CHAPTER XIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir, from this side,” replied the man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was his name?” said he.

“His name was Joost Van Vondel,” I replied.

“I never heard of him before,” said Morgan.

“Very probably,” said I; “he was born, bred, and died in Holland.”

“Has he been dead long?” said Morgan.

“About two hundred years,” said I.

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

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

“O, I dare say he was a great man if he was a Baptist,” said Morgan.  “Well, it’s strange I never read of him.  I thought I had read the lives of all the eminent people who lived and died in our communion.”

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

“Oh, he didn’t die in it,” said Morgan.  “What, did he go over to the Church of England? a pretty fellow!”

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

“Well, that’s not quite so bad,” said Morgan; “however, it’s bad enough.  I dare say he was a pretty blackguard.”

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

“Deluded indeed!” said Morgan.  “However, I suppose he went over for advancement’s sake.”

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

“How did he support himself?” said Morgan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is there in that house?” said I.

“An aunt of mine lives there,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

H. M. B.

H. M. B.

signifying Huw Morus Bard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“None,” said he; “but I have one of the printed copies of his works.”

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

“The bridge,” he replied, “is close by, over the Ceiriog.  If you wish to see it, you must go down yon field; the house is called after the bridge.”

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

“That bridge,” said I, “was never built by children.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And who are you?” said I.

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

“Can you speak English?” said I.

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

“Can he speak Welsh?” said I.

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

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

“No,” replied the woman, “it is theBolton Chronicle; my husband reads it.”

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

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

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

“Frequently,” said she.

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

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

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

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

“Do many English,” said I, “marry Welsh wives?”

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

“Do the Englishmen make good husbands?” said I.

The woman smiled and presently sighed.

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

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

“Is your husband a tall bulky man?” said I.

“Just so,” said the woman.

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

“I don’t know him,” said Jones, “though I have heard of him, but I have no doubt that was he.”

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

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

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

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

“Just so,” said Jones—“they are principally used in the neighbourhood of Manchester.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And where would they be sent to?”

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

“You ought to rejoice in your chance of goingthere,” said I, “Iwerddon is a beautiful country, and abounds with whiskey.”

“And the Irish?” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Now to my rest I hurry away,To the world which lasts for ever and aye,To Paradise, the beautiful place,Trusting alone in the Lord of Grace.’”

“‘Now to my rest I hurry away,To the world which lasts for ever and aye,To Paradise, the beautiful place,Trusting alone in the Lord of Grace.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does not that mean the bridge of the fulling mill?”

“I believe it does, sir,” said the man.

“Is there a fulling mill near?”

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

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

“Is that gentlewoman your wife?”

“She is no gentlewoman, sir, but she is my wife.”

“Of what religion are you?”

“We are Calvinistic Methodists, sir.”

“Have you been to chapel?”

“We are just returned, sir.”

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

“Have you been to chapel, sir?”

“I do not go to chapel; I belong to the Church.”

“Have you been to church, sir?”

“I have not—I said my prayers at home, and then walked out.”

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

“Who told you so?”

“The law of God, which says you shall keep holy the Sabbath day.”

“I am not keeping it unholy.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You do not like the English,” said I.

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

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

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

“But one of your great bards did,” said I.

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

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

“I never did,” said the woman.

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

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

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

“Is it easy to find?” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it easy to get to?” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do they say who raised this hill?”

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

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

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

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

“I wish all English could speak Welsh, sir.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Of what religion are you?” said I.

“I am of the Church,” he replied.

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

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

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

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

“A fine evening,” said I in English.  “Dim Saesneg,” said the aged woman.

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

“I dare say,” said the aged woman, “to those who can see.”

“Can you not see?”

“Very little.  I am almost blind.”

“Can you not see me?”

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

“Can you tell me the name of the bridge?”

“Pont y Glyn blin—the bridge of the glen of trouble.”

“And what is the name of this place?”

“Pen y bont—the head of the bridge.”

“What is your own name?”

“Catherine Hughes.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen after three twenties.”

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

“Can she see?”

“Better than I—she can read the smallest letters.”

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