glass of ale!—and hearkee; as I have been walking along the road, I should be glad of the services of the ‘boots.’”
“Very good, sir,” said the landlady with a curtsey.
Then showing me into a nice little sanded parlour, she brought me the glass of ale, and presently sent in a lad with a boot-jack to minister to me. O, what can’t a little money effect? For sixpence in that small nice inn I had a glass of ale, my boots cleaned and the excrescences cut off, my clothes wiped with a dwile, and then passed over with a brush, and was myself thanked over and over again. Starting again with all the spirited confidence of one who has just cast off his slough, I soon found myself in the suburbs of Swansea. As I passed under what appeared to be a railroad bridge I inquired in Welsh of an ancient-looking man, in coaly habiliments, if it was one. He answered in the same language that it was, then instantly added in English—
“You have taken your last farewell of Wales, sir; it’s no use speaking Welsh farther on.”
I passed some immense edifices, probably manufactories, and was soon convinced that, whether I was in Wales or not, I was no longer amongst Welsh. The people whom I met did not look like Welsh. They were taller and bulkier than the Cambrians, and were speaking a dissonant English jargon. The women had much the appearance of Dutch fisherwomen; some of them were carrying huge loads on their heads. I spoke in Welsh to two or three whom I overtook.
“No Welsh, sir!”
“Why don’t you speak Welsh?” said I.
“Because we never learnt it. We are not Welsh.”
“Who are you then?”
“English; some call us Flamings.”
“Ah, ah!” said I to myself, “I had forgot.”
Presently I entered the town, a large, bustling, dirty, gloomy place, and inquiring for the first hotel was directed to the “Mackworth Arms,” in Wine Street.
As soon as I was shown into the parlour I summoned the “boots,” and on his making his appearance I said in a stern voice: “My boots want soling; let them be done by to-morrow morning.”
“Can’t be, sir; it’s now Saturday afternoon, and the shoemaker couldn’t begin them to-night!”
“But you must make him!” said I; “and look here, I shall give him a shilling extra, and you an extra shilling for seeing after him.”
“Yes, sir; I’ll see after him—they shall be done, sir. Bring you your slippers instantly. Glad to see you again in Swansea, sir, looking so well.”
Swansea—The Flemings—Towards England.
Swansea is called by the Welsh Abertawé, which signifies the mouth of the Tawy. Aber, as I have more than once had occasion to observe, signifies the place where a river enters into the sea or joins another. It is a Gaelic as well as a Cumric word, being found in the Gaelic names Aberdeen and Lochaber, and there is good reason for supposing that the word harbour is derived from it. Swansea or Swansey is a compound word of Scandinavian origin, which may mean either a river abounding with swans, or the river of Swanr, the name of some northern adventurer who settled down at its mouth. The final ea or ey is the Norwegian aa, which signifies a running water; it is of frequent occurrence in the names of rivers in Norway, and is often found, similarly modified, in those of other countries where the adventurous Norwegians formed settlements.
Swansea first became a place of some importance shortly after the beginning of the twelfth century. In the year 1108 the greater part of Flanders having been submerged by the sea[579]an immense number of Flemings came over to England, and entreated of Henry the First, the king then occupying the throne, that he would allot to them lands in which they might settle. The king sent them to various parts of Wales which had been conquered by his barons or those of his predecessors: a considerable number occupied Swansea and the neighbourhood; but far the greater part went to Dyfed, generally but improperly called Pembroke, the south-eastern part of which, by far the most fertile, theyentirely took possession of, leaving to the Welsh the rest, which is very mountainous and barren.
I have already said that the people of Swansea stand out in broad distinctness from the Cumry, differing from them in stature, language, dress, and manners, and wish to observe that the same thing may be said of the inhabitants of every part of Wales which the Flemings colonised in any considerable numbers.
I found the accommodation very good at the “Mackworth Arms;” I passed the Saturday evening very agreeably, and slept well throughout the night. The next morning to my great joy I found my boots, capitally repaired, awaiting me before my chamber door.
O the mighty effect of a little money! After breakfast I put them on, and as it was Sunday went out in order to go to church. The streets were thronged with people; a new mayor had just been elected, and his worship, attended by a number of halbert and javelin men, was going to church too. I followed the procession, which moved with great dignity and of course very slowly. The church had a high square tower and looked a very fine edifice on the outside and no less so within, for the nave was lofty with noble pillars on each side. I stood during the whole of the service as did many others, for the congregation was so great that it was impossible to accommodate all with seats. The ritual was performed in a very satisfactory manner and was followed by an excellent sermon. I am ashamed to say that I have forgot the text, but I remember a good deal of the discourse. The preacher said amongst other things that the Gospel was not preached in vain, and that he very much doubted whether a sermon was ever delivered which did not do some good. On the conclusion of the services I strolled about in order to see the town and what pertained to it. The town is of considerable size with some remarkable edifices, spacious and convenient quays, and a commodious harbour into which the river Tawy flowing from the north empties itself. The town and harbour are overhung on the side of the east by a lofty green mountain with a Welsh name, no doubt exceedingly appropriate, but which I regret to say has escaped my memory.
After having seen all that I wished I returned to my inn and discharged all my obligations. I then departed, framing my course eastward towards England, having traversed Wales nearly from north to south.
Leave Swansea—The Pandemonium—Neath Abbey—Varied Scenery.
It was about two o’clock of a dull and gloomy afternoon when I started from Abertawy or Swansea, intending to stop at Neath, some eight miles distant. As I passed again through the suburbs I was struck with their length and the evidences of enterprise which they exhibited—enterprise, however, evidently chiefly connected with iron and coal, for almost every object looked awfully grimy. Crossing a bridge I proceeded to the east up a broad and spacious valley, the eastern side of which was formed by russet-coloured hills, through a vista of which I could descry a range of tall blue mountains. As I proceeded I sometimes passed pleasant groves and hedgerows, sometimes huge works; in this valley there was a singular mixture of nature and art, of the voices of birds and the clanking of chains, of the mists of heaven and the smoke of furnaces.
I reached Llan—, a small village half-way between Swansea and Neath, and without stopping continued my course, walking very fast. I had surmounted a hill and had nearly descended that side of it which looked towards the east, having on my left, that is to the north, a wooded height, when an extraordinary scene presented itself to my eyes. Somewhat to the south rose immense stacks of chimneys surrounded by grimy diabolical-looking buildings, in the neighbourhood of which were huge heaps of cinders and black rubbish. From the chimneys, notwithstanding it was Sunday, smoke was proceeding in volumes, choking the atmosphere all around. From this pandemonium, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile to the southwest, upon a green meadow, stood, looking darklygrey, a ruin of vast size with window holes, towers, spires, and arches. Between it and the accursed pandemonium, lay a horrid filthy place, part of which was swamp and part pool: the pool black as soot, and the swamp of a disgusting leaden colour. Across this place of filth stretched a tramway leading seemingly from the abominable mansions to the ruin. So strange a scene I had never beheld in nature. Had it been on canvas, with the addition of a number of diabolical figures, proceeding along the tramway, it might have stood for Sabbath in Hell—devils proceeding to afternoon worship, and would have formed a picture worthy of the powerful but insane painter Jerome Bos.
After standing for a considerable time staring at the strange spectacle I proceeded. Presently meeting a lad, I asked him what was the name of the ruin.
“The Abbey,” he replied.
“Neath Abbey?” said I.
“Yes!”
Having often heard of this abbey, which in its day was one of the most famous in Wales, I determined to go and inspect it. It was with some difficulty that I found my way to it. It stood, as I have already observed, in a meadow, and was on almost every side surrounded by majestic hills. To give any clear description of this ruined pile would be impossible, the dilapidation is so great, dilapidation evidently less the effect of time than of awful violence, perhaps that of gunpowder. The southern is by far the most perfect portion of the building; there you see not only walls but roofs. Fronting you full south, is a mass of masonry with two immense arches, other arches behind them: entering, you find yourself beneath a vaulted roof, and passing on you come to an oblong square which may have been a church; an iron-barred window on your right enables you to look into a mighty vault, the roof of which is supported by beautiful pillars. Then but I forbear to say more respecting these remains for fear of stating what is incorrect, my stay amongst them having been exceedingly short.
The Abbey of Glen Neath was founded in the twelfth century by Richard Grenfield, one of the followers of Robert Fitzhamon, who subjugated Glamorgan. NeathAbbey was a very wealthy one, the founder having endowed it with extensive tracts of fertile land along the banks of the rivers Neath and Tawy. In it the unfortunate Edward of Carnarvon sought a refuge for a few days from the rage of his revolted barons, whilst his favourite the equally unfortunate Spencer endeavoured to find a covert amidst the thickets of the wood-covered hill to the north. When Richmond landed at Milford Haven to dispute the crown with Richard the Second, the then Abbot of Neath repaired to him and gave him his benediction, in requital for which the adventurer gave him his promise that in the event of his obtaining the crown he would found a college in Glen Neath, which promise, however, after he had won the crown, he forgot to perform.[583]The wily abbot, when he hastened to pay worship to what he justly conceived to be the rising sun, little dreamt that he was about to bless the future father of the terrible man doomed by Providence to plant the abomination of desolation in Neath Abbey and in all the other nests of monkery throughout the land.
Leaving the ruins I proceeded towards Neath. The scenery soon became very beautiful; not that I had left machinery altogether behind, for I presently came to a place where huge wheels were turning and there was smoke and blast, but there was much that was rural and beautiful to be seen, something like park scenery, and then there were the mountains near and in the distance. I reached Neath at about half-past four, and took up my quarters at an inn which had been recommended to me by my friend the boots at Swansea.
Town of Neath—Hounds and Huntsman—Spectral Chapel—The Glowing Mountain.
Neath is a place of some antiquity, for it can boast of the remains of a castle and is a corporate town. There is but little Welsh spoken in it. It is situated on the Neath, and exports vast quantities of coal and iron, ofboth of which there are rich mines in the neighbourhood. It derives its name from the river Nedd or Neth on which it stands. Nedd or Neth is the same word as Nith the name of a river in Scotland, and is in some degree connected with Nidda the name of one in Germany. Nedd in Welsh signifies a dingle, and the word in its various forms has always something to do with lowness or inferiority of position. Amongst its forms are Nether and Nieder. The term is well applied to the Glamorganshire river, which runs through dingles and under mountains.
The Neath has its source in the mountains of Brecon, and enters the sea some little way below the town of Neath.
On the Monday morning I resumed my journey, directing my course up the vale of Neath towards Merthyr Tydvil, distant about four-and-twenty miles. The weather was at first rainy, misty, and miserable, but improved by degrees. I passed through a village which I was told was called Llanagos; close to it were immense establishments of some kind. The scenery soon became exceedingly beautiful; hills covered with wood to the tops were on either side of the dale. I passed an avenue leading somewhere through groves, and was presently overtaken and passed by hounds and a respectable-looking old huntsman on a black horse; a minute afterwards I caught a glimpse of an old redbrick mansion nearly embosomed in groves, from which proceeded a mighty cawing. Probably it belonged to the proprietor of the dogs, and certainly looked a very fit mansion for a Glamorganshire squire, justice of the peace, and keeper of a pack of hounds.
I went on, the vale increasing in beauty; there was a considerable drawback, however: one of those detestable contrivances a railroad was on the farther side—along which trains were passing, rumbling and screaming.
I saw a bridge on my right hand with five or six low arches over the river, which was here full of shoals. Asked a woman the name of the bridge.
“Pont Fawrei galw, sir.”
I was again amongst the real Welsh—this woman had no English.
I passed by several remarkable mountains, both on the south and northern side of the vale. Late in the afternoon I came to the eastern extremity of the vale and ascended a height. Shortly afterwards I reached Rhigos, a small village.
Entering a public-house I called for ale and sat down amidst some grimy fellows, who said nothing to me and to whom I said nothing—their discourse was in Welsh and English. Of their Welsh I understood but little, for it was a strange corrupt jargon. In about half-an-hour after leaving this place I came to the beginning of a vast moor. It was now growing rather dusk and I could see blazes here and there; occasionally I heard horrid sounds. Came to Irvan, an enormous mining-place with a spectral-looking chapel, doubtless a Methodist one. The street was crowded with rough savage-looking men. “Is this the way to Merthyr Tydvil?” said I to one.
“Yes!” bawled the fellow at the utmost stretch of his voice.
“Thank you!” said I, taking off my hat and passing on.
Forward I went, up hill and down dale. Night now set in. I passed a grove of trees and presently came to a collection of small houses at the bottom of a little hollow. Hearing a step near me I stopped and said in Welsh: “How far to Merthyr Tydvil?”
“Dim Cumrag, sir!” said a voice, seemingly that of a man.
“Good-night!” said I, and without staying to put the question in English, I pushed on up an ascent and was presently amongst trees. Heard for a long time the hooting of an owl or rather the frantic hollo. Appeared to pass by where the bird had its station. Toiled up an acclivity and when on the top stood still and looked around me. There was a glow on all sides in the heaven except in the north-east quarter. Striding on I saw a cottage on my left-hand, and standing at the door the figure of a woman. “How far to Merthyr?” said I in Welsh.
“Tair milltir—three miles, sir.”
Turning round a corner at the top of a hill I saw blazes here and there and what appeared to be a glowingmountain in the south-east. I went towards it down a descent which continued for a long, long way; so great was the light cast by the blazes and that wonderful glowing object that I could distinctly see the little stones upon the road. After walking about half-an-hour, always going downwards, I saw a house on my left hand and heard a noise of water opposite to it. It was a pistyll. I went to it, drank greedily, and then hurried on, more and more blazes and the glowing object looking more terrible than ever. It was now above me at some distance to the left, and I could see that it was an immense quantity of heated matter like lava, occupying the upper and middle parts of a hill and descending here and there almost to the bottom in a zigzag and tortuous manner. Between me and the hill of the burning object lay a deep ravine. After a time I came to a house, against the door of which a man was leaning.
“What is all that burning stuff above, my friend?”
“Dross from the iron forges, sir!”
I now perceived a valley below me full of lights, and descending reached houses and a tramway. I had blazes now all around me. I went through a filthy slough, over a bridge, and up a street, from which dirty lanes branched off on either side, passed throngs of savage-looking people talking clamorously, shrank from addressing any of them, and finally undirected found myself before the Castle Inn at Merthyr Tydvil.
Iron and Coal—The Martyred Princess—Cyfartha Fawr—Diabolical Structure.
Merthyr Tydvil is situated in a broad valley through which roll the waters of the Taf. It was till late an inconsiderable village, but is at present the greatest mining place in Britain, and may be called with much propriety the capital of the iron and coal.
It bears the name of Merthyr Tydvil, which signifies the Martyr Tydvil, because in the old time a Christian British princess was slain in the locality which it occupies.Tydvil was the daughter of Brychan Prince of Brecon, surnamed Brycheiniawg, or the Breconian, who flourished in the fifth century and was a contemporary of Hengist. He was a man full of Christian zeal and a great preacher of the Gospel, and gave his children, of which he had many both male and female by various wives, an education which he hoped would not only make them Christians, but enable them to preach the Gospel to their countrymen. They proved themselves worthy of his care, all of them without one exception becoming exemplary Christians, and useful preachers. In his latter days he retired to a hermitage in Glamorganshire near the Taf and passed his time in devotion, receiving occasionally visits from his children. Once, when he and several of them, amongst whom was Tydvil, were engaged in prayer a band of heathen Saxons rushed in upon them and slew Tydvil with three of her brothers. Ever since that time the place has borne the name of Martyr Tydvil.[587]
The Taf, which runs to the south of Merthyr, comes down from Breconshire, and enters the Bristol Channel at Cardiff, a place the name of which in English is the city on the Taf. It is one of the most beautiful of rivers, but is not navigable on account of its numerous shallows. The only service which it renders to commerce is feeding a canal which extends from Merthyr to Cardiff. It is surprising how similar many of the Welsh rivers are in name: Taf, Tawey, Towey, Teivi, and Duffy differ but very little in sound. Taf and Teivi have both the same meaning, namely a tendency to spread out. The other names, though probably expressive of the properties or peculiarities of the streams to which they respectively belong, I know not how to translate.
The morning of the fourteenth was very fine. After breakfast I went to see the Cyfartha Fawr iron works, generally considered to be the great wonder of the place. After some slight demur I obtained permission from the superintendent to inspect them. I was attended by an intelligent mechanic. What shall I say about the Cyfartha Fawr? I had best say but very little. I saw enormous furnaces. I saw streams ofmolten metal. I saw a long ductile piece of red-hot iron being operated upon. I saw millions of sparks flying about. I saw an immense wheel impelled round with frightful velocity by a steam engine of two hundred and forty horse power. I heard all kinds of dreadful sounds. The general effect was stunning. These works belong to the Crawshays, a family distinguished by a strange kind of eccentricity, but also by genius and enterprising spirit, and by such a strict feeling of honour that it is a common saying that the word of any one of them is as good as the bond of other people.
After seeing the Cyfartha I roamed about making general observations. The mountain of dross which had startled me on the preceding night with its terrific glare, and which stands to the north-west of the town, looked now nothing more than an immense dark heap of cinders. It is only when the shades of night have settled down that the fire within manifests itself, making the hill appear an immense glowing mass. All the hills around the town, some of which are very high, have a scorched and blackened look. An old Anglesea bard, rather given to bombast, wishing to extol the abundant cheer of his native isle, said: “The hills of Ireland are blackened by the smoke from the kitchens of Mona.” With much more propriety might a bard of the banks of the Taf who should wish to apologise for the rather smutty appearance of his native vale exclaim: “The hills around the Taf once so green are blackened by the smoke from the chimneys of Merthyr.” The town is large and populous. The inhabitants for the most part are Welsh, and Welsh is the language generally spoken, though all have some knowledge of English. The houses are in general low and mean, and built of rough grey stone. Merthyr, however, can show several remarkable edifices, though of a gloomy, horrid Satanic character. There is the hall of the Iron, with its arches, from whence proceeds incessantly a thundering noise of hammers. Then there is an edifice at the foot of a mountain, half way up the side of which is a blasted forest, and on the top an enormous crag. A truly wonderful edifice it is, such as Bos would have imagined had he wanted to paint the palace of Satan. There it stands; a house of reddishbrick with a slate roof—four horrid black towers behind, two of them belching forth smoke and flame from their tops—holes like pigeon holes here and there—two immense white chimneys standing by themselves. What edifice can that be of such strange mad details? I ought to have put that question to some one in Tydvil, but did not, though I stood staring at the diabolical structure with my mouth open. It is of no use putting the question to myself here.
After strolling about for some two hours with my hands in my pockets, I returned to my inn, called for a glass of ale, paid my reckoning, flung my satchel over my shoulder, and departed.
Start for Caerfili—Johanna Colgan—Alms-Giving—The Monstrous Female—The Evil Prayer—The Next Day—The Aifrionn—Unclean Spirits—Expectation—Wreaking Vengeance—A Decent Alms.
I left Merthyr about twelve o’clock for Caerfili. My course lay along the valley to the south-east. I passed a large village called Troed y Rhiw, or the foot of the slope, from its being at the foot of a lofty elevation, which stands on the left-hand side of the road, and was speeding onwards fast, with the Taf at some distance on my right, when I saw a strange-looking woman advancing towards me. She seemed between forty and fifty, was bare-footed and bare-headed, with grizzled hair hanging in elf locks, and was dressed in rags and tatters. When about ten yards from me, she pitched forward, gave three or four grotesque tumbles, heels over head, then standing bolt upright, about a yard before me, she raised her right arm, and shouted in a most discordant voice—“Give me an alms, for the glory of God.”
I stood still, quite confounded. Presently, however, recovering myself, I said:—“Really, I don’t think it would be for the glory of God to give you alms.”
“Ye don’t! Then, Biadh an taifronn—however, I’ll give ye a chance yet. Am I to get my alms or not?”
“Before I give you alms I must know something about you. Who are you?”
“Who am I? Who should I be but Johanna Colgan, a bedivilled woman from the county of Limerick?”
“And how did you become bedevilled?”
“Because a woman something like myself said an evil prayer over me for not giving her an alms, which prayer I have at my tongue’s end, and unless I get my alms will say over you. So for your own sake, honey, give me my alms, and let me go on my way.”
“O, I am not to be frightened by evil prayers! I shall give you nothing till I hear all about you.”
“If I tell ye all about me will ye give me an alms?”
“Well, I have no objection to give you something if you tell me your story.”
“Will ye give me a dacent alms?”
“O, you must leave the amount to my free will and pleasure. I shall give you what I think fit.”
“Well, so ye shall, honey; and I make no doubt ye will give me a dacent alms, for I like the look of ye, and knew ye to be an Irishman half-a-mile off. Only four years ago, instead of being a bedivilled woman, tumbling about the world, I was as quiet and respectable a widow as could be found in the county of Limerick. I had a nice little farm at an aisy rint, horses, cows, pigs, and servants, and, what was better than all, a couple of fine sons, who were a help and comfort to me. But my black day was not far off. I was a mighty charitable woman, and always willing to give to the bacahs and other beggars that came about. Every morning, before I opened my door, I got ready the alms which I intended to give away in the course of the day to those that should ask for them, and I made so good a preparation that, though plenty of cripples and other unfortunates wandering through the world came to me every day, part of the alms was sure to remain upon my hands every night when I closed my door. The alms which I gave away consisted of meal; and I had always a number of small measures of male standing ready on a board, one of which I used to empty into the poke of every bacah or other unfortunate who used to place himself at the side of my door and cry out ‘Ave Maria!’ or ‘In the name of God!’ Well,one morning I sat within my door spinning, with a little bit of a colleen beside me who waited upon me as servant. My measures of meal were all ready for the unfortunates who should come, filled with all the meal in the house; for there was no meal in the house save what was in those measures—divil a particle, the whole stock being exhausted; though by evening I expected plenty more, my two sons being gone to the ballybetagh, which was seven miles distant, for a fresh supply, and for other things. Well, I sat within my door, spinning, with my servant by my side to wait upon me, and my measures of male ready for the unfortunates who might come to ask for alms. There I sat, quite proud, and more happy than I had ever felt in my life before; and the unfortunates began to make their appearance. First came a bacah on crutches; then came a woman with a white swelling; then came an individual who had nothing at all the matter with him, and was only a poor unfortunate, wandering about the world; then came a far cake,[591]a dark man, who was led about by a gossoon; after him a simpley, and after the simpleton somebody else as much or more unfortunate. And as the afflicted people arrived and placed themselves by the side of the door and said ‘Ave Mary,’ or ‘In the name of God,’ or crossed their arms, or looked down upon the ground, each according to his practice, I got up and emptied my measure of male into his poke, or whatever he carried about with him for receiving the alms which might be given to him; and my measures of male began to be emptied fast, for it seemed that upon that day, when I happened to be particularly short of meal, all the unfortunates in the county of Limerick had conspired together to come to ask me for alms. At last every measure of meal was emptied, and there I sat in my house with nothing to give away provided an unfortunate should come. Says I to the colleen: ‘What shall I do provided any more come, for all the meal is gone and there will be no more before the boys come home at night from the ballybetagh.’ Says the colleen: ‘If any more come, can’t ye give them something else?’ Says I: ‘It has always been my practice to give in meal, and loth should I be to alterit; for if once I begin to give away other things, I may give away all I have.’ Says the colleen: ‘Let’s hope no one else will come: there have been thirteen of them already.’ Scarcely had she said these words, when a monstrous woman, half-naked, and with a long staff in her hand, on the top of which was a cross, made her appearance; and placing herself right before the door, cried out so that you might have heard her for a mile, ‘Give me an alms for the glory of God.’
“‘Good woman,’ says I to her, ‘you will be kind enough to excuse me: all the preparation I had made for alms has been given away, for I have relieved thirteen unfortunates this blessed morning—so may the Virgin help ye, good woman!’ ‘Give me an alms,’ said the Beanvore, with a louder voice than before, ‘or it will be worse for you.’ ‘You must excuse me, dear mistress,’ says I, ‘but I have no more meal in the house. Those thirteen measures which you see there empty were full this morning, for what was in them I have given away to unfortunates. So the Virgin and Child help you.’ ‘Do you choose to give me an alms?’ she shrieked, so that you might have heard her to Londonderry. ‘If ye have no male give me something else.’ ‘You must excuse me, good lady,’ said I: ‘it is my custom to give alms in meal, and in nothing else. I have none in the house now; but if ye come on the morrow ye shall have a triple measure. In the meanwhile may the Virgin, Child, and the Holy Trinity assist ye!’ Thereupon she looked at me fixedly for a moment, and then said, not in a loud voice, but in a low, half-whispered way, which was ten times more deadly—
“‘Biaidh an taifrionn gan sholas duit a bhean shalach!’
“‘Biaidh an taifrionn gan sholas duit a bhean shalach!’
Then turning from the door she went away with long strides. Now, honey, can ye tell me the meaning of those words?”
“They mean,” said I, “unless I am much mistaken: ‘May the Mass never comfort ye, you dirty quean!’”
“Ochone! that’s the maning of them, sure enough. They are cramped words, but I guessed that was the meaning, or something of the kind. Well, after hearing the evil prayer, I sat for a minute or two quite stunned;at length recovering myself a bit I said to the colleen: ‘Get up, and run after the woman and tell her to come back and cross the prayer.’ I meant by crossing that she should call it back or do something that would take the venom out of it. Well, the colleen was rather loth to go, for she was a bit scared herself, but on my beseeching her, she got up and ran after the woman, and being rather swift of foot, at last, though with much difficulty, overtook her, and begged her to come back and cross the prayer, but the divil of a woman would do no such thing, and when the colleen persisted she told her that if she didn’t go back, she would say an evil prayer over her too. So the colleen left her, and came back crying and frightened. All the rest of the day I remained sitting on the stool speechless, thinking of the prayer which the woman had said, and wishing I had given her everything I had in the world, rather than she should have said it. At night came home the boys, and found their mother sitting on the stool, like one stupefied. ‘What’s the matter with you, mother?’ they said. ‘Get up and help us to unpack. We have brought home plenty of things on the car, and amongst others a whole boll of meal.’ ‘You might as well have left it behind you,’ said I; ‘this morning a single measure of male would have been to me of all the assistance in the world, but I quistion now if I shall ever want meal again.’ They asked me what had happened to me, and after some time I told them how a monstrous woman had been to me, and had said an evil prayer over me, because having no meal in the house I had not given her an alms. ‘Come, mother,’ said they, ‘get up and help us to unload! never mind the prayer of the monstrous woman—it is all nonsense.’ Well, I got up and helped them to unload, and cooked them a bit and sat down with them, and tried to be merry, but felt that I was no longer the woman that I was. The next day I didn’t seem to care what became of me, or how matters went on, and though there was now plenty of meal in the house, not a measure did I fill with it to give away in the shape of alms; and when the bacahs, and the liprous women, and the dark men, and the other unfortunates placed themselves at the side of the door, and gave me to understand thatthey wanted alms, each in his or her particular manner, divil an alms did I give them, but let them stand and took no heed of them, so that at last they took themselves off grumbling and cursing. And little did I care for their grumblings and cursings. Two days before I wouldn’t have had an unfortunate grumble at me, or curse me, for all the riches below the sun; but now their grumblings and curses didn’t give me the slightest uneasiness, for I had an evil prayer spoken against me in the Shanna Gailey by the monstrous woman, and I knew that I was blighted in this world and the next. In a little time I ceased to pay any heed to the farming business, or to the affairs of the house, so that my sons had no comfort in their home. And I took to drink and induced my eldest son to take to drink too—my youngest son, however, did not take to drink, but conducted himself well, and toiled and laboured like a horse, and often begged me and his brother to consider what we were about, and not to go on in a way which would bring us all to ruin, but I paid no regard to what he said, and his brother followed my example, so that at last seeing things were getting worse every day, and that we should soon be turned out of house and home, for no rint was paid, every penny that could be got being consumed in waste, he bade us farewell and went and listed for a sodger. But if matters were bad enough before he went away, they became much worse after; for now when the unfortunates came to the door for alms, instead of letting them stand in pace till they were tired, and took themselves off, I would mock them and point at them, and twit them with their sores and other misfortunes, and not unfrequently I would fling scalding water over them, which would send them howling and honing away, till at last there was not an unfortunate but feared to come within a mile of my door. Moreover, I began to misconduct myself at chapel, more especially at the Aifrionn or Mass, for no sooner was the bell rung, and the holy corpus raised, than I would shout and hoorah, and go tumbling and toppling along the floor before the holy body, as I just now tumbled along the road before you, so that the people were scandalised, and would take me by the shoulders and turn me out of doors, andbegan to talk of ducking me in the bog. The priest of the parish, however, took my part, saying that I ought not to be persecuted, for that I was not accountable for what I did, being a possessed person, and under the influence of divils. ‘These, however,’ said he, ‘I’ll soon cast out from her, and then the woman will be a holy cratur, much better than she ever was before.’ A very learned man was Father Hogan, especially in casting out divils, and a portly good-looking man too, only he had a large rubicon nose, which people said he got by making over free with the cratur in sacret. I had often looked at the nose, when the divil was upon me, and felt an inclination to seize hold of it, jist to see how it felt. Well, he had me to his house several times, and there he put holy cloths upon me, and tied holy images to me, and read to me out of holy books, and sprinkled holy water over me, and put questions to me, and at last was so plased with the answers I gave him, that he prached a sermon about me in the chapel, in which he said that he had cast six of my divils out of me, and should cast out the seventh, which was the last, by the next Sabbath, and then should present me to the folks in the chapel as pure a vessel as the blessed Mary herself—and that I was destined to accomplish great things, and to be a mighty instrument in the hands of the Holy Church, for that he intended to write a book about me describing the miracle he had performed in casting the seven divils out of me, which he should get printed at the printing-press of the blessed Columba, and should send me through all Ireland to sell the copies, the profits of which would go towards the support of the holy society for casting out unclane spirits, to which he himself belonged. Well, the people showed that they were plased by a loud shout, and went away longing for the next Sunday when I was to be presented to them without a divil in me. Five times the next week did I go to the priest’s house, to be read to, and be sprinkled, and have cloths put upon me, in order that the work of casting out the last divil, which it seems was stronger than all the rest, might be made smooth and aisy, and on the Saturday I came to have the last divil cast out, and found his riverince in full canonicals, seated in his aisy chair. ‘Daughter,’ saidhe when he saw me, ‘the work is nearly over. Now kneel down before me, and I will make the sign of the cross over your forehead, and then you will feel the last and strongest of the divils, which have so long possessed ye, go out of ye through your eyes, as I expect you will say to the people assembled in the chapel to-morrow.’ So I put myself on my knees before his reverence, who after muttering something to himself, either in Latin or Shanna Gailey—I believe it was Latin, said, ‘Look me in the face, daughter!’ Well, I looked his reverence in the face, and there I saw his nose looking so large, red, and inviting that I could not resist the temptation, and before his reverence could make the sign of the cross, which doubtless would have driven the divil out of me, I made a spring at it, and seizing hold of it with fore-finger and thumb, pulled hard at it. Hot and inctious did it feel. O, the yell that his reverence gave! However, I did not let go my hold, but kept pulling at the nose, till at last to avoid the torment his reverence came tumbling down upon me, causing me by his weight to fall back upon the floor. At the yell which he gave, and at the noise of the fall, in came rushing his reverence’s housekeeper and stable-boy, who seeing us down on the floor, his reverence upon me and my hand holding his reverence’s nose, for I felt loth to let it go, they remained in astonishment and suspense. When his reverence, however, begged them, for the Virgin’s sake, to separate him from the divil of a woman, they ran forward, and having with some difficulty freed his reverence’s nose from my hand, they helped him up. The first thing that his reverence did, on being placed on his legs, was to make for a horsewhip, which stood in one corner of the room, but I guessing how he meant to use it, sprang up from the floor, and before he could make a cut at me, ran out of the room, and hasted home. The next day, when all the people for twenty miles round met in the chapel, in the expectation of seeing me presented to them a purified and holy female, and hearing from my mouth the account of the miracle which his reverence had performed, his reverence made his appearance in the pulpit with a dale of gould-bater’s leaf on his nose, and from the pulpit he told the people howI had used him, showing them the gould-bater’s leaf on his feature as testimony of the truth of his words, finishing by saying that if at first there were seven devils there were now seven times seven within me. Well, when the people heard the story, and saw his nose with the bater’s leaf upon it, they at first began to laugh, but when he appealed to their consciences, and asked them if such was fitting tratement for a praist, they said it was not, and that if he would only but curse me, they would soon do him justice upon me. His reverence then cursed by book, bell, and candle, and the people, setting off from the chapel, came in a crowd to the house where I lived, to wrake vengeance upon me. Overtaking my son by the way, who was coming home in a state of intoxication, they bate him within an inch of his life, and left him senseless on the ground, and no doubt would have served me much worse, only seeing them coming, and guessing what they came about, though I was a bit intoxicated myself, I escaped by the back of the house out into the bog, where I hid myself amidst a copse of hazels. The people coming to the house, and not finding me there, broke and destroyed every bit of furniture, and would have pulled the house down, or set fire to it, had not an individual among them cried out that doing so would be of no use, for that the house did not belong to me, and that destroying it would merely be an injury to the next tenant. So the people, after breaking my furniture and ill-trating two or three dumb beasts, which happened not to have been made away with, went away, and in the dead of night I returned to the house, where I found my son, who had just crawled home covered with blood and bruises. We hadn’t, however, a home long, for the agents of the landlord came to seize for rent, took all they could find, and turned us out upon the wide world. Myself and son wandered together for an hour or two, then, having a quarrel with each other, we parted, he going one way and I another. Some little time after I heard that he was transported. As for myself, I thought I might as well take a leaf out of the woman’s book, who had been the ruin of me. So I went about bidding people give me alms for the glory of God, and threatening those who gave menothing that the mass should never comfort them. It’s a dreadful curse that, honey; and I would advise people to avoid it even though they give away all they have. If you have no comfort in the mass, you will have comfort in nothing else. Look at me: I have no comfort in the mass, for as soon as the priest’s bell rings I shouts and hoorahs, and performs tumblings before the blessed corpus, getting myself kicked out of chapel, and as little comfort as I have in the mass have I in other things, which should be a comfort to me. I have two sons who ought to be the greatest comfort to me, but are they so? We’ll see—one is transported, and of course is no comfort to me at all. The other is a sodger. Is he a comfort to me? not a bit. A month ago when I was travelling through the black north, tumbling and toppling about, and threatening people with my prayer, unless they gave me alms, a woman, who knew me, told me that he was with his regiment at Cardiff, here in Wales, whereupon I determined to go and see him, and crossing the water got into England, from whence I walked to Cardiff asking alms of the English in the common English way, and of the Irish, and ye are the first Irish I have met, in the way in which I asked them of you. But when I got to Cardiff did I see my son? I did not, for the day before he had sailed with his regiment to a place ten thousand miles away, so I shall never see his face again nor derive comfort from him. Oh, if there’s no comfort from the mass there’s no comfort from anything else, and he who has the evil prayer in the Shanna Gailey breathed upon him, will have no comfort from the mass. Now, honey, ye have heard the story of Johanna Colgan, the bedivilled woman. Give her now a dacent alms and let her go!”
“Would you consider sixpence a decent alms?”
“I would. If you give me sixpence, I will not say my prayer over ye.”
“Would you give me a blessing?”
“I would not. A bedivilled woman has no blessing to give.”
“Surely if you are able to ask people to give you alms for the glory of God, you are able to give a blessing.”
“Bodderation! are ye going to give me sixpence?”
“No! here’s a shilling for you! Take it and go in peace.”
“There’s no pace for me,” said Johanna Colgan, taking the money. “What did the monstrous female say to me? Biadh an taifrionn gan sholas duit a bhean shalach.’[599]This is my pace—hoorah! hoorah!” then giving two or three grotesque topples she hurried away in the direction of Merthyr Tydvil.