Set out for Wrexham—Craig y Forwyn—Uncertainty—The Collier—Cadogan Hall—Methodistical Volume.
Having learnt from a newspaper that a Welsh book on Welsh Methodism had been just published at Wrexham, I determined to walk to that place and purchase it. I could easily have procured the work through a bookseller at Llangollen, but I wished to explore the hill-road which led to Wrexham, what the farmer under the Eglwysig rocks had said of its wildness having excited my curiosity, which the procuring of the book afforded me a plausible excuse for gratifying. If one wants totake any particular walk, it is always well to have some business, however trifling, to transact at the end of it; so having determined to go to Wrexham by the mountain road, I set out on the Saturday next after the one on which I had met the farmer who had told me of it.
The day was gloomy, with some tendency to rain. I passed under the hill of Dinas Bran. About a furlong from its western base I turned round and surveyed it—and perhaps the best view of the noble mountain is to be obtained from the place where I turned round. How grand, though sad, from there it looked, that grey morning, with its fine ruin on its brow, above which a little cloud hovered! It put me in mind of some old king, unfortunate and melancholy, but a king still, with the look of a king, and the ancestral crown still on his furrowed forehead. I proceeded on my way, all was wild and solitary, and the yellow leaves were falling from the trees of the groves. I passed by the farmyard, where I had held discourse with the farmer on the preceding Saturday, and soon entered the glen, the appearance of which had so much attracted my curiosity. A torrent, rushing down from the north, was on my right. It soon began to drizzle, and mist so filled the glen that I could only distinguish objects a short way before me, and on either side. I wandered on a considerable way, crossing the torrent several times by rustic bridges. I passed two lone farm-houses, and at last saw another on my left hand—the mist had now cleared up, but it still slightly rained—the scenery was wild to a degree—a little way before me was a tremendous pass, near it an enormous crag, of a strange form, rising to the very heavens, the upper part of it of a dull white colour. Seeing a respectable-looking man near the house, I went up to him. “Am I in the right way to Wrexham?” said I, addressing him in English.
“You can get to Wrexham this way, sir,” he replied.
“Can you tell me the name of that crag?” said I, pointing to the large one.
“That crag, sir, is called Craig y Forwyn.”
“The maiden’s crag,” said I; “why is it called so?”
“I do not know, sir; some people say that it is called so because its head is like that of a woman, othersbecause a young girl in love leaped from the top of it and was killed.”
“And what is the name of this house?” said I.
“This house, sir, is called Plas Uchaf.”
“Is it called Plas Uchaf,” said I, “because it is the highest house in the valley?”
“It is, sir; it is the highest of three homesteads; the next below it is Plas Canol—and the one below that Plas Isaf.”
“Middle place and lower place,” said I. “It is very odd that I know in England three people who derive their names from places so situated. One is Houghton, another Middleton, and the third Lowdon; in modern English, Hightown, Middletown, and Lowtown.”
“You appear to be a person of great intelligence, sir.”
“No, I am not—but I am rather fond of analysing words, particularly the names of persons and places. Is the road to Wrexham hard to find?”
“Not very, sir; that is, in the day-time. Do you live at Wrexham?”
“No,” I replied, “I am stopping at Llangollen.”
“But you won’t return there to-night?”
“O yes, I shall!”
“By this road?”
“No, by the common road. This is not a road to travel by night.”
“Nor is the common road, sir, for a respectable person on foot; that is, on a Saturday night. You will perhaps meet drunken colliers, who may knock you down.”
“I will take my chance for that,” said I, and bade him farewell. I entered the pass, passing under the strange-looking crag. After I had walked about half-a-mile the pass widened considerably, and a little way farther on debouched on some wild, moory ground. Here the road became very indistinct. At length I stopped in a state of uncertainty. A well-defined path presented itself, leading to the east, whilst northward before me there seemed scarcely any path at all. After some hesitation I turned to the east by the well-defined path, and by so doing went wrong, as I soon found.
I mounted the side of a brown hill covered with moss-likegrass, and here and there heather. By the time I arrived at the top of the hill the sun shone out, and I saw Rhiwabon and Cefn Mawr before me in the distance. “I am going wrong,” said I; “I should have kept on due north. However, I will not go back, but will steeplechase it across the country to Wrexham, which must be towards the north-east.” So turning aside from the path, I dashed across the hills in that direction; sometimes the heather was up to my knees, and sometimes I was up to the knees in quags. At length I came to a deep ravine, which I descended; at the bottom was a quagmire, which, however, I contrived to cross by means of certain stepping-stones, and came to a cart-path up a heathery hill, which I followed. I soon reached the top of the hill, and the path still continuing, I followed it till I saw some small grimy-looking huts, which I supposed were those of colliers. At the door of the first I saw a girl. I spoke to her in Welsh, and found she had little or none. I passed on, and seeing the door of a cabin open, I looked in—and saw no adult person, but several grimy but chubby children. I spoke to them in English, and found they could only speak Welsh. Presently I observed a robust woman advancing towards me; she was barefooted, and bore on her head an immense lump of coal. I spoke to her in Welsh, and found she could only speak English. “Truly,” said I to myself, “I am on the borders. What a mixture of races and languages!” The next person I met was a man in a collier’s dress; he was a stout-built fellow of the middle age, with a coal-dusty, surly countenance. I asked him in Welsh if I was in the right direction for Wrexham, he answered in a surly manner in English that I was. I again spoke to him in Welsh, making some indifferent observation on the weather, and he answered in English yet more gruffly than before. For the third time I spoke to him in Welsh, whereupon, looking at me with a grin of savage contempt, and showing a set of teeth like those of a mastiff, he said, “How’s this? why, you haven’t a word of English! A pretty fellow, you, with a long coat on your back, and no English on your tongue; an’t you ashamed of yourself? Why, here am I in a short coat, yet I’d have you to know that I canspeak English as well as Welsh, aye, and a good deal better.” “All people are not equally clebber,” said I, still speaking Welsh. “Clebber,” said he, “clebber! what is clebber? why can’t you say clever? Why, I never saw such a low, illiterate fellow in my life;” and with these words he turned away, with every mark of disdain, and entered a cottage near at hand.
“Here I have had,” said I to myself, as I proceeded on my way, “to pay for the over-praise which I lately received. The farmer on the other side of the mountain called me a person of great intelligence, which I never pretended to be, and now this collier calls me a low, illiterate fellow, which I really don’t think I am. There is certainly a Nemesis mixed up with the affairs of this world; every good thing which you get, beyond what is strictly your due, is sure to be required from you with a vengeance. A little over-praise by a great deal of under-rating—a gleam of good fortune by a night of misery.”
I now saw Wrexham Church at about the distance of three miles, and presently entered a lane which led gently down from the hills, which were the same heights I had seen on my right hand, some months previously, on my way from Wrexham to Rhiwabon. The scenery now became very pretty—hedge-rows were on either side, a luxuriance of trees, and plenty of green fields. I reached the bottom of the lane, beyond which I saw a strange-looking house upon a slope on the right hand. It was very large, ruinous, and seemingly deserted. A little beyond it was a farm-house, connected with which was a long row of farming buildings along the roadside. Seeing a woman seated knitting at the door of a little cottage, I asked her in English the name of the old ruinous house.
“Cadogan Hall, sir,” she replied.
“And whom does it belong to?” said I.
“I don’t know exactly,” replied the woman, “but Mr. Morris at the farm holds it, and stows his things in it.”
“Can you tell me anything about it?” said I.
“Nothing farther,” said the woman, “than that it is said to be haunted, and to have been a barrack many years ago.”
“Can you speak Welsh?” said I.
“No,” said the woman; “I are Welsh, but have no Welsh language.”
Leaving the woman, I put on my best speed, and in about half-an-hour reached Wrexham.
The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to the bookshop and purchase the Welsh methodistic book. It cost me seven shillings, and was a thick, bulky octavo, with a cut-and-come-again expression about it, which was anything but disagreeable to me, for I hate your flimsy publications. The evening was now beginning to set in, and feeling somewhat hungry, I hurried off to the Wynstay Arms, through streets crowded with market people. On arriving at the inn, I entered the grand room and ordered dinner. The waiters, observing me splashed with mud from head to foot, looked at me dubiously; seeing, however, the respectable-looking volume which I bore in my hand—none of your railroad stuff—they became more assured, and I presently heard one say to the other, “It’s all right—that’s Mr. So-and-so, the great Baptist preacher. He has been preaching amongst the hills—don’t you see his Bible?”
Seating myself at a table, I inspected the volume. And here, perhaps, the reader expects that I shall regale him with an analysis of the methodistical volume at least as long as that of the life of Tom O’ the Dingle. In that case, however, he will be disappointed; all that I shall at present say of it is, that it contained a history of Methodism in Wales, with the lives of the principal Welsh Methodists. That it was fraught with curious and original matter, was written in a straightforward, methodical style, and that I have no doubt it will some day or other be extensively known and highly prized.
After dinner I called for half a pint of wine. Whilst I was trifling over it, a commercial traveller entered into conversation with me. After some time he asked me if I was going further that night.
“To Llangollen,” said I.
“By the ten o’clock train?” said he.
“No,” I replied, “I am going on foot.”
“On foot!” said he; “I would not go on foot there this night for fifty pounds.”
“Why not?” said I.
“For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all out and drunk.”
“If not more than two attack me,” said I, “I shan’t much mind. With this book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can find play for the other with my fists.”
The commercial traveller looked at me. “A strange kind of Baptist minister,” I thought I heard him say.
Rhiwabon Road—The Public-house Keeper—No Welsh—The Wrong Road—The Good Wife.
I paid my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing in. I passed the toll-gate, and hurried along the Rhiwabon road, overtaking companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many individuals, whom, from their thick and confused speech, as well as from their staggering gait, I judged to be intoxicated. As I passed a red public-house on my right hand, at the door of which stood several carts, a scream of Welsh issued from it.
“Let any Saxon,” said I, “who is fond of fighting, and wishes for a bloody nose, go in there.”
Coming to the small village about a mile from Rhiwabon, I felt thirsty, and seeing a public-house, in which all seemed to be quiet, I went in. A thick-set man, with a pipe in his mouth, sat in the tap-room, and also a woman.
“Where is the landlord?” said I.
“I am the landlord,” said the man huskily. “What do you want?”
“A pint of ale,” said I.
The man got up, and, with his pipe in his mouth, went staggering out of the room. In about a minute he returned, holding a mug in his hand, which he put down on a table before me, spilling no slight quantity of the liquor as he did so. I put down three-pence on the table. He took the money up slowly, piece by piece, looked at it, and appeared to consider; then taking the pipe out of his mouth, he dashed it to seven piecesagainst the table, then staggered out of the room into the passage, and from thence apparently out of the house. I tasted the ale, which was very good; then turning to the woman, who seemed about three-and-twenty, and was rather good-looking, I spoke to her in Welsh.
“I have no Welsh, sir,” said she.
“How is that?” said I; “this village is, I think, in the Welshery.”
“It is,” said she; “but I am from Shropshire.”
“Are you the mistress of the house?” said I.
“No,” said she, “I am married to a collier;” then getting up, she said, “I must go and see after my husband.”
“Won’t you take a glass of ale first?” said I, offering to fill a glass which stood on the table.
“No,” said she; “I am the worst in the world for a glass of ale;” and without saying anything more she departed.
“I wonder whether your husband is anything like you with respect to a glass of ale?” said I to myself; then finishing my ale, I got up and left the house, which, when I departed, appeared to be entirely deserted.
It was now quite night, and it would have been pitchy-dark but for the glare of the forges. There was an immense glare to the south-west, which I conceived proceeded from those of Cefn Mawr. It lighted up the south-western sky; then there were two other glares nearer to me, seemingly divided by a lump of something, perhaps a grove of trees.
Walking very fast, I soon overtook a man. I knew him at once by his staggering gait.
“Ah, landlord!” said I; “whither bound?”
“To Rhiwabon,” said he, huskily, “for a pint.”
“Is the ale so good at Rhiwabon,” said I, “that you leave home for it?”
“No,” said he, rather shortly, “there’s not a glass of good ale in Rhiwabon.”
“Then why do you go thither?” said I.
“Because a pint of bad liquor abroad is better than a quart of good at home,” said the landlord, reeling against the hedge.
“There are many in a higher station than you whoact upon that principle,” thought I to myself as I passed on.
I soon reached Rhiwabon. There was a prodigious noise in the public-houses as I passed through it. “Colliers carousing,” said I. “Well, I shall not go amongst them to preach temperance, though perhaps in strict duty I ought.” At the end of the town, instead of taking the road on the left side of the church, I took that on the right. It was not till I had proceeded nearly a mile that I began to be apprehensive that I had mistaken the way. Hearing some people coming towards me on the road, I waited till they came up; they proved to be a man and a woman. On my inquiring whether I was right for Llangollen, the former told me that I was not, and in order to get there it was necessary that I should return to Rhiwabon. I instantly turned round. About half-way back I met a man who asked me in English where I was hurrying to. I said to Rhiwabon, in order to get to Llangollen. “Well, then,” said he, “you need not return to Rhiwabon—yonder is a short cut across the fields,” and he pointed to a gate. I thanked him, and said I would go by it; before leaving him, I asked to what place the road led which I had been following.
“To Pentre Castren,” he replied. I struck across the fields, and should probably have tumbled half-a-dozen times over pales and the like, but for the light of the Cefn furnaces before me, which cast their red glow upon my path. I debouched upon the Llangollen road near to the tramway leading to the collieries. Two enormous sheets of flame shot up high into the air from ovens, illumining two spectral chimneys as high as steeples, also smoky buildings, and grimy figures moving about. There was a clanging of engines, a noise of shovels and a falling of coals truly horrible. The glare was so great that I could distinctly see the minutest lines upon my hand. Advancing along the tramway, I obtained a nearer view of the hellish buildings, the chimneys and the demoniac figures. It was just such a scene as one of those described by Ellis Wynn in his Vision of Hell. Feeling my eyes scorching, I turned away, and proceeded towards Llangollen, sometimes on the muddy road, sometimes on the dangerouscauseway. For three miles at least I met nobody. Near Llangollen, as I was walking on the causeway, three men came swiftly towards me. I kept the hedge, which was my right; the two first brushed roughly past me, the third came full upon me, and was tumbled into the road. There was a laugh from the two first, and a loud curse from the last as he sprawled in the mire. I merely said “Nos Da’ki,” and passed on, and in about a quarter of an hour reached home, where I found my wife awaiting me alone, Henrietta having gone to bed, being slightly indisposed. My wife received me with a cheerful smile. I looked at her, and the good wife of the Triad came to my mind.
“She is modest, void of deceit, and obedient.
“Pure of conscience, gracious of tongue, and true to her husband.
“Her heart not proud, her manners affable, and her bosom full of compassion for the poor.
“Labouring to be tidy, skilful of hand, and fond of praying to God.
“Her conversation amiable, her dress decent, and her house orderly.
“Quick of hand, quick of eye, and quick of understanding.
“Her person shapely, her manners agreeable, and her heart innocent.
“Her face benignant, her head intelligent, and provident.
“Neighbourly, gentle, and of a liberal way of thinking.
“Able in directing, providing what is wanting, and a good mother to her children.
“Loving her husband, loving peace, and loving God.
“Happy the man,” adds the Triad, “who possesses such a wife.” Very true, O Triad, always provided he is in some degree worthy of her; but many a man leaves an innocent wife at home for an impure Jezebel abroad, even as many a one prefers a pint of hog’s wash abroad to a tankard of generous liquor at home.
Preparations for Departure—Cat provided for—A Pleasant Party—Last Night at Llangollen.
I was awakened early on the Sunday morning by the howling of wind. There was a considerable storm throughout the day, but unaccompanied by rain. I went to church both in the morning and the evening. The next day there was a great deal of rain. It was now the latter end of October; winter was coming on, and my wife and daughter were anxious to return home. After some consultation, it was agreed that they should depart for London, and that I should join them there after making a pedestrian tour in South Wales.
I should have been loth to quit Wales without visiting the Deheubarth, or Southern Region, a land differing widely, as I had heard, both in language and customs from Gwynedd, or the Northern—a land which had given birth to the illustrious Ab Gwilym, and where the great Ryce family had flourished, which very much distinguished itself in the Wars of the Roses—a member of which, Ryce ap Thomas, placed Henry the Seventh on the throne of Britain—a family of royal extraction, and which, after the death of Roderic the Great, for a long time enjoyed the sovereignty of the south.
We set about making the necessary preparations for our respective journeys. Those for mine were soon made. I bought a small leather satchel with a lock and key, in which I placed a white linen shirt, a pair of worsted stockings, a razor and a prayer-book. Along with it I bought a leather strap with which to sling it over my shoulder; I got my boots new soled, my umbrella, which was rather dilapidated, mended; put twenty sovereigns into my purse, and then said I am all right for the Deheubarth.
As my wife and daughter required much more time in making preparations for their journey than I for mine, and as I should only be in their way whilst they were employed, it was determined that I should departon my expedition on Thursday, and that they should remain at Llangollen till the Saturday.
We were at first in some perplexity with respect to the disposal of the ecclesiastical cat; it would, of course, not do to leave it in the garden, to the tender mercies of the Calvinistic Methodists of the neighbourhood, more especially those of the flannel manufactory, and my wife and daughter could hardly carry it with them. At length we thought of applying to a young woman of sound Church principles, who was lately married, and lived over the water on the way to the railroad station, with whom we were slightly acquainted, to take charge of the animal; and she, on the first intimation of our wish, willingly acceded to it. So with her poor puss was left, along with a trifle for its milk-money, and with her, as we subsequently learned, it continued in peace and comfort, till one morning it sprang suddenly from the hearth into the air, gave a mew and died. So much for the ecclesiastical cat!
The morning of Tuesday was rather fine, and Mr. Ebenezer E—, who had heard of our intended departure, came to invite us to spend the evening at the vicarage. His father had left Llangollen the day before for Chester, where he expected to be detained some days. I told him we should be most happy to come. He then asked me to take a walk. I agreed with pleasure, and we set out, intending to go to Llansilio, at the western end of the valley, and look at the church. The church was an ancient building. It had no spire, but had the little erection on its roof, so usual to Welsh churches, for holding a bell.
In the churchyard is a tomb, in which an old squire of the name of Jones was buried about the middle of the last century. There is a tradition about this squire and tomb, to the following effect. After the squire’s death there was a lawsuit about his property, in consequence of no will having been found. It was said that his will had been buried with him in the tomb, which after some time was opened, but with what success the tradition sayeth not.
In the evening we went to the vicarage. Besides the family and ourselves, there was Mr. R—, and one or two more. We had a very pleasant party; and asmost of those present wished to hear something connected with Spain, I talked much about that country, sang songs of Germania, and related in an abridged form Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is decidedly the best ghost story in the world.
In the afternoon of Wednesday I went and took leave of certain friends in the town; amongst others of old Mr. Jones. On my telling him that I was about to leave Llangollen, he expressed considerable regret, but said that it was natural for me to wish to return to my native country. I told him that before returning to England I intended to make a pedestrian tour in South Wales. He said that he should die without seeing the south; that he had had several opportunities of visiting it when he was young, which he had neglected, and that he was now too old to wander far from home. He then asked me which road I intended to take. I told him that I intended to strike across the Berwyn to Llan Rhyadr, then visit Sycharth, once the seat of Owen Glendower, lying to the east of Llan Rhyadr, then return to that place, and after seeing the celebrated cataract, cross the mountains to Bala—whence I should proceed due south. I then asked him whether he had ever seen Sycharth and the Rhyadr; he told me that he had never visited Sycharth, but had seen the Rhyadr more than once. He then smiled, and said that there was a ludicrous anecdote connected with the Rhyadr, which he would relate to me. “A traveller once went to see the Rhyadr, and whilst gazing at it a calf, which had fallen into the stream above whilst grazing upon the rocks, came tumbling down the cataract. ‘Wonderful!’ said the traveller, and going away, reported that it was not only a fall of water, but of calves, and was very much disappointed, on visiting the waterfall on another occasion, to see no calf come tumbling down.” I took leave of the kind old gentleman with regret, never expecting to see him again, as he was in his eighty-fourth year—he was a truly excellent character, and might be ranked amongst the venerable ornaments of his native place.
About half-past eight o’clock at night John Jones came to bid me farewell. I bade him sit down, and sent for a pint of ale to regale him with. Notwithstandingthe ale, he was very melancholy at the thought that I was about to leave Llangollen, probably never to return. To enliven him I gave him an account of my late expedition to Wrexham, which made him smile more than once. When I had concluded, he asked me whether I knew the meaning of the word Wrexham; I told him I believed I did, and gave him the derivation which the reader will find in an early chapter of this work. He told me that with all due submission he thought he could give me a better, which he had heard from a very clever man, gwr deallus iawn, who lived about two miles from Llangollen, on the Corwen road. In the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at the place where Wrexham now stands; when he died he left it to his wife, who kept it after him, on which account the house was first called Tŷ wraig Sam, the house of Sam’s wife, and then for shortness Wraig Sam, and a town arising about it by degrees, the town, too, was called Wraig Sam, which the Saxons corrupted into Wrexham.
I was much diverted with this Welsh derivation of Wrexham, which I did not attempt to controvert. After we had had some further discourse, John Jones got up, shook me by the hand, gave a sigh, wished me a “taith hyfryd,” and departed. Thus terminated my last day at Llangollen.
Departure for South Wales—Tregeiriog—Pleasing Scene—Trying to Read—Garmon and Lupus—The Cracked Voice—Effect of a Compliment—Llan Rhyadr.
The morning of the 21st of October was fine and cold; there was a rime frost on the ground. At about eleven o’clock I started on my journey for South Wales, intending that my first stage should be Llan Rhyadr. My wife and daughter accompanied me as far as Plas Newydd. As we passed through the town I shook hands with honest A—, whom I saw standing at the door of a shop, with a kind of Spanish hat on his head, and also with my venerable friend old Mr. Jones,whom I encountered close beside his own domicile. At the Plas Newydd I took an affectionate farewell of my two loved ones, and proceeded to ascend the Berwyn. Near the top I turned round to take a final look at the spot where I had lately passed many a happy hour. There lay Llangollen far below me, with its chimneys placidly smoking, its pretty church rising in its centre, its blue river dividing it into two nearly equal parts, and the mighty hill of Brennus, overhanging it from the north. I sighed, and repeating Einion Du’s verse
“Tangnefedd i Llangollen!”
“Tangnefedd i Llangollen!”
turned away.
I went over the top of the hill, and then began to descend its southern side, obtaining a distant view of the plains of Shropshire on the east. I soon reached the bottom of the hill, passed through Llansanfraid, and threading the vale of the Ceiriog, at length found myself at Pont y Meibion, in front of the house of Huw Morris, or rather of that which is built on the site of the dwelling of the poet. I stopped, and remained before the house, thinking of the mighty Huw, till the door opened, and out came the dark-featured man, the poet’s descendant, whom I saw when visiting the place in company with honest John Jones—he had now a spade in his hand, and was doubtless going to his labour. As I knew him to be of a rather sullen, unsocial disposition, I said nothing to him, but proceeded on my way. As I advanced the valley widened, the hills on the west receding to some distance from the river. Came to Tregeiriog, a small village, which takes its name from the brook; Tregeiriog signifying the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog. Seeing a bridge which crossed the rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a little beyond the village, I turned aside to look at it. The proper course of the Ceiriog is from south to north; where it is crossed by the bridge, however, it runs from west to east, returning to its usual course, a little way below the bridge. The bridge was small, and presented nothing remarkable in itself: I obtained, however, as I looked over its parapet towards the west, a view of a scene, not of wild grandeur, but of something which I like better, which richly compensatedme for the slight trouble I had taken in stepping aside to visit the little bridge. About a hundred yards distant was a small watermill, built over the rivulet, the wheel going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of pigs, the generality of them brindled, were either browsing on the banks, or lying close to the sides, half immersed in the water; one immense white hog, the monarch seemingly of the herd, was standing in the middle of the current. Such was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life well suited to the brushes of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or to those of men scarcely inferior to them in their own style—Gainsborough, Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour had been in a highly-excited state; I had been repeating verses of old Huw Morris, brought to my recollection by the sight of his dwelling-place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads. I admired the vigour, but disliked the principles which they displayed; and admiration on the one hand, and disapproval on the other, bred a commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when tide runs one way and wind blows another. The quiet scene from the bridge, however, produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when I resumed my journey I had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers.
I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley, through which the Ceiriog, or a river very similar to it, flows. It is half-way between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles from each. I went to a small inn, or public-house, sat down, and called for ale. A waggoner was seated at a large table with a newspaper before him on which he was intently staring.
“What news?” said I in English.
“I wish I could tell you,” said he in very broken English; “but I cannot read.”
“Then why are you looking at the paper?” said I.
“Because,” said he, “by looking at the letters I hope in time to make them out.”
“You may look at them,” said I, “for fifty years without being able to make out one. You should go to an evening school.”
“I am too old,” said he, “to do so now; if I did the children would laugh at me.”
“Never mind their laughing at you,” said I, “provided you learn to read; let them laugh who win!”
“You give good advice, mester,” said he; “I think I shall follow it.”
“Let me look at the paper,” said I.
He handed it to me. It was a Welsh paper, and full of dismal accounts from the seat of war.
“What news, mester?” said the waggoner.
“Nothing but bad,” said I; “the Russians are beating us and the French too.”
“If the Rusiaid beat us,” said the waggoner, “it is because the Francod are with us. We should have gone alone.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said I; “at any rate, we could not have fared worse than we are faring now.”
I presently paid for what I had had, inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr, and departed. The village of Llanarmon takes its name from its church, which is dedicated to Garmon, an Armorican bishop, who, with another called Lupus, came over into Britain in order to preach against the heresy of Pelagius. He and his colleague resided for some time in Flintshire, and whilst there enabled, in a remarkable manner, the Britons to achieve a victory over those mysterious people the Picts, who were ravaging the country far and wide. Hearing that the enemy were advancing towards Mold, the two bishops gathered together a number of the Britons, and placed them in ambush in a dark valley, through which it was necessary for the Picts to pass in order to reach Mold, strictly enjoining them to remain quiet till all their enemies should have entered the valley, and then do whatever they should see them, the two bishops, do. The Picts arrived, and when they were about half-way through the valley, the two bishops stepped forward from a thicket, and began crying aloud, “Alleluia!” The Britons followed their example, and the wooded valley resounded with cries of “Alleluia! alleluia!” The shouts and the unexpected appearance of thousands of men caused such terror to the Picts, that they took to flight in the greatest confusion, hundreds weretrampled to death by their companions, and not a few were drowned in the river Alan[371]which runs through the valley.
There are several churches dedicated to Garmon in Wales, but whether there are any dedicated to Lupus I am unable to say.
After leaving Llanarmon I found myself amongst lumpy hills, through which the road led in the direction of the south. Arriving where several roads met, I followed one, and became bewildered amidst hills and ravines. At last I saw a small house close by a nant, or dingle, and turned towards it for the purpose of inquiring my way. On my knocking at the door, a woman made her appearance, of whom I asked in Welsh whether I was in the road to Llan Rhyadr. She said that I was out of it, but that if I went towards the south I should see a path on my left which would bring me to it. I asked her how far it was to Llan Rhyadr.
“Four long miles,” she replied.
“And what is the name of the place where we are now?” said I.
“Cae Hir” (the long inclosure), said she.
“Are you alone in the house?” said I.
“Quite alone,” said she; “but my husband and people will soon be home from the field, for it is getting dusk.”
“Have you any Saxon?” said I.
“Not a word,” said she, “have I of the iaith dieithr, nor has my husband, nor any one of my people.”
I bade her farewell, and soon reached the road, which led south and north. As I was bound for the south, I strode forward briskly in that direction. The road was between romantic hills; heard Welsh songs proceeding from the hill fields on my right, and the murmur of a brook rushing down a deep nant on my left. I went on till I came to a collection of houses which an old woman, with a cracked voice and a small tin milk-pail, whom I assisted in getting over a stile into the road, told me was called Pen Strit—probably the head of the street. She spoke English, and on myasking her how she had learnt the English tongue, she told me that she had learnt it of her mother, who was an English woman. She said that I was two miles from Llan Rhyadr, and that I must go straight forward. I did so, till I reached a place where the road branched into two, one bearing somewhat to the left, and the other to the right. After standing a minute in perplexity I took the right-hand road, but soon guessed that I had taken the wrong one, as the road dwindled into a mere footpath. Hearing some one walking on the other side of the hedge, I inquired in Welsh whether I was going right for Llan Rhyadr, and was answered by a voice in English, apparently that of a woman, that I was not, and that I must go back. I did so, and presently a woman came through a gate to me.
“Are you the person,” said I, “who just now answered me in English after I had spoken in Welsh?”
“In truth I am,” said she, with a half laugh.
“And how came you to answer me in English, after I had spoken to you in Welsh?”
“Because,” said she, “it was easy enough to know by your voice that you were an Englishman.”
“You speak English remarkably well,” said I.
“And so do you Welsh,” said the woman; “I had no idea that it was possible for any Englishman to speak Welsh half so well.”
“I wonder,” thought I to myself, “what you would have answered if I had said that you speak English execrably.” By her own account, she could read both Welsh and English. She walked by my side to the turn, and then up the left-hand road, which she said was the way to Llan Rhyadr. Coming to a cottage, she bade me good-night, and went in. The road was horribly miry; presently, as I was staggering through a slough, just after I had passed a little cottage, I heard a cracked voice crying, “I suppose you lost your way?” I recognised it as that of the old woman whom I had helped over the stile. She was now standing behind a little gate, which opened into a garden before the cottage. The figure of a man was standing near her. I told her that she was quite right in her supposition.
“Ah,” said she, “you should have gone straight forward.”
“If I had gone straight forward,” said I, “I must have gone over a hedge, at the corner of a field which separated two roads; instead of bidding me go straight forward, you should have told me to follow the left-hand road.”
“Well,” said she, “be sure you keep straight forward now.”
I asked her who the man was standing near her.
“It is my husband,” said she.
“Has he much English?” said I.
“None at all,” said she, “for his mother was not English, like mine.” I bade her good-night, and went forward. Presently I came to a meeting of roads, and to go straight forward it was necessary to pass through a quagmire; remembering, however, the words of my friend the beldame, I went straight forward, though in so doing I was sloughed up to the knees. In a little time I came to a rapid descent, and at the bottom of it to a bridge. It was now very dark; only the corner of the moon was casting a faint light. After crossing the bridge I had one or two ascents and descents. At last I saw lights before me, which proved to be those of Llan Rhyadr. I soon found myself in a dirty little street, and, inquiring for the inn, was kindly shown by a man to one which he said was the best, and which was called the Wynstay Arms.
Inn at Llan Rhyadr—A Low Englishman—Enquiries—The Cook—A Precious Couple.
The inn seemed very large, but did not look very cheerful. No other guest than myself seemed to be in it, except in the kitchen, where I heard a fellow talking English, and occasionally yelling an English song; the master and mistress of the house were civil, and lighted me a fire in what was called the Commercial Room, and putting plenty of coals in the grate, soon made the apartment warm and comfortable. I ordereddinner, or rather supper, which in about half-an-hour was brought in by the woman. The supper, whether good or bad, I despatched with the appetite of one who had walked twenty miles over hill and dale.
Occasionally I heard a dreadful noise in the kitchen, and the woman told me that the fellow there was making himself exceedingly disagreeable, chiefly, she believed, because she had refused to let him sleep in the house—she said that he was a low fellow, that went about the country with fish, and that he was the more ready to insult her as the master of the house was now gone out. I asked if he was an Englishman. “Yes,” said she, “a low Englishman.”
“Then he must be low indeed,” said I. “A low Englishman is the lowest of the low.” After a little time I heard no more noise, and was told that the fellow was gone away. I had a little whisky and water, and then went to bed, sleeping in a tolerable chamber, but rather cold. There was much rain during the night, and also wind; windows rattled, and I occasionally heard the noise of falling tiles.
I arose about eight. Notwithstanding the night had been so tempestuous, the morning was sunshiny and beautiful. Having ordered breakfast, I walked out in order to have a look at the town. Llan Rhyadr is a small place, having nothing remarkable in it save an ancient church, and a strange little antique market-house, standing on pillars. It is situated at the western end of an extensive valley, and at the entrance of a glen. A brook, or rivulet, runs through it, which comes down the glen from the celebrated cataract, which is about four miles distant to the west. Two lofty mountains form the entrance of the glen, and tower above the town, one on the south and the other on the north. Their names, if they have any, I did not learn.
After strolling about the little place for about a quarter of an hour, staring at the things and the people, and being stared at by the latter, I returned to my inn, a structure built in the modern Gothic style, and which stands nearly opposite to the churchyard. Whilst breakfasting, I asked the landlady, who was bustling about the room, whether she had ever heard of Owen Glendower.
“In truth, sir, I have. He was a great gentleman who lived a long time ago, and, and—”
“Gave the English a great deal of trouble,” said I.
“Just so, sir; at least, I dare say it is so, as you say it.”
“And do you know where he lived?”
“I do not, sir; I suppose a great way off, somewhere in the south.”
“Do you mean South Wales?”
“In truth, sir, I do.”
“There you are mistaken,” said I; “and also in supposing he lived a great way off. He lived in North Wales, and not far from this place.”
“In truth, sir, you know more about him than I.”
“Did you ever hear of a place called Sycharth?”
“Sycharth! Sycharth! I never did, sir.”
“It is the place where Glendower lived, and it is not far off. I want to go there, but do not know the way.”
“Sycharth! Sycharth!” said the landlady musingly; “I wonder if it is the place we call Sychnant.”
“Is there such a place?”
“Yes, sure; about six miles from here, near Llangedwin.”
“What kind of place is it?”
“In truth, sir, I do not know, for I was never there. My cook, however, in the kitchen, knows all about it, for she comes from there.”
“Can I see her?”
“Yes, sure; I will go at once and fetch her.”
She then left the room, and presently returned with the cook, a short, thick girl, with blue, staring eyes.
“Here she is, sir,” said the landlady, “but she has no English.”
“All the better,” said I. “So you come from a place called Sychnant?” said I to the cook in Welsh.
“In truth, sir, I do,” said the cook.
“Did you ever hear of a gwr boneddig called Owen Glendower?”
“Often, sir, often; he lived in our place.”
“He lived in a place called Sycharth?” said I.
“Well, sir, and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as Sychnant; nay, oftener.”
“Is his house standing?”
“It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing.”
“Is it a high hill?”
“It is not; it is a small, light hill.”
“A light hill!” said I to myself. “Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower’s bard, said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.”
“There dwells the chief we all extolIn timber house on lightsome knoll.”
“There dwells the chief we all extolIn timber house on lightsome knoll.”
“Is there a little river near it,” said I to the cook—“a ffrwd?”
“There is; it runs just under the hill.”
“Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?”
“There is not; that is, now,—but there was in the old time; a factory of woollen stands now where the mill once stood.”
“A mill, a rushing brook upon,And pigeon tower fram’d of stone.”
“A mill, a rushing brook upon,And pigeon tower fram’d of stone.”
“So says Iolo Goch,” said I to myself, “in his description of Sycharth; I am on the right road.”
I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged, and was told of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of Carabas of Denbighshire. After a few more questions I thanked her and told her she might go. I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and, after telling the landlady that I should return at night, started for Llangedwin and Sycharth.
A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in which I was proceeding.
The valley was beautiful, and dotted with various farm-houses, and the land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the soil of my own Norfolk—that county so deservedly celebrated for its agriculture. The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and towards the north the vale is crossed by three rugged elevations, the middlemost of which, called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas, terminates to the west in an exceedingly high and picturesque crag.
After an hour’s walking I overtook two people, a man and a woman laden with baskets, which hungaround them on every side. The man was a young fellow of about eight-and-twenty, with a round face, fair flaxen hair, and rings in his ears; the female was a blooming buxom lass of about eighteen. After giving them the sele of the day, I asked them if they were English.
“Aye, aye, master,” said the man; “we are English.”
“Where do you come from?” said I.
“From Wrexham,” said the man.
“I thought Wrexham was in Wales,” said I.
“If it be,” said the man, “the people are not Welsh; a man is not a horse because he happens to be born in a stable.”
“Is that young woman your wife?” said I.
“Yes,” said he, “after a fashion”—and then he leered at the lass, and she leered at him.
“Do you attend any place of worship?” said I.
“A great many, master!”
“What place do you chiefly attend?” said I.
“The Chequers, master!”
“Do they preach the best sermons there?” said I.
“No, master! but they sells the best ale there.”
“Do you worship ale?” said I.
“Yes, master; I worships ale.”
“Anything else?” said I.
“Yes, master! I and my mort worships something besides good ale; don’t we, Sue?” and then he leered at the mort, who leered at him, and both made odd motions backwards and forwards, causing the baskets which hung around them to creak and rustle, and uttering loud shouts of laughter, which roused the echoes of the neighbouring hills.
“Genuine descendants, no doubt,” said I to myself as I walked briskly on, “of certain of the old heathen Saxons who followed Rag into Wales, and settled down about the house which he built. Really, if these two are a fair specimen of the Wrexham population, my friend the Scotch policeman was not much out when he said that the people of Wrexham were the worst people in Wales.”
Sycharth—The kindly Welcome—Happy Couple—Sycharth—Recalling the Dead—Ode to Sycharth.
I was now at the northern extremity of the valley near a great house, past which the road led in the direction of the north-east. Seeing a man employed in breaking stones, I inquired the way to Sychnant.
“You must turn to the left,” said he, “before you come to yon great house, follow the path which you will find behind it, and you will soon be in Sychnant.”
“And to whom does the great house belong?”
“To whom? why, to Sir Watkin.”
“Does he reside there?”
“Not often. He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes there to hunt.”
“What is the place’s name?”
“Llan Gedwin.”
I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me. The path led upward behind the great house, round a hill thickly planted with trees. Following it, I at length found myself on a broad road on the top extending east and west, and having on the north and south beautiful wooded hills. I followed the road, which presently began to descend. On reaching level ground I overtook a man in a waggoner’s frock, of whom I inquired the way to Sycharth. He pointed westward down the vale to what appeared to be a collection of houses, near a singular-looking monticle, and said, “That is Sycharth.”
We walked together till we came to a road which branched off on the right to a little bridge.
“That is your way,” said he, and pointing to a large building beyond the bridge, towering up above a number of cottages, he said, “that is the factory of Sycharth;” he then left me, following the high road, whilst I proceeded towards the bridge, which I crossed, and coming to the cottages, entered one on the right-hand, of a remarkably neat appearance.
In a comfortable kitchen, by a hearth on which blazed a cheerful billet, sat a man and woman. Botharose when I entered; the man was tall, about fifty years of age, and athletically built; he was dressed in a white coat, corduroy breeches, shoes, and grey worsted stockings. The woman seemed many years older than the man; she was tall also, and strongly built, and dressed in the ancient Welsh female costume, namely, a kind of round half-Spanish hat, long blue woollen kirtle, or gown, a crimson petticoat, and white apron, and broad, stout shoes with buckles.
“Welcome, stranger,” said the man, after looking me a moment or two full in the face.
“Croesaw, dyn dieithr—welcome, foreign man,” said the woman, surveying me with a look of great curiosity.
“Won’t you sit down?” said the man, handing me a chair.
I sat down, and the man and woman resumed their seats.
“I suppose you come on business connected with the factory?” said the man.
“No,” said I, “my business is connected with Owen Glendower.”
“With Owen Glendower?” said the man, staring.
“Yes,” said I; “I came to see his place.”
“You will not see much of his house now,” said the man—“it is down; only a few bricks remain.”
“But I shall see the place where his house stood,” said I; “which is all I expected to see.”
“Yes; you can see that.”
“What does the dyn dieithr say?” said the woman in Welsh, with an inquiring look.
“That he is come to see the place of Owen Glendower.”
“Ah!” said the woman with a smile.
“Is that good lady your wife?” said I.
“She is.”
“She looks much older than yourself.”
“And no wonder. She is twenty-one years older.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-three.”
“Dear me,” said I, “what a difference in your ages! how came you to marry?”
“She was a widow, and I had lost my wife. Wewere lone in the world, so we thought we would marry.”
“Do you live happily together?”
“Very.”
“Then you did quite right to marry. What is your name?”
“David Robert.”
“And that of your wife?”
“Gwen Robert.”
“Does she speak English?”
“She speaks some, but not much.”
“Is the place where Owen lived far from here?”
“It is not. It is the round hill a little way above the factory.”
“Is the path to it easy to find?”
“I will go with you,” said the man. “I work at the factory, but I need not go there for an hour at least.”
He put on his hat, and bidding me follow him, went out. He led me over a gush of water which, passing under the factory, turns the wheel; thence over a field or two towards a house at the foot of the mountain, where he said the steward of Sir Watkin lived, of whom it would be as well to apply for permission to ascend the hill, as it was Sir Watkin’s ground. The steward was not at home; his wife was, however, and she, when we told her we wished to go to the top of Owain Glendower’s Hill, gave us permission with a smile. We thanked her, and proceeded to mount the hill, or monticle, once the residence of the great Welsh chieftain, whom his own deeds and the pen of Shakespear have rendered immortal.
Owen Glendower’s hill, or mount, at Sycharth, unlike the one bearing his name on the banks of the Dee, is not an artificial hill, but the work of nature, save and except that to a certain extent it has been modified by the hand of man. It is somewhat conical, and consists of two steps, or gradations, where two fosses scooped out of the hill go round it, one above the other, the lower one embracing considerably the most space. Both these fosses are about six feet deep, and at one time doubtless were bricked, as stout, large, red bricks are yet to be seen, here and there, in their sides. Thetop of the mount is just twenty-five feet across. When I visited it, it was covered with grass, but had once been subjected to the plough, as various furrows indicated. The monticle stands not far from the western extremity of the valley, nearly midway between two hills which confront each other north and south, the one to the south being the hill which I had descended, and the other a beautiful wooded height which is called in the parlance of the country Llwyn Sycharth, or the grove of Sycharth, from which comes the little gush of water which I had crossed, and which now turns the wheel of the factory, and once turned that of Owen Glendower’s mill, and filled his two moats; part of the water, by some mechanical means, having been forced up the eminence. On the top of this hill, or monticle, in a timber house, dwelt the great Welshman, Owen Glendower, with his wife, a comely, kindly woman, and his progeny, consisting of stout boys and blooming girls, and there, though wonderfully cramped for want of room, he feasted bards, who requited his hospitality with alliterative odes very difficult to compose, and which at the present day only a few bookworms understand. There he dwelt for many years, the virtual, if not the nominal, king of North Wales; occasionally, no doubt, looking down with self-complaisance from the top of his fastness on the parks and fish-ponds, of which he had several; his mill, his pigeon tower, his ploughed lands, and the cottages of a thousand retainers, huddled round the lower part of the hill, or strewn about the valley; and there he might have lived and died, had not events caused him to draw the sword and engage in a war, at the termination of which Sycharth was a fire-scathed ruin, and himself a broken-hearted old man in anchorite’s weeds, living in a cave on the estate of Sir John Scudamore, the great Herefordshire proprietor, who married his daughter Elen, his only surviving child.
After I had been a considerable time on the hill, looking about me and asking questions of my guide, I took out a piece of silver and offered it to him, thanking him at the same time for the trouble he had taken in showing me the place. He refused it, saying that I was quite welcome.
I tried to force it upon him.
“I will not take it,” said he; “but if you come to my house and have a cup of coffee, you may give sixpence to my old woman.”
“I will come,” said I, “in a short time. In the meanwhile, do you go; I wish to be alone.”
“What do you want to do?”
“To sit down and endeavour to recall Glendower, and the times that are past.”
The fine fellow looked puzzled; at last he said, “Very well,” shrugged his shoulders, and descended the hill.
When he was gone I sat down on the brow of the hill, and with my face turned to the east, began slowly to chant a translation made by myself in the days of my boyhood of an ode to Sycharth, composed by Iolo Goch when upwards of a hundred years old, shortly after his arrival at that place, to which he had been invited by Owen Glendower:—
Twice have I pledg’d my word to theeTo come thy noble face to see;His promises let every manPerform as far as e’er he can!Full easy is the thing that’s sweet,And sweet this journey is and meet;I’ve vowed to Owain’s court to go,And I’m resolv’d to keep my vow;So thither straight I’ll take my wayWith blithesome heart, and there I’ll stay,Respect and honour, whilst I breathe,To find his honour’d roof beneath.My chief of long lin’d ancestryCan harbour sons of poesy;I’ve heard, for so the muse has told,He’s kind and gentle to the old;Yes, to his castle I will hie;There’s none to match it ’neath the sky:It is a baron’s stately court,Where bards for sumptuous fare resort;There dwells the lord of Powis land,Who granteth every just demand.Its likeness now I’ll limn you out:’Tis water girdled wide about;It shows a wide and stately doorReached by a bridge the water o’er;’Tis form’d of buildings coupled fair,Coupled is every couple there;Within a quadrate structure tallMuster the merry pleasures all.Conjointly are the angles bound—No flaw in all the place is found.Structures in contact meet the eyeUpon the hillock’s top on high;Into each other fastened theyThe form of a hard knot display.There dwells the chief we all extolIn timber house on lightsome knoll;Upon four wooden columns proudMounteth his mansion to the cloud;Each column’s thick and firmly bas’d,And upon each a loft is plac’d;In these four lofts, which coupled stand,Repose at night the minstrel band;Four lofts they were in pristine state,But now partitioned form they eight.Tiled is the roof, on each house-topRise smoke-ejecting chimneys up.All of one form there are nine hallsEach with nine wardrobes in its wallsWith linen white as well suppliedAs fairest shops of fam’d Cheapside.Behold that church with cross uprais’dAnd with its windows neatly glaz’d;All houses are in this comprest—An orchard’s near it of the best,Also a park where void of fearFeed antler’d herds of fallow deer.A warren wide my chief can boast,Of goodly steeds a countless host.Meads where for hay the clover grows,Corn-fields which hedges trim inclose,A mill a rushing brook upon,And pigeon tower fram’d of stone;A fish-pond deep and dark to seeTo cast nets in when need there be,Which never yet was known to lackA plenteous store of perch and jack.Of various plumage birds abound;Herons and peacocks haunt around.What luxury doth his hall adorn,Showing of cost a sovereign scorn;His ale from Shrewsbury town he brings;His usquebaugh is drink for kings;Bragget he keeps, bread white of look,And, bless the mark! a bustling cook.His mansion is the minstrels’ home,You’ll find them there whene’er you comeOf all her sex his wife’s the best;The household through her care is blest.She’s scion of a knightly tree,She’s dignified, she’s kind and free.His bairns approach me, pair by pair,O what a nest of chieftains fair!Here difficult it is to catchA sight of either bolt or latch;The porter’s place here none will fill;Here largess shall be lavish’d still,And ne’er shall thirst or hunger rudeIn Sycharth venture to intrude.A noble leader, Cambria’s knight,The lake possesses, his by right,And midst that azure water plac’d,The castle, by each pleasure grac’d.
Twice have I pledg’d my word to theeTo come thy noble face to see;His promises let every manPerform as far as e’er he can!Full easy is the thing that’s sweet,And sweet this journey is and meet;I’ve vowed to Owain’s court to go,And I’m resolv’d to keep my vow;So thither straight I’ll take my wayWith blithesome heart, and there I’ll stay,Respect and honour, whilst I breathe,To find his honour’d roof beneath.My chief of long lin’d ancestryCan harbour sons of poesy;I’ve heard, for so the muse has told,He’s kind and gentle to the old;Yes, to his castle I will hie;There’s none to match it ’neath the sky:It is a baron’s stately court,Where bards for sumptuous fare resort;There dwells the lord of Powis land,Who granteth every just demand.Its likeness now I’ll limn you out:’Tis water girdled wide about;It shows a wide and stately doorReached by a bridge the water o’er;’Tis form’d of buildings coupled fair,Coupled is every couple there;Within a quadrate structure tallMuster the merry pleasures all.Conjointly are the angles bound—No flaw in all the place is found.Structures in contact meet the eyeUpon the hillock’s top on high;Into each other fastened theyThe form of a hard knot display.There dwells the chief we all extolIn timber house on lightsome knoll;Upon four wooden columns proudMounteth his mansion to the cloud;Each column’s thick and firmly bas’d,And upon each a loft is plac’d;In these four lofts, which coupled stand,Repose at night the minstrel band;Four lofts they were in pristine state,But now partitioned form they eight.Tiled is the roof, on each house-topRise smoke-ejecting chimneys up.All of one form there are nine hallsEach with nine wardrobes in its wallsWith linen white as well suppliedAs fairest shops of fam’d Cheapside.Behold that church with cross uprais’dAnd with its windows neatly glaz’d;All houses are in this comprest—An orchard’s near it of the best,Also a park where void of fearFeed antler’d herds of fallow deer.A warren wide my chief can boast,Of goodly steeds a countless host.Meads where for hay the clover grows,Corn-fields which hedges trim inclose,A mill a rushing brook upon,And pigeon tower fram’d of stone;A fish-pond deep and dark to seeTo cast nets in when need there be,Which never yet was known to lackA plenteous store of perch and jack.Of various plumage birds abound;Herons and peacocks haunt around.What luxury doth his hall adorn,Showing of cost a sovereign scorn;His ale from Shrewsbury town he brings;His usquebaugh is drink for kings;Bragget he keeps, bread white of look,And, bless the mark! a bustling cook.His mansion is the minstrels’ home,You’ll find them there whene’er you comeOf all her sex his wife’s the best;The household through her care is blest.She’s scion of a knightly tree,She’s dignified, she’s kind and free.His bairns approach me, pair by pair,O what a nest of chieftains fair!Here difficult it is to catchA sight of either bolt or latch;The porter’s place here none will fill;Here largess shall be lavish’d still,And ne’er shall thirst or hunger rudeIn Sycharth venture to intrude.A noble leader, Cambria’s knight,The lake possesses, his by right,And midst that azure water plac’d,The castle, by each pleasure grac’d.
And when I had finished repeating these lines I said, “How much more happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood, when I translated Iolo’s ode, than I am at the present time!” Then covering my face with my hands, I wept like a child.