The little maiden, who had never taken her eyes off me for a moment during the whole time I had been in the room, at first made no answer; being, however, bid by her grandmother to speak, she at length answered in a soft voice, “Medraf, I can.”
“Then write your name in this book,” said I, taking out a pocket-book and a pencil, “and write likewise that you are related to Gronwy Owen—and be sure you write in Welsh.”
The little maiden very demurely took the book and pencil, and placing the former on the table wrote as follows:
“Ellen Jones yn perthyn o bell i gronow owen.”
That is “Ellen Jones belonging from afar to Gronwy Owen.”
When I saw the name of Ellen I had no doubt that the children were related to the illustrious Gronwy.Ellen is a very uncommon Welsh name, but it seems to have been a family name of the Owens; it was borne by an infant daughter of the poet whom he tenderly loved, and who died whilst he was toiling at Walton in Cheshire,—
“Ellen, my darling,Who liest in the churchyard of Walton,”
“Ellen, my darling,Who liest in the churchyard of Walton,”
says poor Gronwy in one of the most affecting elegies ever written.
After a little farther conversation I bade the family farewell and left the house. After going down the road a hundred yards I turned back in order to ask permission to gather a leaf from one of the sycamores. Seeing the man who had helped me in my conversation with the old woman standing at the gate, I told him what I wanted, whereupon he instantly tore down a handful of leaves and gave them to me—thrusting them into my coat-pocket I thanked him kindly and departed.
Coming to the half-erected house, I again saw the man to whom I had addressed myself for information. I stopped, and speaking Spanish to him, asked how he had acquired the Spanish language.
“I have been in Chili, sir,” said he in the same tongue, “and in California, and in those places I learned Spanish.”
“What did you go to Chili for?” said I; “I need not ask you on what account you went to California.”
“I went there as a mariner,” said the man; “I sailed out of Liverpool for Chili.”
“And how is it,” said I, “that being a mariner and sailing in a Liverpool ship you do not speak English?”
“I speak English, señor,” said the man, “perfectly well.”
“Then how in the name of wonder,” said I, speaking English, “came you to answer me in Spanish? I am an Englishman thorough bred.”
“I can scarcely tell you how it was, sir,” said the man scratching his head, “but I thought I would speak to you in Spanish.”
“And why not English?” said I.
“Why, I heard you speaking Welsh,” said the man, “and as for an Englishman speaking Welsh—”
“But why not answer me in Welsh?” said I.
“Why, I saw it was not your language, sir,” said the man, “and as I had picked up some Spanish I thought it would be but fair to answer you in it.”
“But how did you know that I could speak Spanish?” said I.
“I don’t know indeed, sir,” said the man; “but I looked at you, and something seemed to tell me that you could speak Spanish. I can’t tell you how it was, sir,” said he, looking me very innocently in the face, “but I was forced to speak Spanish to you. I was indeed!”
“The long and short of it was,” said I, “that you took me for a foreigner, and thought that it would be but polite to answer me in a foreign language.”
“I dare say it was so, sir,” said the man. “I dare say it was just as you say.”
“How did you fare in California?” said I.
“Very fairly indeed, sir,” said the man. “I made some money there, and brought it home, and with part of it I am building this house.”
“I am very happy to hear it,” said I, “you are really a remarkable man—few return from California speaking Spanish as you do, and still fewer with money in their pockets.”
The poor fellow looked pleased at what I said, more especially at that part of the sentence which touched upon his speaking Spanish well. Wishing him many years of health and happiness in the house he was building, I left him, and proceeded on my path towards Pentraeth Coch.
After walking some way, I turned round in order to take a last look of a place which had so much interest for me. The mill may be seen from a considerable distance; so may some of the scattered houses, and also the wood which surrounds the house of the illustrious Gronwy. Prosperity to Llanfair! and may many a pilgrimage be made to it of the same character as my own.
Boxing Harry—Mr. Bos—Black Robin—Drovers—Commercial Travellers.
I arrived at the hostelry of Mr. Pritchard without meeting any adventure worthy of being marked down. I went into the little parlour, and, ringing the bell, was presently waited upon by Mrs. Pritchard, a nice matronly woman, whom I had not before seen, of whom I inquired what I could have for dinner.
“This is no great place for meat,” said Mrs. Pritchard, “that is fresh meat, for sometimes a fortnight passes without anything being killed in the neighbourhood. I am afraid at present there is not a bit of fresh meat to be had. What we can get you for dinner I do not know, unless you are willing to make shift with bacon and eggs.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said I, “I will have the bacon and eggs with tea and bread-and-butter, not forgetting a pint of ale—in a word, I will box Harry.”
“I suppose you are a commercial gent,” said Mrs. Pritchard.
“Why do you suppose me a commercial gent?” said I. “Do I look one?”
“Can’t say you do much,” said Mrs. Pritchard; “you have no rings on your fingers, nor a gilt chain at your waistcoat-pocket, but when you said ‘box Harry,’ I naturally took you to be one of the commercial gents, for when I was at Liverpool I was told that that was a word of theirs.”
“I believe the word properly belongs to them,” said I. “I am not one of them; but I learnt it from them, a great many years ago, when I was much amongst them. Those whose employers were in a small way of business, or allowed them insufficient salaries, frequently used to ‘box Harry,’ that is have a beef-steak, or mutton-chop, or perhaps bacon and eggs, as I am going to have, along with tea and ale instead of the regular dinner of a commercial gentleman, namely, fish, hot joint and fowl, pint of sherry, tart, ale and cheese, and bottle of old port, at the end of all.”
Having made arrangements for “boxing Harry”I went into the tap-room, from which I had heard the voice of Mr. Pritchard proceeding during the whole of my conversation with his wife. Here I found the worthy landlord seated with a single customer; both were smoking. The customer instantly arrested my attention. He was a man seemingly about forty years of age with a broad red face, with certain somethings, looking very much like incipient carbuncles, here and there upon it. His eyes were grey and looked rather as if they squinted; his mouth was very wide, and when it opened displayed a set of strong white, uneven teeth. He was dressed in a pepper-and-salt coat of the Newmarket cut, breeches of corduroy and brown top boots, and had on his head a broad, black, coarse, low-crowned hat. In his left hand he held a heavy white whale-bone whip with a brass head. I sat down on a bench nearly opposite to him and the landlord.
“Well,” said Mr. Pritchard; “did you find your way to Llanfair?”
“Yes,” said I.
“And did you execute the business satisfactorily which led you there?” said Mr. Pritchard.
“Perfectly,” said I.
“Well, what did you give a stone for your live pork?” said his companion glancing up at me, and speaking in a gruff voice.
“I did not buy any live pork,” said I; “do you take me for a pig-jobber?”
“Of course,” said the man in pepper-and-salt; “who but a pig-jobber could have business at Llanfair?”
“Does Llanfair produce nothing but pigs?” said I.
“Nothing at all,” said the man in the pepper-and-salt; “that is nothing worth mentioning. You wouldn’t go there for runts, that is if you were in your right senses; if you were in want of runts you would have gone to my parish and have applied to me Mr. Bos; that is if you were in your senses. Wouldn’t he, John Pritchard?”
Mr. Pritchard thus appealed to took the pipe out of his mouth, and with some hesitation said that he believed the gentleman neither went to Llanfair for pigs nor black cattle but upon some particular business.
“Well,” said Mr. Bos, “it may be so, but I can’t conceive how any person, either gentle or simple, could have any business in Anglesey save that business was pigs or cattle.”
“The truth is,” said I, “I went to Llanfair to see the birth-place of a great man—the cleverest Anglesey ever produced.”
“Then you went wrong,” said Mr. Bos, “you went to the wrong parish, you should have gone to Penmynnydd; the clebber man of Anglesey was born and buried at Penmynnydd; you may see his tomb in the church.”
“You are alluding to Black Robin,” said I, “who wrote the ode in praise of Anglesey—yes, he was a very clever young fellow, but excuse me, he was not half such a poet as Gronwy Owen.”
“Black Robin,” said Mr. Bos, “and Gronow Owen, who the Devil were they? I never heard of either. I wasn’t talking of them, but of the clebberest man the world ever saw. Did you never hear of Owen Tiddir? If you didn’t, where did you get your education?”
“I have heard of Owen Tudor,” said I, “but never understood that he was particularly clever; handsome he undoubtedly was—but clever—”
“How not clebber?” interrupted Mr. Bos. “If he wasn’t clebber, who was clebber? Didn’t he marry a great queen, and was not Harry the Eighth his great grandson?”
“Really,” said I, “you know a great deal of history.”
“I should hope I do,” said Mr. Bos. “O, I wasn’t at school at Blewmaris for six months for nothing; and I haven’t been in Northampton, and in every town in England without learning something of history. With regard to history I may say that few—. Won’t you drink?” said he, patronizingly, as he pushed a jug of ale which stood before him on a little table towards me.
Begging politely to be excused on the plea that I was just about to take tea, I asked him in what capacity he had travelled all over England.
“As a drover, to be sure,” said Mr. Bos, “and I may say that there are not many in Anglesey betterknown in England than myself—at any rate I may say that there is not a public-house between here and Worcester at which I am not known.”
“Pray excuse me,” said I, “but is not droving rather a low-lifed occupation?”
“Not half so much as pig-jobbing,” said Bos, “and that that’s your trade I am certain, or you would never have gone to Llanfair.”
“I am no pig-jobber,” said I, “and when I asked you that question about droving, I merely did so because one Ellis Wynn, in a book he wrote, gives the drovers a very bad character, and puts them in Hell for their mal-practices.”
“O, he does,” said Mr. Bos, “well the next time I meet him at Corwen I’ll crack his head for saying so. Mal-practices—he had better look at his own, for he is a pig-jobber too. Written a book has he? then I suppose he has been left a legacy, and gone to school after middle-age, for when I last saw him, which is four years ago, he could neither read nor write.”
I was about to tell Mr. Bos that the Ellis Wynn that I meant was no more a pig-jobber than myself, but a respectable clergyman, who had been dead considerably upwards of a hundred years, and that also, notwithstanding my respect for Mr. Bos’s knowledge of history, I did not believe that Owen Tudor was buried at Penmynnydd, when I was prevented by the entrance of Mrs. Pritchard, who came to inform me that my repast was ready in the other room, whereupon I got up and went into the parlour to “box Harry.”
Having despatched my bacon and eggs, tea and ale, I fell into deep meditation. My mind reverted to a long past period of my life, when I was to a certain extent mixed up with commercial travellers, and had plenty of opportunities of observing their habits, and the terms employed by them in conversation. I called up several individuals of the two classes into which they used to be divided, for commercial travellers in my time were divided into two classes, those who ate dinners and drank their bottle of port, and those who “boxed Harry.” What glorious fellows the first seemed! What airs they gave themselves! What oaths they swore!and what influence they had with hostlers and chambermaids! and what a sneaking-looking set the others were! shabby in their apparel; no fine ferocity in their countenances; no oaths in their mouths, except such a trumpery apology for an oath as an occasional “confounded hard”; with little or no influence at inns, scowled at by hostlers, and never smiled at by chambermaids—and then I remembered how often I had bothered my head in vain to account for the origin of the term “box Harry,” and how often I had in vain applied both to those who did box and to those who did not “box Harry,” for a clear and satisfactory elucidation of the expression—and at last found myself again bothering my head as of old in a vain attempt to account for the origin of the term “boxing Harry.”
Northampton—Horse-Breaking—Snoring.
Tired at length with my vain efforts to account for the term which in my time was so much in vogue amongst commercial gentlemen I left the little parlour, and repaired to the common room. Mr. Pritchard and Mr. Bos were still there smoking and drinking, but there was now a candle on the table before them, for night was fast coming on. Mr. Bos was giving an account of his travels in England, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in English, to which Mr. Pritchard was listening with the greatest attention, occasionally putting in a “see there now,” and “what a fine thing it is to have gone about.” After some time Mr. Bos exclaimed:
“I think, upon the whole, of all the places I have seen in England I like Northampton best.”
“I suppose,” said I, “you found the men of Northampton good-tempered, jovial fellows?”
“Can’t say I did,” said Mr. Bos; “they are all shoemakers, and of course quarrelsome and contradictory, for where was there ever a shoemaker who was not conceited and easily riled? No, I have little tosay in favour of Northampton, as far as the men are concerned. It’s not the men but the women that make me speak in praise of Northampton. The men are all ill-tempered, but the women quite the contrary. I never saw such a place for merched anladd as Northampton. I was a great favourite with them, and could tell you such tales.”
And then Mr. Bos putting his hat rather on one side of his head told us two or three tales of his adventures with the merched anladd of Northampton, which brought powerfully to mind part of what Ellis Wynn had said with respect to the practices of drovers in his day, detestation for which had induced him to put the whole tribe into Hell.
All of a sudden I heard a galloping down the road, and presently a mighty plunging, seemingly of a horse, before the door of the inn. I rushed out followed by my companions, and lo, on the open space before the inn was a fine young horse, rearing and kicking, with a young man on his back. The horse had neither bridle nor saddle, and the young fellow merely rode him with a rope, passed about his head—presently the horse became tolerably quiet, and his rider jumping off led him into the stable, where he made him fast to the rack and then came and joined us, whereupon we all went into the room from which I and the others had come on hearing the noise of the struggle.
“How came you on the colt’s back, Jenkins?” said Mr. Pritchard, after we had all sat down and Jenkins had called for some cwrw. “I did not know that he was broke in.”
“I am breaking him in myself,” said Jenkins, speaking Welsh. “I began with him to-night.”
“Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you have begun breaking him in by mounting his back?”
“I do,” said the other.
“Then depend upon it,” said I, “that it will not be long before he will either break his neck or knees or he will break your neck or crown. You are not going the right way to work.”
“O, myn Diawl!” said Jenkins, “I know better. In a day or two I shall have made him quite tame, and have got him into excellent paces, and shall have savedthe money I must have paid away, had I put him into a jockey’s hands.”
Time passed, night came on, and other guests came in. There was much talking of first-rate Welsh and very indifferent English, Mr. Bos being the principal speaker in both languages; his discourse was chiefly on the comparative merits of Anglesey runts and Scotch bullocks, and those of the merched anladd of Northampton and the lasses of Wrexham. He preferred his own country runts to the Scotch kine, but said upon the whole, though a Welshman, he must give a preference to the merched of Northampton over those of Wrexham, for free-and-easy demeanour, notwithstanding that in that point which he said was the most desirable point in females, the lasses of Wrexham were generally considered out-and-outers.
Fond as I am of listening to public-house conversation, from which I generally contrive to extract both amusement and edification, I became rather tired of this, and getting up, strolled about the little village by moonlight till I felt disposed to retire to rest, when returning to the inn, I begged to be shown the room in which I was to sleep. Mrs. Pritchard forthwith taking a candle conducted me to a small room upstairs. There were two beds in it. The good lady pointed to one, next the window, in which there were nice clean sheets, told me that was the one which I was to occupy, and bidding me good-night, and leaving the candle, departed. Putting out the light I got into bed, but instantly found that the bed was not long enough by at least a foot. “I shall pass an uncomfortable night,” said I, “for I never yet could sleep comfortably in a bed too short. However, as I am on my travels, I must endeavour to accommodate myself to circumstances.” So I endeavoured to compose myself to sleep; before, however, I could succeed, I heard the sound of stumping steps coming upstairs; and perceived a beam of light through the crevices of the door, and in a moment more the door opened and in came two loutish farming lads whom I had observed below, one of them bearing a rushlight stuck in an old blacking-bottle. Without saying a word they flung off part of their clothes, and one of them having blown out therushlight, they both tumbled into bed, and in a moment were snoring most sonorously. “I am in a short bed,” said I, “and have snorers close by me; I fear I shall have a sorry night of it.” I determined, however, to adhere to my resolution of making the best of circumstances, and lay perfectly quiet, listening to the snorings as they rose and fell; at last they became more gentle and I fell asleep, notwithstanding my feet were projecting some way from the bed. I might have lain ten minutes or a quarter of an hour when I suddenly started up in the bed broad awake. There was a great noise below the window of plunging and struggling interspersed with Welsh oaths. Then there was a sound as if of a heavy fall, and presently a groan. “I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if that fellow with the horse has verified my words, and has either broken his horse’s neck or his own. However, if he has, he has no one to blame but himself. I gave him fair warning, and shall give myself no further trouble about the matter, but go to sleep,” and so I did.
Brilliant Morning—Travelling with Edification—A Good Clergyman—Gybi.
I awoke about six o’clock in the morning, having passed the night much better than I anticipated. The sun was shining bright and gloriously into the apartment. On looking into the other bed I found that my chums, the young farm-labourers, had deserted it. They were probably already in the field busy at labour. After lying a little time longer I arose, dressed myself and went down. I found my friend honest Pritchard smoking his morning pipe at the front door, and after giving him the sele of the day, I inquired of him the cause of the disturbance beneath my window the night before, and learned that the man of the horse had been thrown by the animal off its back, that the horse almost immediately after had slipped down, and both had been led home very much hurt. We then talked about farming and the crops, and at length got into a discourseabout Liverpool. I asked him how he liked that mighty seaport; he said very well, but that he did not know much about it—for though he had a house there where his family had resided, he had not lived much at Liverpool himself his absences from that place having been many and long.
“Have you travelled then much about England?” said I.
“No,” he replied. “When I have travelled it has chiefly been across the sea to foreign places.”
“But what foreign places have you visited?” said I.
“I have visited,” said Pritchard, “Constantinople, Alexandria, and some other cities in the south latitudes.”
“Dear me,” said I, “you have seen some of the most celebrated places in the world—and yet you were silent, and said nothing about your travels whilst that fellow Bos was pluming himself at having been at such places as Northampton and Worcester, the haunts of shoemakers and pig-jobbers.”
“Ah,” said Pritchard, “but Mr. Bos has travelled with edification; it is a fine thing to have travelled when one has done so with edification, but I have not. There is a vast deal of difference between me and him—he is considered the ’cutest man in these parts, and is much looked up to.”
“You are really,” said I, “the most modest person I have ever known and the least addicted to envy. Let me see whether you have travelled without edification.”
I then questioned him about the places which he had mentioned, and found he knew a great deal about them, amongst other things he described Cleopatra’s needle, and the At Maidan at Constantinople with surprising exactness.
“You put me out,” said I; “you consider yourself inferior to that droving fellow Bos and to have travelled without edification, whereas you know a thousand times more than he, and indeed much more than many a person who makes his five hundred a year by going about lecturing on foreign places, but as I am no flatterer I will tell you that you have a fault which will always prevent your rising in this world, you have modesty; those who have modesty shall have no advancement,whilst those who can blow their own horn lustily shall be made governors. But allow me to ask you in what capacity you went abroad?”
“As engineer to various steamships,” said Pritchard.
“A director of the power of steam,” said I, “and an explorer of the wonders of Iscander’s city willing to hold the candle to Mr. Bos. I will tell you what, you are too good for this world, let us hope you will have your reward in the next.”
I breakfasted and asked for my bill; the bill amounted to little or nothing—half-a-crown I think for tea-dinner, sundry jugs of ale, bed and breakfast. I defrayed it, and then inquired whether it would be possible for me to see the inside of the church.
“O yes,” said Pritchard. “I can let you in, for I am churchwarden and have the key.”
The church was a little edifice of some antiquity, with a little wing and without a spire; it was situated amidst a grove of trees. As we stood with our hats off in the sacred edifice, I asked Pritchard if there were many Methodists in those parts.
“Not so many as there were,” said Pritchard, “they are rapidly decreasing, and indeed Dissenters in general. The cause of their decrease is that a good clergyman has lately come here, who visits the sick and preaches Christ, and in fact does his duty. If all our clergymen were like him there would not be many Dissenters in Ynis Fon.”
Outside the church, in the wall, I observed a tablet with the following inscription in English:
Here lieth interred the body of Ann, wife of Robert Paston, who deceased the sixth day of October, Anno Domini1671.R.P.A.
Here lieth interred the body of Ann, wife of Robert Paston, who deceased the sixth day of October, Anno Domini
1671.R.P.A.
“You seem struck with that writing?” said Pritchard, observing that I stood motionless, staring at the tablet.
“The name of Paston,” said I, “struck me; it is the name of a village in my own native district, from whichan old family, now almost extinct, derived its name. How came a Paston into Ynis Fon? Are there any people bearing that name at present in these parts?”
“Not that I am aware,” said Pritchard.
“I wonder who his wife Ann was?” said I, “from the style of that tablet she must have been a considerable person.”
“Perhaps she was the daughter of the Lewis family of Llan Dyfnant,” said Pritchard; “that’s an old family and a rich one. Perhaps he came from a distance and saw and married a daughter of the Lewis of Dyfnant—more than one stranger has done so. Lord Vivian came from a distance and saw and married a daughter of the rich Lewis of Dyfnant.”
I shook honest Pritchard by the hand, thanked him for his kindness and wished him farewell, whereupon he gave mine a hearty squeeze, thanking me for my custom.
“Which is my way,” said I, “to Pen Caer Gybi?”
“You must go about a mile on the Bangor road, and then turning to the right pass through Penmynnydd, but what takes you to Holyhead?”
“I wish to see,” said I, “the place where Cybi the tawny saint preached and worshipped. He was called tawny because from his frequent walks in the blaze of the sun his face had become much sun-burnt. This is a furiously hot day, and perhaps by the time I get to Holyhead, I may be so sun-burnt as to be able to pass for Cybi himself.”
Moelfre—Owain Gwynedd—Church of Penmynnydd—The Rose of Mona.
Leaving Pentraeth Coch I retraced my way along the Bangor road till I came to the turning on the right. Here I diverged from the aforesaid road, and proceeded along one which led nearly due west; after travelling about a mile I stopped, on the top of a little hill; cornfields were on either side, and in one an aged man wasreaping close to the road; I looked south, west, north and east; to the south was the Snowdon range far away, with the Wyddfa just discernible; to the west and north was nothing very remarkable, but to the east or rather north-east, was mountain Lidiart and the tall hill confronting it across the bay.
“Can you tell me,” said I to the old reaper, “the name of that bald hill, which looks towards Lidiart?”
“We call that hill Moelfre,” said the old man desisting from his labour, and touching his hat.
“Dear me,” said I; “Moelfre, Moelfre!”
“Is there anything wonderful in the name, sir?” said the old man, smiling.
“There is nothing wonderful in the name,” said I, “which merely means the bald hill, but it brings wonderful recollections to my mind. I little thought when I was looking from the road near Pentraeth Coch yesterday on that hill, and the bay and strand below it, and admiring the tranquillity which reigned over all, that I was gazing upon the scene of one of the most tremendous conflicts recorded in history or poetry.”
“Dear me,” said the old reaper; “and whom may it have been between? the French and English, I suppose.”
“No,” said I; “it was fought between one of your Welsh kings, the great Owain Gwynedd, and certain northern and Irish enemies of his.”
“Only think,” said the old man, “and it was a fierce battle, sir?”
“It was, indeed,” said I; “according to the words of a poet, who described it, the Menai could not ebb on account of the torrent of blood which flowed into it, slaughter was heaped upon slaughter, shout followed shout, and around Moelfre a thousand war flags waved.”
“Well, sir,” said the old man, “I never before heard anything about it, indeed I don’t trouble my head with histories, unless they be Bible histories.”
“Are you a Churchman?” said I.
“No,” said the old man, shortly; “I am a Methodist.”
“I belong to the Church,” said I.
“So I should have guessed, sir, by your being sowell acquainted with pennillion and histories. Ah, the Church. . . .”
“This is dreadfully hot weather,” said I, “and I should like to offer you sixpence for ale, but as I am a Churchman I suppose you would not accept it from my hands.”
“The Lord forbid, sir,” said the old man, “that I should be so uncharitable! If your honour chooses to give me sixpence, I will receive it willingly. Thank your honour! Well, I have often said there is a great deal of good in the Church of England.”
I once more looked at the hill which overlooked the scene of Owen Gwynedd’s triumph over the united forces of the Irish Lochlanders and Normans, and then after inquiring of the old man whether I was in the right direction for Penmynnydd, and finding that I was, I set off at a great pace, singing occasionally snatches of Black Robin’s ode in praise of Anglesey, amongst others the following stanza:—
“Bread of the wholesomest is foundIn my mother-land of Anglesey;Friendly bounteous men aboundIn Penmynnydd of Anglesey.”
“Bread of the wholesomest is foundIn my mother-land of Anglesey;Friendly bounteous men aboundIn Penmynnydd of Anglesey.”
I reached Penmynnydd, a small village consisting of a few white houses and a mill. The meaning of Penmynnydd is literally the top of a hill. The village does not stand on a hill, but the church, which is at some distance, stands on one, or rather on a hillock. And it is probable from the circumstance of the church standing on a hillock, that the parish derives its name. Towards the church, after a slight glance at the village, I proceeded with hasty steps, and was soon at the foot of the hillock. A house, that of the clergyman, stands near the church, on the top of the hill. I opened a gate, and entered a lane which seemed to lead up to the church.
As I was passing some low buildings, probably offices pertaining to the house, a head was thrust from a doorway, which stared at me. It was a strange hirsute head, and probably looked more strange and hirsute than it naturally was, owing to its having a hairy cap upon it.
“Good day,” said I.
“Good days, sar,” said the head, and in a moment more a man of middle stature, about fifty, in hairy cap, shirt-sleeves, and green apron round his waist, stood before me. He looked the beau-ideal of a servant of all work.
“Can I see the church?” said I.
“Ah, you want to see the church,” said honest Scrub. “Yes sar! you shall see the church. You go up road there past church—come to house, knock at door—say what you want—and nice little girl show you church. Ah, you quite right to come and see church—fine tomb there and clebber man sleeping in it with his wife, clebber man that—Owen Tiddir; married great queen—dyn clebber iawn.”
Following the suggestions of the man of the hairy cap, I went round the church and knocked at the door of the house, a handsome parsonage. A nice little servant-girl presently made her appearance at the door, of whom I inquired whether I could see the church.
“Certainly, sir,” said she; “I will go for the key and accompany you.”
She fetched the key and away we went to the church. It is a venerable chapel-like edifice, with a belfry towards the west; the roof, sinking by two gradations, is lower at the eastern or altar end than at the other. The girl, unlocking the door, ushered me into the interior.
“Which is the tomb of Tudor?” said I to the pretty damsel.
“There it is, sir,” said she, pointing to the north side of the church; “there is the tomb of Owen Tudor.”
Beneath a low-roofed arch lay sculptured in stone, on an altar tomb, the figures of a man and woman; that of the man in armour; that of the woman in graceful drapery. The male figure lay next the wall.
“And you think,” said I to the girl, “that yonder figure is that of Owen Tudor?”
“Yes, sir,” said the girl; “yon figure is that of Owen Tudor; the other is that of his wife, the great queen; both their bodies rest below.”
I forbore to say that the figures were not those ofOwen Tudor and the great queen, his wife; and I forbore to say that their bodies did not rest in that church, nor anywhere in the neighbourhood, for I was unwilling to dispel a pleasing delusion. The tomb is doubtless a tomb of one of the Tudor race, and of a gentle partner of his, but not of the Rose of Mona and Catherine of France. Her bones rest in some corner of Westminster’s noble abbey; his moulder amongst those of thousands of others, Yorkists and Lancastrians, under the surface of the plain, where Mortimer’s cross once stood, that plain on the eastern side of which meanders the murmuring Lug; that noble plain, where one of the hardest battles which ever blooded English soil was fought; where beautiful young Edward gained a crown, and old Owen lost a head, which when young had been the most beautiful of heads, which had gained for him the appellation of the Rose of Anglesey, and which had captivated the glances of the fair daughter of France, the widow of Monmouth’s Harry, the immortal victor of Agincourt.
Nevertheless, long did I stare at that tomb which, though not that of the Rose of Mona and his queen, is certainly the tomb of some mighty one of the mighty race of Theodore—then saying something in Welsh to the pretty damsel at which she started, and putting something into her hand, at which she curtseyed, I hurried out of the church.
Mental Excitation—Land of Poets—The Man in Grey—Drinking Healths—The Greatest Prydydd—Envy—Welshmen not Hogs—Gentlemanly Feeling—What Pursuit?—Tell him to Walk Up—Editor of theTimes—Careful Wife—Departure.
I regained the high road by a short cut, which I discovered across a field. I proceeded rapidly along for some time. My mind was very much excited: I was in the birth-place of the mighty Tudors—I had just seen the tomb of one of them; I was also in the land of the bard; a country which had produced Gwalchmai who sang the triumphs of Owain, and him who had sungthe Cowydd of Judgment, Gronwy Owen. So no wonder I was excited. On I went reciting bardic snatches connected with Anglesey. At length I began repeating Black Robin’s ode in praise of the island, or rather my own translation of it, executed more than thirty years before, which amongst others, contains the following lines:—
“Twelve sober men the muses woo,Twelve sober men in Anglesey,Dwelling at home, like patriots true,In reverence for Anglesey.”
“Twelve sober men the muses woo,Twelve sober men in Anglesey,Dwelling at home, like patriots true,In reverence for Anglesey.”
“Oh,” said I, after I had recited that stanza, “what would I not give to see one of those sober patriotic bards, or at least one of their legitimate successors, for by this time no doubt, the sober poets, mentioned by Black Robin, are dead. That they left legitimate successors who can doubt? for Anglesey is never to be without bards. Have we not the words, not of Robin the Black, but Huw the Red to that effect?
“‘Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd;Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.’
“‘Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd;Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.’
“That is: a hospitable country, in which a poet is a thing of course. It has never been and will never be without song.”
Here I became silent, and presently arrived at the side of a little dell or ravine, down which the road led from east to west. The northern and southern sides of this dell were precipitous. Beneath the southern one stood a small cottage. Just as I began to descend the eastern side, two men began to descend the opposite one, and it so happened that we met at the bottom of the dingle, just before the house, which bore a sign, and over the door of which was an inscription to the effect that ale was sold within. They saluted me; I returned their salutation, and then we all three stood still looking at one another. One of the men was rather a tall figure, about forty, dressed in grey, or pepper-and-salt, with a cap of some kind on his head, his face was long and rather good-looking, though slightly pock-broken. There was a peculiar gravity upon it. The other person was somewhat about sixty—he was much shorter than his companion, and much worse dressed—he wore a hat that had several holes in it, a dusty, rusty black coat, much too large for him; ragged yellow velveteen breeches, indifferent fustian gaiters, and shoes, cobbled here and there, one of which had rather an ugly bulge by the side near the toes. His mouth was exceedingly wide, and his nose remarkably long; its extremity of a deep purple; upon his features was a half-simple smile or leer; in his hand was a long stick. After we had all taken a full view of one another I said in Welsh, addressing myself to the man in grey, “Pray may I take the liberty of asking the name of this place?”
“I believe you are an Englishman, sir,” said the man in grey, speaking English, “I will therefore take the liberty of answering your question in the English tongue. The name of this place is Dyffryn Gaint.”
“Thank you,” said I; “you are quite right with regard to my being an Englishman; perhaps you are one yourself?”
“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I have not the honour to be so. I am a native of the small island in which we are.”
“Small,” said I, “but famous, particularly for producing illustrious men.”
“That’s very true indeed, sir,” said the man in grey, drawing himself up; “it is particularly famous for producing illustrious men.”
“There was Owen Tudor?” said I.
“Very true,” said the man in grey, “his tomb is in the church a little way from hence.”
“Then,” said I, “there was Gronwy Owen, one of the greatest bards that ever lived. Out of reverence to his genius I went yesterday to see the place of his birth.”
“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I should be sorry to leave you without enjoying your conversation at some length. In yonder house they sell good ale, perhaps you will not be offended if I ask you to drink some with me and my friend?”
“You are very kind,” said I, “I am fond of good ale, and fonder still of good company—suppose we go in?”
We went into the cottage, which was kept by a man and his wife, both of whom seemed to be perfectly well acquainted with my two new friends. We sat down on stools, by a clean white table in a little apartment with a clay floor—notwithstanding the heat of the weather, the little room was very cool and pleasant owing to the cottage being much protected from the sun by its situation. The man in grey called for a jug of ale, which was presently placed before us along with three glasses. The man in grey, having filled the glasses from the jug which might contain three pints, handed one to me, another to his companion, and then taking the third drank to my health. I drank to his, and that of his companion; the latter, after nodding to us both, emptied his at a draught, and then with a kind of half-fatuous leer, exclaimed “Da iawn, very good.”
The ale, though not very good, was cool and neither sour nor bitter; we then sat for a moment or two in silence, my companions on one side of the table, and I on the other. After a little time the man in grey looking at me said:
“Travelling I suppose in Anglesey for pleasure?”
“To a certain extent,” said I; “but my chief object in visiting Anglesey was to view the birth-place of Gronwy Owen; I saw it yesterday and am now going to Holyhead chiefly with a view to see the country.”
“And how came you, an Englishman, to know anything of Gronwy Owen?”
“I studied Welsh literature when young,” said I, “and was much struck with the verses of Gronwy: he was one of the great bards of Wales, and certainly the most illustrious genius that Anglesey ever produced.”
“A great genius I admit,” said the man in grey, “but pardon me, not exactly the greatest Ynis Fon has produced. The race of the bards is not quite extinct in the island, sir, I could name one or two—however, I leave others to do so—but I assure you the race of bards is not quite extinct here.”
“I am delighted to hear you say so,” said I, “and make no doubt that you speak correctly, for the Red Bard has said that Mona is never to be without a poet—but where am I to find one? Just before I saw youI was wishing to see a poet; I would willingly give a quart of ale to see a genuine Anglesey poet.”
“You would, sir, would you?” said the man in grey, lifting his head on high, and curling his upper lip.
“I would, indeed,” said I, “my greatest desire at present is to see an Anglesey poet, but where am I to find one?”
“Where is he to find one?” said he of the tattered hat; “where’s the gwr boneddig to find a prydydd? No occasion to go far, he, he, he.”
“Well,” said I, “but where is he?”
“Where is he? why there,” said he pointing to the man in grey—“the greatest prydydd in tîr Fon or the whole world.”
“Tut, tut, hold your tongue,” said the man in grey.
“Hold my tongue, myn Diawl, not I—I speak the truth,” then filling his glass he emptied it exclaiming, “I’ll not hold my tongue. The greatest prydydd in the whole world.”
“Then I have the honour to be seated with a bard of Anglesey?” said I, addressing the man in grey.
“Tut, tut,” said he of the grey suit.
“The greatest prydydd in the whole world,” iterated he of the bulged shoe, with a slight hiccup, as he again filled his glass.
“Then,” said I, “I am truly fortunate.”
“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I had no intention of discovering myself, but as my friend here has betrayed my secret, I confess that I am a bard of Anglesey—my friend is an excellent individual but indiscreet, highly indiscreet, as I have frequently told him,” and here he looked most benignantly reproachful at him of the tattered hat.
“The greatest prydydd,” said the latter, “the greatest prydydd that—” and leaving his sentence incomplete he drank off the ale which he had poured into his glass.
“Well,” said I, “I cannot sufficiently congratulate myself, for having met an Anglesey bard—no doubt a graduate one. Anglesey was always famous for graduate bards, for what says Black Robin?
“‘Though Arvon graduate bards can boast,Yet more canst thou, O Anglesey.’”
“‘Though Arvon graduate bards can boast,Yet more canst thou, O Anglesey.’”
“I suppose by graduate bard you mean one who has gained the chair at an eisteddfod?” said the man in grey. “No, I have never gained the silver chair—I have never had an opportunity. I have been kept out of the eisteddfodau. There is such a thing as envy, sir—but there is one comfort, that envy will not always prevail.”
“No,” said I; “envy will not always prevail—envious scoundrels may chuckle for a time at the seemingly complete success of the dastardly arts to which they have recourse, in order to crush merit—but Providence is not asleep. All of a sudden they see their supposed victim on a pinnacle far above their reach. Then there is weeping, and gnashing of teeth with a vengeance, and the long melancholy howl. O, there is nothing in this world which gives one so perfect an idea of retribution as the long melancholy howl of the disappointed envious scoundrel when he sees his supposed victim smiling on an altitude far above his reach.”
“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I am delighted to hear you. Give me your hand, your honourable hand. Sir, you have now felt the hand-grasp of a Welshman, to say nothing of an Anglesey bard, and I have felt that of a Briton, perhaps a bard, a brother, sir? O, when I first saw your face out there in the dyffryn, I at once recognised in it that of a kindred spirit, and I felt compelled to ask you to drink. Drink sir! but how is this? the jug is empty—how is this?—O, I see—my friend, sir, though an excellent individual, is indiscreet, sir—very indiscreet. Landlord, bring this moment another jug of ale.”
“The greatest prydydd,” stuttered he of the bulged shoe—“the greatest prydydd—Oh—”
“Tut, tut,” said the man in grey.
“I speak the truth and care for no one,” said he of the tattered hat. “I say the greatest prydydd. If any one wishes to gainsay me let him show his face, and Myn Diawl—”
The landlord brought the ale, placed it on the table, and then stood as if waiting for something.
“I suppose you are waiting to be paid,” said I; “what is your demand?”
“Sixpence for this jug, and sixpence for the other,” said the landlord.
I took out a shilling and said: “It is but right that I should pay half of the reckoning, and as the whole affair is merely a shilling matter I should feel obliged in being permitted to pay the whole, so, landlord, take the shilling and remember you are paid.” I then delivered the shilling to the landlord, but had no sooner done so than the man in grey, starting up in violent agitation, wrested the money from the other, and flung it down on the table before me saying:—
“No, no, that will never do. I invited you in here to drink, and now you would pay for the liquor which I ordered. You English are free with your money, but you are sometimes free with it at the expense of people’s feelings. I am a Welshman, and I know Englishmen consider all Welshmen hogs. But we are not hogs, mind you! for we have little feelings which hogs have not. Moreover, I would have you know that we have money, though perhaps not so much as the Saxon.” Then putting his hand into his pocket he pulled out a shilling, and giving it to the landlord said in Welsh: “Now thou art paid, and mayst go thy ways till thou art again called for. I do not know why thou didst stay after thou hadst put down the ale. Thou didst know enough of me to know that thou didst run no risk of not being paid.”
“But,” said I, after the landlord had departed, “I must insist on being my share. Did you not hear me say that I would give a quart of ale to see a poet?”
“A poet’s face,” said the man in grey, “should be common to all, even like that of the sun. He is no true poet, who would keep his face from the world.”
“But,” said I, “the sun frequently hides his head from the world, behind a cloud.”
“Not so,” said the man in grey. “The sun does not hide his face, it is the cloud that hides it. The sun is always glad enough to be seen, and so is the poet. If both are occasionally hid, trust me it is no fault of theirs. Bear that in mind; and now pray take up your money.”
“The man is a gentleman,” thought I to myself, “whether poet or not; but I really believe him to be apoet; were he not he could hardly talk in the manner I have just heard him.”
The man in grey now filled my glass, his own and that of his companion. The latter emptied his in a minute, not forgetting first to say “the best prydydd in all the world!” The man in grey was also not slow to empty his own. The jug now passed rapidly between my two friends, for the poet seemed determined to have his full share of the beverage. I allowed the ale in my glass to remain untasted, and began to talk about the bards, and to quote from their works. I soon found that the man in grey knew quite as much of the old bards and their works as myself. In one instance he convicted me of a mistake.
I had quoted those remarkable lines in which an old bard, doubtless seeing the Menai Bridge by means of second sight, says:—“I will pass to the land of Mona notwithstanding the waters of Menai, without waiting for the ebb”—and was feeling not a little proud of my erudition when the man in grey, after looking at me for a moment fixedly, asked me the name of the bard who composed them—“Sion Tudor,” I replied.
“There you are wrong,” said the man in grey; “his name was not Sion Tudor, but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob. Sion Tudor wrote an englyn on the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little Bob who wrote the stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai is hinted at.”
“You are right,” said I, “you are right. Well, I am glad that all song and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon.”
“Dead,” said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather flushed, “they are neither dead, nor ever will be. There are plenty of poets in Anglesey—why, I can mention twelve, and amongst them, and not the least—pooh, what was I going to say?—twelve there are, genuine Anglesey poets, born there, and living there for the love they bear their native land. When I say they all live in Anglesey, perhaps I am not quite accurate, for one of the dozen does not exactly live in Anglesey, but just over the bridge. He is an elderly man, but his awen, I assure you, is as young and vigorous as ever.”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said I, “if he was a certain ancient gentleman, from whom I obtained information yesterday, with respect to the birth-place of Gronwy Owen.”
“Very likely,” said the man in grey; “well, if you have seen him consider yourself fortunate, for he is a genuine bard, and a genuine son of Anglesey, notwithstanding he lives across the water.”
“If he is the person I allude to,” said I, “I am doubly fortunate, for I have seen two bards of Anglesey.”
“Sir,” said the man in grey, “I consider myself quite as fortunate in having met such a Saxon as yourself, as it is possible for you to do, in having seen two bards of Ynis Fon.”
“I suppose you follow some pursuit besides bardism?” said I; “I suppose you farm?”
“I do not farm,” said the man in grey, “I keep an inn.”
“Keep an inn?” said I.
“Yes,” said the man in grey. “The — Arms at L—.”
“Sure,” said I, “inn-keeping and bardism are not very cognate pursuits?”
“You are wrong,” said the man in grey, “I believe the awen, or inspiration, is quite as much at home in the bar as in the barn, perhaps more. It is that belief which makes me tolerably satisfied with my position, and prevents me from asking Sir Richard to give me a farm instead of an inn.”
“I suppose,” said I, “that Sir Richard is your landlord?”
“He is,” said the man in grey, “and a right noble landlord too.”
“I suppose,” said I, “that he is right proud of his tenant?”
“He is,” said the man in grey, “and I am proud of my landlord, and will here drink his health. I have often said that if I were not what I am, I should wish to be Sir Richard.”
“You consider yourself his superior?” said I.
“Of course,” said the man in grey—“a baronet is a baronet; but a bard is a bard you know—I neverforget what I am, and the respect due to my sublime calling. About a month ago I was seated in an upper apartment, in a fit of rapture; there was a pen in my hand, and paper before me on the table, and likewise a jug of good ale, for I always find that the awen is most prodigal of her favours, when a jug of good ale is before me. All of a sudden my wife came running up, and told me that Sir Richard was below, and wanted to speak to me. ‘Tell him to walk up,’ said I. ‘Are you mad?’ said my wife. ‘Don’t you know who Sir Richard is?’ ‘I do,’ said I, ‘a baronet is a baronet, but a bard is a bard. Tell him to walk up.’ Well, my wife went and told Sir Richard that I was writing, and could not come down, and that she hoped he would not object to walk up. ‘Certainly not; certainly not,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I shall be only too happy to ascend to a genius on his hill. You may be proud of such a husband, Mrs. W.’ And here it will be as well to tell you that my name is W—, J. W. of —. Sir Richard then came up, and I received him with gravity and politeness. I did not rise, of course, for I never forget myself a moment, but I told him to sit down, and added that after I had finished the pennill I was engaged upon, I would speak to him. Well, Sir Richard smiled and sat down, and begged me not to hurry myself, for that he could wait. So I finished the pennill, deliberately, mind you, for I did not forget who I was, and then turning to Sir Richard entered upon business with him.”
“I suppose Sir Richard is a very good-tempered man?” said I.
“I don’t know,” said the man in grey. “I have seen Sir Richard in a devil of a passion, but never with me—no, no! Trust Sir Richard for not riding the high horse with me—a baronet is a baronet, but a bard is a bard; and that Sir Richard knows.”
“The greatest prydydd,” said the man of the tattered hat, emptying the last contents of the jug into his glass, “the greatest prydydd that—”
“Well,” said I, “you appear to enjoy very great consideration, and yet you were talking just now of being ill-used.”
“So I have been,” said the man in grey, “I havebeen kept out of the eisteddfodau—and then—what do you think? That fellow the editor of theTimes—”
“O,” said I, “if you have anything to do with the editor of theTimesyou may, of course, expect nothing but shabby treatment, but what business could you have with him?”
“Why I sent him some pennillion for insertion, and he did not insert them.”
“Were they in Welsh or English?”
“In Welsh, of course.”
“Well, then the man had some excuse for disregarding them—because you know theTimesis written in English.”
“O, you mean the LondonTimes,” said the man in grey. “Pooh! I did not allude to that trumpery journal, but the LiverpoolTimes, the Amserau. I sent some pennillion to the editor for insertion and he did not insert them. Peth a clwir cenfigen yn Saesneg?”
“We call cenfigen in English envy,” said I; “but as I told you before, envy will not always prevail.”
“You cannot imagine how pleased I am with your company,” said the man in grey. “Landlord, landlord!”
“The greatest prydydd,” said the man of the tattered hat, “the greatest prydydd.”
“Pray don’t order any more on my account,” said I, “as you see my glass is still full. I am about to start for Caer Gybi. Pray where are you bound for?”
“For Bangor,” said the man in grey. “I am going to the market.”
“Then I would advise you to lose no time,” said I, “or you will infallibly be too late; it must now be one o’clock.”
“There is no market to-day,” said the man in grey, “the market is to-morrow, which is Saturday. I like to take things leisurely, on which account, when I go to market, I generally set out the day before, in order that I may enjoy myself upon the road. I feel myself so happy here that I shall not stir till the evening. Now pray stay with me and my friend till then.”
“I cannot,” said I, “if I stay longer here I shall never reach Caer Gybi to-night. But allow me to askwhether your business at L— will not suffer by your spending so much time on the road to market?”
“My wife takes care of the business whilst I am away,” said the man in grey, “so it won’t suffer much. Indeed it is she who chiefly conducts the business of the inn. I spend a good deal of time from home, for besides being a bard and innkeeper, I must tell you I am a horse-dealer and a jobber, and if I go to Bangor it is in the hope of purchasing a horse or pig worth the money.”
“And is your friend going to market too?” said I.
“My friend goes with me to assist me and bear me company. If I buy a pig he will help me to drive it home; if a horse, he will get up upon its back behind me. I might perhaps do without him, but I enjoy his company highly. He is sometimes rather indiscreet, but I do assure you he is exceedingly clever.”
“The greatest prydydd,” said the man of the bulged shoe, “the greatest prydydd in the world.”
“O, I have no doubt of his cleverness,” said I, “from what I have observed of him. Now before I go allow me to pay for your next jug of ale.”
“I will do no such thing,” said the man in grey. “No farthing do you pay here for me or my friend either. But I will tell you what you may do. I am, as I have told you, an innkeeper as well as a bard. By the time you get to L— you will be hot and hungry and in need of refreshment, and if you think proper to patronize my house, the — Arms by taking your chop and pint there, you will oblige me. Landlord, some more ale.”
“The greatest prydydd,” said he of the bulged shoe, “the greatest prydydd—”
“I will most certainly patronize your house,” said I to the man in grey, and shaking him heartily by the hand I departed.
Inn at L—The Handmaid—The Decanter—Religious Gentleman—Truly Distressing—Sententiousness—Way to Pay Bills.
I proceeded on my way in high spirits indeed, having now seen not only the tomb of the Tudors, but one of those sober poets for which Anglesey has always been so famous. The country was pretty, with here and there a hill, a harvest-field, a clump of trees or a grove. I soon reached L—, a small but neat town. “Where is the — Arms?” said I to a man whom I met.
“Yonder, sir, yonder,” said he, pointing to a magnificent structure on the left.
I went in and found myself in a spacious hall. A good-looking young woman in a white dress, with a profusion of pink ribbons confronted me with a curtsey. “A pint and a chop!” I exclaimed, with a flourish of my hand and at the top of my voice. The damsel gave a kind of start, and then, with something like a toss of the head, led the way into a very large room, on the left, in which were many tables, covered with snowy-white cloths, on which were plates, knives and forks, the latter seemingly of silver, tumblers, and wineglasses.
“I think you asked for a pint and a chop, sir?” said the damsel, motioning me to sit down at one of the tables.
“I did,” said I, as I sat down, “let them be brought with all convenient speed, for I am in something of a hurry.”
“Very well, sir,” said the damsel, and then with another kind of toss of the head, she went away, not forgetting to turn half round, to take a furtive glance at me, before she went out of the door.
“Well,” said I, as I looked at the tables, with their snowy-white cloths, tumblers, wine-glasses and what not, and at the walls of the room glittering with mirrors, “surely a poet never kept so magnificent an inn before; there must be something in this fellow besides the awen, or his house would never exhibit such marks of prosperity, and good taste—there mustbe something in this fellow; though he pretends to be a wild erratic son of Parnassus, he must have an eye to the main chance, a genius for turning the penny, or rather the sovereign, for the accommodation here is no penny accommodation, as I shall probably find. Perhaps, however, like myself, he has an exceedingly clever wife who whilst he is making verses, or running about the country swigging ale with people in bulged shoes, or buying pigs or glandered horses, looks after matters at home, drives a swinging trade, and keeps not only herself, but him respectable—but even in that event he must have a good deal of common sense in him, even like myself, who always allow my wife to buy and sell, carry money to the bank, draw cheques, inspect and pay tradesmen’s bills, and transact all my real business, whilst I myself pore over old books, walk about shires, discoursing with gypsies, under hedgerows, or with sober bards—in hedge alehouses.” I continued musing in this manner until the handmaid made her appearance with a tray, on which were covers and a decanter, which she placed before me. “What is that?” said I, pointing to a decanter.
“Only a pint of sherry, sir,” said she of the white dress and ribbons.
“Dear me,” said I, “I ordered no sherry, I wanted some ale—a pint of ale.”
“You called for a pint, sir,” said the handmaid, “but you mentioned no ale, and I naturally supposed that a gentleman of your appearance”—here she glanced at my dusty coat—“and speaking in the tone you did, would not condescend to drink ale with his chop; however, as it seems I have been mistaken, I can take away the sherry and bring you the ale.”
“Well, well,” said I, “you can let the sherry remain; I do not like sherry, and am very fond of ale, but you can let the wine remain; upon the whole I am glad you brought it. Indeed, I merely came to do a good turn to the master of the house.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the handmaid.
“Are you his daughter?” said I.
“O no, sir,” said the handmaid reverently; “only his waiter.”
“You may be proud to wait on him,” said I.
“I am, sir,” said the handmaid, casting down her eyes.
“I suppose he is much respected in the neighbourhood?” said I.
“Very much so, sir,” said the damsel, “especially amidst the connection.”
“The connection,” said I. “Ah I see, he has extensive consanguinity, most Welsh have. But,” I continued, “there is such a thing as envy in the world, and there are a great many malicious people in the world, who speak against him.”
“A great many, sir, but we take what they say from whence it comes.”
“You do quite right,” said I. “Has your master written any poetry lately?”
“Sir!” said the damsel, staring at me.
“Any poetry,” said I, “any pennillion?”
“No, sir,” said the damsel; “my master is a respectable man, and would scorn to do anything of the kind.”
“Why,” said I, “is not your master a bard as well as an innkeeper?”
“My master, sir, is an innkeeper,” said the damsel; “but as for the other, I don’t know what you mean.”
“A bard,” said I, “is a prydydd, a person who makes verses—pennillion; does not your master make them?”
“My master make them? No, sir; my master is a religious gentleman, and would scorn to make such profane stuff.”
“Well,” said I, “he told me he did within the last two hours. I met him at Dyffryn Gaint, along with another man, and he took me into the public-house, where we had a deal of discourse.”
“You met my master at Dyffryn Gaint?” said the damsel.
“Yes,” said I, “and he treated me with ale, told me that he was a poet, and that he was going to Bangor to buy a horse or a pig.”
“I don’t see how that could be, sir,” said the damsel; “my master is at present in the house, rather unwell, and has not been out for the last three days. There must be some mistake.”
“Mistake,” said I. “Isn’t this the — Arms?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“And isn’t your master’s name W—?”
“No, sir, my master’s name is H—, and a more respectable man—”
“Well,” said I, interrupting her, “all I can say is that I met a man in Dyffryn Gaint, who treated me with ale, told me that his name was W—, that he was a prydydd and kept the Arms at L—.”
“Well,” said the damsel, “now I remember there is a person of that name in L—, and he also keeps a house which he calls the — Arms, but it is only a public-house.”
“But,” said I, “is he not a prydydd, an illustrious poet; does he not write pennillion which everybody admires?”
“Well,” said the damsel, “I believe he does write things which he calls pennillion, but everybody laughs at them.”
“Come, come,” said I, “I will not hear the productions of a man who treated me with ale spoken of with disrespect. I am afraid that you are one of his envious maligners, of which he gave me to understand that he had a great many.”
“Envious, sir! not I indeed; and if I were disposed to be envious of anybody it would not be of him; O dear, why he is—”
“A bard of Anglesey,” said I, interrupting her, “such a person as Gronwy Owen describes in the following lines, which by the bye were written upon himself:—
“‘Where’er he goes he’s sure to findRespectful looks and greetings kind.’
“‘Where’er he goes he’s sure to findRespectful looks and greetings kind.’
“I tell you that it was out of respect to that man that I came to this house. Had I not thought that he kept it, I should not have entered it and called for a pint and chop. How distressing! how truly distressing!”
“Well, sir,” said the damsel, “if there is anything distressing you have only to thank your acquaintance who chooses to call his mughouse by the name of a respectable hotel, for I would have you know that thisis an hotel, and kept by a respectable and religious man, and not kept by—. However, I scorn to say more, especially as I might be misinterpreted. Sir, there’s your pint and chop, and if you wish for anything else you can ring. Envious, indeed, of such. Marry come up!” and with a toss of her head, higher than any she had hitherto given, she bounced out of the room.