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 topieces; 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 drinking.
“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.’”
“‘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 words.
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 whichhe 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 thevery 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 here.”
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 led.
“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, anotherPentré 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 seventy-five.
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 aged.
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 latter.
“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 two.”
“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 one.”
“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 England.”
“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 there.”
“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, pursuedwith 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 Corwen.
Sunday Night—Sleep, Sin, and Old Age—The Dream—Lanikin Figure—A Literary Purchase.
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 frequentlyfeel 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 befound 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 toinspect 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, fromwhich the reader may form a tolerably correct idea of the poetical powers of him whom his countrymen delight to call “the Welsh Shakespear.”
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 thesmith 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 time.”
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.’
“‘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 meif 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 officiatingas 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 itquick, 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 matter.”
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 ifthey 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 doctor.”
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 sacksupon 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 arms.”
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 eternity.”
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 historyof 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.”
“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 andthe 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.
EnterCaptain 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.Riches.However mistaken the judgment may beOf 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 frameA 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 multitudeOf 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.Poverty.In the marvellous things, which to me thou hast toldThe wisdom of God I most clearly behold,And did He not also make man of the sameMaterials He us’d when the world He did frame?Riches.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 natureWhich 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 sameAs 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 OneUnto man a clear wisdom did bounteously giveThe nature of everything to perceive.Poverty.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 beIn the world betwixt Riches and Poverty?Riches.That point we’ll discuss without passion or fearWith the aim of instructing the listeners here;And haply some few who instruction requireMay profit derive like the bee from the briar.Man as thou knowest, in his generationIs 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 accountIn 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 kindProfoundly 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 highHas 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 entireSave the moon with its temp’rament cool did assuageOf 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 beBetter emblems of Riches and Poverty.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 seemLike the sun which doth warm everything with its beam;Whilst the poor needy wight with his pitiable caseResembles the moon which doth chill with its face.Riches.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 prideThe 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.Poverty.I know, and the thought mighty sorrow instils,The sins of the world are the terrible hillsAn eclipse which do cause, or a dread obscuration,To one or another in every vocation.Riches.It is true that God gives unto each from his birthSome task to perform whilst he wends upon earth,But He gives correspondent wisdom and forceTo the weight of the task, and the length of the course.[Exit.Poverty.I hope there are some, who ’twixt me and the youthHave 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.
EnterCaptain 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.
Riches.
However mistaken the judgment may beOf 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 frameA 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 multitudeOf 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.
Poverty.
In the marvellous things, which to me thou hast toldThe wisdom of God I most clearly behold,And did He not also make man of the sameMaterials He us’d when the world He did frame?
Riches.
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 natureWhich 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 sameAs 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 OneUnto man a clear wisdom did bounteously giveThe nature of everything to perceive.
Poverty.
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 beIn the world betwixt Riches and Poverty?
Riches.
That point we’ll discuss without passion or fearWith the aim of instructing the listeners here;And haply some few who instruction requireMay profit derive like the bee from the briar.
Man as thou knowest, in his generationIs 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 accountIn 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 kindProfoundly 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 highHas 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 entireSave the moon with its temp’rament cool did assuageOf 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 beBetter emblems of Riches and Poverty.
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 seemLike the sun which doth warm everything with its beam;Whilst the poor needy wight with his pitiable caseResembles the moon which doth chill with its face.
Riches.
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 prideThe 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.
Poverty.
I know, and the thought mighty sorrow instils,The sins of the world are the terrible hillsAn eclipse which do cause, or a dread obscuration,To one or another in every vocation.
Riches.
It is true that God gives unto each from his birthSome task to perform whilst he wends upon earth,But He gives correspondent wisdom and forceTo the weight of the task, and the length of the course.
[Exit.
Poverty.
I hope there are some, who ’twixt me and the youthHave 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.