Rheidol, which runs there through a horrid kind of a place. The
bridge is called Pont yr Offeiriad, or the Parson's Bridge, because
in the old time the clergyman passed over it every Sunday to do
duty in the church here."

"Why is this place called Ysbytty Cynfyn?" said I, "which means the
hospital of the first boundary; is there a hospital of the second
boundary near here?"

"I can't say anything about boundaries, your honour; all I know is,
that there is another Spytty farther on beyond Hafod called Ysbytty
Ystwyth, or the 'Spytty upon the Ystwyth. But to return to the
matter of the Minister's Bridge: I would counsel your honour to go
and see that bridge before you leave these parts. A vast number of
gentry go to see it in the summer time. It was the bridge which
the landlord was mentioning last night, though it scarcely belongs
to his district, being quite as near the Devil's Bridge inn as it
is to his own, your honour."

We went on discoursing for about half a mile farther, when,
stopping by a road which branched off to the hills on the left, my
companion said. "I must now wish your honour good day, being
obliged to go a little way up here to a mining work on a small bit
of business; my son, however, and his dog Joe will show your honour
the way to the Devil's Bridge, as they are bound to a place a
little way past it. I have now but one word to say, which is, that
should ever your honour please to visit me at my mine, your honour
shall receive every facility for inspecting the works, and moreover
have a bellyful of drink and victuals from Jock Greaves, miner from
the county of Durham."

I shook the honest fellow by the hand, and went on in company with
the lad John and his dog as far as the Devil's Bridge. John was a
highly-intelligent lad, spoke Welsh and English fluently, could
read, as he told me, both languages, and had some acquaintance with
the writings of Twm o'r Nant, as he showed by repeating the
following lines of the carter poet, certainly not the worst which
he ever wrote:-


"Twm or Nant mae cant a'm galw,
Tomas Edwards yw fy enw,"

Tom O Nant is a nickname I've got,
My name's Thomas Edwards, I wot."



CHAPTER LXXXIV



The Hospice - The Two Rivers - The Devil's Bridge - Pleasant
Recollections.


I ARRIVED at the Devil's Bridge at about eleven o'clock of a fine
but cold day, and took up my quarters at the inn, of which I was
the sole guest during the whole time that I continued there; for
the inn, standing in a lone, wild district, has very few guests
except in summer, when it is thronged with tourists, who avail
themselves of that genial season to view the wonders of Wales, of
which the region close by is considered amongst the principal.

The inn, or rather hospice - for the sounding name of hospice is
more applicable to it than the common one of inn - was built at a
great expense by the late Duke of Newcastle. It is an immense
lofty cottage with projecting eaves, and has a fine window to the
east which enlightens a stately staircase and a noble gallery. It
fronts the north, and stands in the midst of one of the most
remarkable localities in the world, of which it would require a far
more vigorous pen than mine to convey an adequate idea.

Far to the west is a tall, strange-looking hill, the top of which
bears no slight resemblance to that of a battlemented castle. This
hill, which is believed to have been in ancient times a stronghold
of the Britons, bears the name of Bryn y Castell, or the hill of
the castle. To the north-west are russet hills, to the east two
brown paps, whilst to the south is a high, swelling mountain. To
the north, and just below the hospice, is a profound hollow with
all the appearance of the crater of an extinct volcano; at the
bottom of this hollow the waters of two rivers unite; those of the
Rheidol from the north, and those of the Afon y Mynach, or the
Monks' River, from the south-east. The Rheidol, falling over a
rocky precipice at the northern side of the hollow, forms a
cataract very pleasant to look upon from the middle upper window of
the inn. Those of the Mynach which pass under the celebrated
Devil's Bridge are not visible, though they generally make
themselves heard. The waters of both, after uniting, flow away
through a romantic glen towards the west. The sides of the hollow,
and indeed of most of the ravines in the neighbourhood, which are
numerous, are beautifully clad with wood.

Penetrate now into the hollow above which the hospice stands. You
descend by successive flights of steps, some of which are very
slippery and insecure. On your right is the Monks' River, roaring
down its dingle in five successive falls, to join its brother the
Rheidol. Each of the falls has its own peculiar basin, one or two
of which are said to be of awful depth. The length which these
falls with their basins occupy is about five hundred feet. On the
side of the basin of the last but one is the cave, or the site of
the cave, said to have been occupied in old times by the Wicked
Children - the mysterious Plant de Bat - two brothers and a sister,
robbers and murderers. At present it is nearly open on every side,
having, it is said, been destroyed to prevent its being the haunt
of other evil people. There is a tradition in the country that the
fall at one time tumbled over its mouth. This tradition, however,
is evidently without foundation, as from the nature of the ground
the river could never have run but in its present channel. Of all
the falls, the fifth or last is the most considerable: you view it
from a kind of den, to which the last flight of steps, the
ruggedest and most dangerous of all, has brought you. Your
position here is a wild one. The fall, which is split into two, is
thundering beside you; foam, foam, foam is flying all about you;
the basin or cauldron is boiling frightfully below you; hirsute
rocks are frowning terribly above you, and above them forest trees,
dank and wet with spray and mist, are distilling drops in showers
from their boughs.

But where is the bridge, the celebrated bridge of the Evil Man?
From the bottom of the first flight of steps leading down into the
hollow you see a modern-looking bridge, bestriding a deep chasm or
cleft to the south-east, near the top of the dingle of the Monks'
River; over it lies the road to Pont Erwyd. That, however, is not
the Devil's Bridge; but about twenty feet below that bridge, and
completely overhung by it, don't you see a shadowy, spectral
object, something like a bow, which likewise bestrides the chasm?
You do! Well, that shadowy, spectral object is the celebrated
Devil's Bridge, or, as the timorous peasants of the locality call
it, the Pont y Gwr Drwg. It is now merely preserved as an object
of curiosity, the bridge above being alone used for transit, and is
quite inaccessible except to birds and the climbing wicked boys of
the neighbourhood, who sometimes at the risk of their lives
contrive to get upon it from the frightfully steep northern bank,
and snatch a fearful joy, as, whilst lying on their bellies, they
poke their heads over its sides worn by age, without parapet to
prevent them from falling into the horrid gulf below. But from the
steps in the hollow the view of the Devil's Bridge, and likewise of
the cleft, is very slight and unsatisfactory. To view it properly,
and the wonders connected with it, you must pass over the bridge
above it, and descend a precipitous dingle on the eastern side till
you come to a small platform in a crag. Below you now is a
frightful cavity, at the bottom of which the waters of the Monks'
River, which comes tumbling from a glen to the east, whirl, boil,
and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron, called in the language of the
country Twll yn y graig, or the hole in the rock, in a manner truly
tremendous. On your right is a slit, probably caused by volcanic
force, through which the waters after whirling in the cauldron
eventually escape. The slit is wonderfully narrow, considering its
altitude which is very great - considerably upwards of a hundred
feet. Nearly above you, crossing the slit, which is partially
wrapt in darkness, is the far-famed bridge, the Bridge of the Evil
Man, a work which, though crumbling and darkly grey, does much
honour to the hand which built it, whether it was the hand of Satan
or of a monkish architect; for the arch is chaste and beautiful,
far superior in every respect, except in safety and utility, to the
one above it, which from this place you have not the mortification
of seeing. Gaze on these objects, namely, the horrid seething pot
or cauldron, the gloomy volcanic slit, and the spectral, shadowy
Devil's Bridge for about three minutes, allowing a minute to each,
then scramble up the bank and repair to your inn, and have no more
sight-seeing that day, for you have seen enough. And if pleasant
recollections do not haunt you through life of the noble falls and
the beautiful wooded dingles to the west of the bridge of the Evil
One, and awful and mysterious ones of the monks' boiling cauldron,
the long, savage, shadowy cleft, and the grey, crumbling, spectral
bridge, I say boldly that you must be a very unpoetical person
indeed.



CHAPTER LXXXV



Dinner at the Hospice - Evening Gossip - A Day of Rain - A Scanty
Flock - The Bridge of the Minister - Legs in Danger.


I DINED in a parlour of the inn commanding an excellent view of the
hollow and the Rheidol fall. Shortly after I had dined, a fierce
storm of rain and wind came on. It lasted for an hour, and then
everything again became calm. Just before evening was closing in I
took a stroll to a village which stands a little way to the west of
the inn. It consists only of a few ruinous edifices, and is
chiefly inhabited by miners and their families. I saw no men, but
plenty of women and children. Seeing a knot of women and girls
chatting I went up and addressed them. Some of the girls were very
good-looking; none of the party had any English; all of them were
very civil. I first talked to them about religion, and found that,
without a single exception, they were Calvinistic-Methodists. I
next talked to them about the Plant de Bat. They laughed heartily
at the first mention of their name, but seemed to know very little
about their history. After some twenty minutes' discourse I bade
them good-night and returned to my inn.

The night was very cold; the people of the house, however, made up
for me a roaring fire of turf, and I felt very comfortable. About
ten o'clock I went to bed, intending next morning to go and see
Plynlimmon, which I had left behind me on entering Cardiganshire.
When the morning came, however, I saw at once that I had entered
upon a day by no means adapted for excursions of any considerable
length, for it rained terribly; but this gave me very little
concern; my time was my own, and I said to myself: "If I can't go
to-day I can perhaps go to-morrow." After breakfast I passed some
hours in a manner by no means disagreeable, sometimes meditating
before my turf fire, with my eyes fixed upon it, and sometimes
sitting by the window, with my eyes fixed upon the cascade of the
Rheidol, which was every moment becoming more magnificent. At
length about twelve o'clock, fearing that if I stayed within I
should lose my appetite for dinner, which has always been one of
the greatest of my enjoyments, I determined to go and see the
Minister's Bridge which my friend the old mining captain had spoken
to me about. I knew that I should get a wetting by doing so, for
the weather still continued very bad, but I don't care much for a
wetting provided I have a good roof, a good fire, and good fare to
betake myself to afterwards.

So I set out. As I passed over the bridge of the Mynach River I
looked down over the eastern balustrade. The Bridge of the Evil
One, which is just below it, was quite invisible. I could see,
however, the pot or crochan distinctly enough, and a horrible sight
it presented. The waters were whirling round in a manner to
describe which any word but frenzied would be utterly powerless.
Half-an-hour's walking brought me to the little village through
which I had passed the day before. Going up to a house I knocked
at the door, and a middle-aged man opening it, I asked him the way
to the Bridge of the Minister. He pointed to the little chapel to
the west, and said that the way lay past it, adding that he would
go with me himself, as he wanted to go to the hills on the other
side to see his sheep.

We got presently into discourse. He at first talked broken
English, but soon began to speak his native language. I asked him
if the chapel belonged to the Methodists.

"It is not a chapel," said he, "it is a church."

"Do many come to it?" said I.

"Not many, sir, for the Methodists are very powerful here. Not
more than forty or fifty come."

"Do you belong to the Church?" said I.

"I do, sir - thank God!"

"You may well be thankful," said I, "for it is a great privilege to
belong to the Church of England."

"It is so, sir," said the man, 'though few, alas! think so."

I found him a highly-intelligent person. On my talking to him
about the name of the place, he said that some called it Spytty
Cynfyn, and others Spytty Cynwyl, and that both Cynwyl and Cynfyn
were the names of people, to one or other of which the place was
dedicated, and that, like the place farther on called Spytty
Ystwyth, it was in the old time a hospital or inn for the
convenience of the pilgrims going to the great monastery of Ystrad
Flur or Strata Florida.

Passing through a field or two we came to the side of a very deep
ravine, down which there was a zigzag path leading to the bridge.
The path was very steep, and, owing to the rain, exceedingly
slippery. For some way it led through a grove of dwarf oaks, by
grasping the branches of which I was enabled to support myself
tolerably well; nearly at the bottom, however, where the path was
most precipitous, the trees ceased altogether. Fearing to trust my
legs, I determined to slide down, and put my resolution in
practice, arriving at a little shelf close by the bridge without
any accident. The man, accustomed to the path, went down in the
usual manner. The bridge consisted of a couple of planks and a
pole flung over a chasm about ten feet wide, on the farther side of
which was a precipice with a path at least quite as steep as the
one down which I had come, and without any trees or shrubs by which
those who used it might support themselves. The torrent rolled
about nine feet below the bridge; its channel was tortuous; on the
south-east side of the bridge was a cauldron, like that on which I
had looked down from the bridge over the river of the monks. The
man passed over the bridge and I followed him; on the other side we
stopped and turned round. The river was rushing and surging, the
pot was boiling and roaring, and everything looked wild and savage;
but the locality, for awfulness and mysterious gloom, could not
compare with that on the east side of the Devil's Bridge, nor for
sublimity and grandeur with that on the west.

"Here you see, sir," said the man, "the Bridge of the Offeiriad,
called so, it is said, because the popes used to pass over it in
the old time; and here you have the Rheidol, which, though not so
smooth nor so well off for banks as the Hafren and the Gwy, gets to
the sea before either of them, and, as the pennill says, is quite
as much entitled to honour:-


"'Hafren a Wy yn hyfryd eu wedd
A Rheidol vawr ei anrhydedd.'


Good rhyme, sir, that. I wish you would put it into Saesneg."

"I am afraid I shall make a poor hand of it," said I; "however, I
will do my best:-


"'Oh pleasantly do glide along the Severn and the Wye;
But Rheidol's rough, and yet he's held by all in honour high.'


"Very good rhyme that, sir! though not so good as the pennill
Cymraeg. Ha, I do see that you know the two languages and are one
poet. And now, sir, I must leave you, and go to the hills to my
sheep, who I am afraid will be suffering in this dreadful weather.
However, before I go, I should wish to see you safe over the
bridge."

I shook him by the hand, and retracing my steps over the bridge,
began clambering up the bank on my knees.

"You will spoil your trousers, sir!" cried the man from the other
side.

"I don't care if I do," said I, "provided I save my legs, which are
in some danger in this place, as well as my neck, which is of less
consequence."

I hurried back amidst rain and wind to my friendly hospice, where,
after drying my wet clothes as well as I could, I made an excellent
dinner on fowl and bacon. Dinner over, I took up a newspaper which
was brought me, and read an article about the Russian war, which
did not seem to be going on much to the advantage of the allies.
Soon flinging the paper aside, I stuck my feet on the stove, one on
each side of the turf fire, and listened to the noises without.
The bellowing of the wind down the mountain passes and the roaring
of the Rheidol fall at the north side of the valley, and the
rushing of the five cascades of the river Mynach, were truly awful.
Perhaps I ought not to have said the five cascades of the Mynach,
but the Mynach cascade, for now its five cascades had become one,
extending from the chasm over which hung the bridge of Satan to the
bottom of the valley.

After a time I fell into a fit of musing. I thought of the Plant
de Bat; I thought of the spitties or hospitals connected with the
great monastery of Ystrad Flur or Strata Florida; I thought of the
remarkable bridge close by, built by a clever monk of that place to
facilitate the coming of pilgrims with their votive offerings from
the north to his convent; I thought of the convent built in the
time of our Henry the Second by Ryce ab Gruffyd, prince of South
Wales; and lastly, I thought of a wonderful man who was buried in
its precincts, the greatest genius which Wales, and perhaps
Britain, ever produced, on whose account, and not because of old it
had been a magnificent building, and the most celebrated place of
popish pilgrimage in Wales, I had long ago determined to visit it
on my journey, a man of whose life and works the following is a
brief account.



CHAPTER LXXXVI



Birth and Early Years of Ab Gwilym - Morfudd - Relic of Druidism -
The Men of Glamorgan - Legend of Ab Gwilym - Ab Gwilym as a Writer
- Wonderful Variety - Objects of Nature - Gruffydd Gryg.


DAFYDD AB GWILYM was born about the year 1320, at a place called
Bro Gynnin in the county of Cardigan. Though born in wedlock he
was not conceived legitimately. His mother being discovered by her
parents to be pregnant, was turned out of doors by them, whereupon
she went to her lover, who married her, though in so doing he acted
contrary to the advice of his relations. After a little time,
however, a general reconciliation took place. The parents of Ab
Gwilym, though highly connected, do not appear to have possessed
much property. The boy was educated by his mother's brother
Llewelyn ab Gwilym Fychan, a chief of Cardiganshire; but his
principal patron in after life was Ifor, a cousin of his father,
surnamed Hael, or the bountiful, a chieftain of Glamorganshire.
This person received him within his house, made him his steward and
tutor to his daughter. With this young lady Ab Gwilym speedily
fell in love, and the damsel returned his passion. Ifor, however,
not approving of the connection, sent his daughter to Anglesey, and
eventually caused her to take the veil in a nunnery of that island.
Dafydd pursued her, but not being able to obtain an interview, he
returned to his patron, who gave him a kind reception. Under
Ifor's roof he cultivated poetry with great assiduity and wonderful
success. Whilst very young, being taunted with the circumstances
of his birth by a brother bard called Rhys Meigan, he retorted in
an ode so venomously bitter that his adversary, after hearing it,
fell down and expired. Shortly after this event he was made head
bard of Glamorgan by universal acclamation.

After a stay of some time with Ifor, he returned to his native
county and lived at Bro Gynnin. Here he fell in love with a young
lady of birth called Dyddgu, who did not favour his addresses. He
did not break his heart, however, on her account, but speedily
bestowed it on the fair Morfudd, whom he first saw at Rhosyr in
Anglesey, to which place both had gone on a religious account. The
lady after some demur consented to become his wife. Her parents
refusing to sanction the union, their hands were joined beneath the
greenwood tree by one Madawg Benfras, a bard, and a great friend of
Ab Gwilym. The joining of people's hands by bards, which was
probably a relic of Druidism, had long been practised in Wales, and
marriages of this kind were generally considered valid, and seldom
set aside. The ecclesiastical law, however, did not recognise
these poetical marriages, and the parents of Morfudd by appealing
to the law soon severed the union. After confining the lady for a
short time, they bestowed her hand in legal fashion upon a
chieftain of the neighbourhood, very rich but rather old, and with
a hump on his back, on account which he was nicknamed bow-back, or
little hump-back. Morfudd, however, who passed her time in rather
a dull manner with this person, which would not have been the case
had she done her duty by endeavouring to make the poor man
comfortable, and by visiting the sick and needy around her, was
soon induced by the bard to elope with him. The lovers fled to
Glamorgan, where Ifor Hael, not much to his own credit, received
them with open arms, probably forgetting how he had immured his OWN
daughter in a convent, rather than bestow her on Ab Gwilym. Having
a hunting-lodge in a forest on the banks of the lovely Taf, he
allotted it to the fugitives as a residence. Ecclesiastical law,
however, as strong in Wild Wales as in other parts of Europe, soon
followed them into Glamorgan, and, very properly, separated them.
The lady was restored to her husband, and Ab Gwilym fined to a very
high amount. Not being able to pay the fine, he was cast into
prison; but then the men of Glamorgan arose to a man, swearing that
their head bard should not remain in prison. "Then pay his fine!"
said the ecclesiastical law, or rather the ecclesiastical lawyer.
"So we will!" said the men of Glamorgan, and so they did. Every
man put his hand into his pocket; the amount was soon raised, the
fine paid, and the bard set free.

Ab Gwilym did not forget this kindness of the men of Glamorgan,
and, to requite it, wrote an address to the sun, in which he
requests that luminary to visit Glamorgan, to bless it, and to keep
it from harm. The piece concludes with some noble lines somewhat
to this effect


"If every strand oppression strong
Should arm against the son of song,
The weary wight would find, I ween,
A welcome in Glamorgan green."


Some time after his release he meditated a second elopement with
Morfudd, and even induced her to consent to go off with him. A
friend, to whom he disclosed what he was thinking of doing, asking
him whether he would venture a second time to take such a step, "I
will," said the bard, "in the name of God and the men of
Glamorgan." No second elopement, however, took place, the bard
probably thinking, as has been well observed, that neither God nor
the men of Glamorgan would help him a second time out of such an
affair. He did not attain to any advanced age, but died when about
sixty, some twenty years before the rising of Glendower. Some time
before his death his mind fortunately took a decidedly religious
turn.

He is said to have been eminently handsome in his youth, tall,
slender, with yellow hair falling in ringlets down his shoulders.
He is likewise said to have been a great libertine. The following
story is told of him:-

"In a certain neighbourhood he had a great many mistresses, some
married and others not. Once upon a time, in the month of June he
made a secret appointment with each of his lady-loves, the place
and hour of meeting being the same for all; each was to meet him at
the same hour beneath a mighty oak which stood in the midst of a
forest glade. Some time before the appointed hour he went, and
climbing up the oak, hid himself amidst the dense foliage of its
boughs. When the hour arrived he observed all the nymphs tripping
to the place of appointment; all came, to the number of twenty-four
- not one stayed away. For some time they remained beneath the oak
staring at each other. At length an explanation ensued, and it
appeared that they had all come to meet Ab Gwilym.

"'Oh, the treacherous monster!' cried they with one accord; 'only
let him show himself and we will tear him to pieces.'

"'Will you?' said Ab Gwilym from the oak; 'here I am; let her who
has been most wanton with me make the first attack upon me!'

"The females remained for some time speechless; all of a sudden,
however, their anger kindled, not against the bard, but against
each other. From harsh and taunting words they soon came to
actions: hair was torn off, faces were scratched, blood flowed
from cheek and nose. Whilst the tumult was at its fiercest Ab
Gwilym slipped away."

The writer merely repeats this story, and he repeats it as
concisely as possible, in order to have an opportunity of saying
that he does not believe one particle of it. If he believed it, he
would forthwith burn the most cherished volume of the small
collection of books from which he derives delight and recreation,
namely, that which contains the songs of Ab Gwilym, for he would
have nothing in his possession belonging to such a heartless
scoundrel as Ab Gwilym must have been had he got up the scene above
described. Any common man who would expose to each other and the
world a number of hapless, trusting females who had favoured him
with their affections, and from the top of a tree would feast his
eyes upon their agonies of shame and rage, would deserve to be -
emasculated. Had Ab Gwilym been so dead to every feeling of
gratitude and honour as to play the part which the story makes him
play, he would have deserved not only to be emasculated, but to be
scourged with harp-strings in every market-town in Wales, and to be
dismissed from the service of the Muse. But the writer repeats
that he does not believe one tittle of the story, though Ab
Gwilym's biographer, the learned and celebrated William Owen, not
only seems to believe it, but rather chuckles over it. It is the
opinion of the writer that the story is of Italian origin, and that
it formed part of one of the many rascally novels brought over to
England after the marriage of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the third
son of Edward the Third, with Violante, daughter of Galeazzo, Duke
of Milan.

Dafydd Ab Gwilym has been in general considered as a songster who
never employed his muse on any subject save that of love, and there
can be no doubt that by far the greater number of his pieces are
devoted more or less to the subject of love. But to consider him
merely in the light of an amatory poet would be wrong. He has
written poems of wonderful power on almost every conceivable
subject. Ab Gwilym has been styled the Welsh Ovid, and with great
justice, but not merely because like the Roman he wrote admirably
on love. The Roman was not merely an amatory poet: let the shade
of Pythagoras say whether the poet who embodied in immortal verse
the oldest, the most wonderful, and at the same time the most
humane, of all philosophy was a mere amatory poet. Let the shade
of blind Homer be called up to say whether the bard who composed
the tremendous line -


"Surgit ad hos clypei dominus septemplicis Ajax" -


equal to any save ONE of his own, was a mere amatory songster.
Yet, diversified as the genius of the Roman was, there is no
species of poetry in which he shone in which the Welshman may not
be said to display equal merit. Ab Gwilym, then, has been fairly
styled the Welsh Ovid. But he was something more - and here let
there be no sneers about Welsh: the Welsh are equal in genius,
intellect and learning to any people under the sun, and speak a
language older than Greek, and which is one of the immediate
parents of the Greek. He was something more than the Welsh Ovid:
he was the Welsh Horace, and wrote light, agreeable, sportive
pieces, equal to any things of the kind composed by Horace in his
best moods. But he was something more: he was the Welsh Martial,
and wrote pieces equal in pungency to those of the great Roman
epigrammatist, - perhaps more than equal, for we never heard that
any of Martial's epigrams killed anybody, whereas Ab Gwilym's piece
of vituperation on Rhys Meigan - pity that poets should be so
virulent - caused the Welshman to fall down dead. But he was yet
something more: he could, if he pleased, be a Tyrtaeus; he was no
fighter - where was there ever a poet that was? - but he wrote an
ode on a sword, the only warlike piece that he ever wrote, the best
poem on the subject ever written in any language. Finally, he was
something more: he was what not one of the great Latin poets was,
a Christian; that is, in his latter days, when he began to feel the
vanity of all human pursuits, when his nerves began to be unstrung,
his hair to fall off, and his teeth to drop out, and he then
composed sacred pieces entitling him to rank with - we were going
to say Caedmon; had we done so we should have done wrong; no
uninspired poet ever handled sacred subjects like the grand Saxon
Skald - but which entitle him to be called a great religious poet,
inferior to none but the protege of Hilda.

Before ceasing to speak of Ab Gwilym, it will be necessary to state
that his amatory pieces, which constitute more than one-half of his
productions, must be divided into two classes: the purely amatory
and those only partly devoted to love. His poems to Dyddgu and the
daughter of Ifor Hael are productions very different from those
addressed to Morfudd. There can be no doubt that he had a sincere
affection for the two first; there is no levity in the cowydds
which he addressed to them, and he seldom introduces any other
objects than those of his love. But in his cowydds addressed to
Morfudd is there no levity? Is Morfudd ever prominent? His
cowydds to that woman abound with humorous levity, and for the most
part have far less to do with her than with natural objects - the
snow, the mist, the trees of the forest, the birds of the air, and
the fishes of the stream. His first piece to Morfudd is full of
levity quite inconsistent with true love. It states how, after
seeing her for the first time at Rhosyr in Anglesey, and falling in
love with her, he sends her a present of wine by the hands of a
servant, which present she refuses, casting the wine contemptuously
over the head of the valet. This commencement promises little in
the way of true passion, so that we are not disappointed when we
read a little farther on that the bard is dead and buried, all on
account of love, and that Morfudd makes a pilgrimage to Mynyw to
seek for pardon for killing him, nor when we find him begging the
popish image to convey a message to her. Then presently we almost
lose sight of Morfudd amidst birds, animals and trees, and we are
not sorry that we do; for though Ab Gwilym is mighty in humour,
great in describing the emotions of love and the beauties of the
lovely, he is greatest of all in describing objects of nature;
indeed in describing them he has no equal, and the writer has no
hesitation in saying that in many of his cowydds in which he
describes various objects of nature, by which he sends messages to
Morfudd, he shows himself a far greater poet than Ovid appears in
any one of his Metamorphoses. There are many poets who attempt to
describe natural objects without being intimately acquainted with
them, but Ab Gwilym was not one of these. No one was better
acquainted with nature; he was a stroller, and there is every
probability that during the greater part of the summer he had no
other roof than the foliage, and that the voices of birds and
animals were more familiar to his ears than was the voice of man.
During the summer months, indeed, in the early part of his life, he
was, if we may credit him, generally lying perdue in the woodland
or mountain recesses near the habitation of his mistress, before or
after her marriage, awaiting her secret visits, made whenever she
could escape the vigilance of her parents, or the watchful of her
husband, and during her absence he had nothing better to do than to
observe objects of nature and describe them. His ode to the Fox,
one of the most admirable of his pieces, was composed on one of
these occasions.

Want of space prevents the writer from saying as much as he could
wish about the genius of this wonderful man, the greatest of his
country's songsters, well calculated by nature to do honour to the
most polished age and the most widely-spoken language. The bards
his contemporaries, and those who succeeded him for several hundred
years, were perfectly convinced of his superiority, not only over
themselves, but over all the poets of the past; and one, and a
mighty one, old Iolo the bard of Glendower, went so far as to
insinuate that after Ab Gwilym it would be of little avail for any
one to make verses -


"Aed lle mae'r eang dangneff,
Ac aed y gerdd gydag ef."

"To Heaven's high peace let him depart,
And with him go the minstrel art."


He was buried at Ystrad Flur, and a yew tree was planted over his
grave, to which Gruffydd Gryg, a brother bard, who was at one time
his enemy, but eventually became one of the most ardent of his
admirers, addressed an ode, of part of which the following is a
paraphrase:-


"Thou noble tree, who shelt'rest kind
The dead man's house from winter's wind;
May lightnings never lay thee low;
Nor archer cut from thee his bow,
Nor Crispin peel thee pegs to frame;
But may thou ever bloom the same,
A noble tree the grave to guard
Of Cambria's most illustrious bard!"



CHAPTER LXXXVII



Start for Plynlimmon - Plynlimmon's Celebrity - Troed Rhiw Goch.


THE morning of the fifth of November looked rather threatening.
As, however, it did not rain, I determined to set off for
Plynlimmon, and, returning at night to the inn, resume my journey
to the south on the following day. On looking into a pocket
almanac I found it was Sunday. This very much disconcerted me, and
I thought at first of giving up my expedition. Eventually,
however, I determined to go, for I reflected that I should be doing
no harm, and that I might acknowledge the sacredness of the day by
attending morning service at the little Church of England chapel
which lay in my way.

The mountain of Plynlimmon to which I was bound is the third in
Wales for altitude, being only inferior to Snowdon and Cadair
Idris. Its proper name is Pum, or Pump, Lumon, signifying the five
points, because towards the upper part it is divided into five
hills or points. Plynlimmon is a celebrated hill on many accounts.
It has been the scene of many remarkable events. In the tenth
century a dreadful battle was fought on one of its spurs between
the Danes and the Welsh, in which the former sustained a bloody
overthrow; and in 1401 a conflict took place in one of its valleys
between the Welsh, under Glendower, and the Flemings of
Pembrokeshire, who, exasperated at having their homesteads
plundered and burned by the chieftain who was the mortal enemy of
their race, assembled in considerable numbers and drove Glendower
and his forces before them to Plynlimmon, where, the Welshmen
standing at bay, a contest ensued, in which, though eventually
worsted, the Flemings were at one time all but victorious. What,
however, has more than anything else contributed to the celebrity
of the hill is the circumstance of its giving birth to three
rivers, the first of which, the Severn, is the principal stream in
Britain; the second, the Wye, the most lovely river, probably,
which the world can boast of; and the third, the Rheidol, entitled
to high honour from its boldness and impetuosity, and the
remarkable banks between which it flows in its very short course,
for there are scarcely twenty miles between the ffynnon or source
of the Rheidol and the aber or place where it disembogues itself
into the sea.

I started about ten o'clock on my expedition, after making, of
course, a very hearty breakfast. Scarcely had I crossed the
Devil's Bridge when a shower of hail and rain came on. As,
however, it came down nearly perpendicularly, I put up my umbrella
and laughed. The shower pelted away till I had nearly reached
Spytty Cynwyl, when it suddenly left off and the day became
tolerably fine. On arriving at the Spytty, I was sorry to find
that there would be no service till three in the afternoon. As
waiting till that time was out of the question, I pushed forward on
my expedition. Leaving Pont Erwyd at some distance on my left, I
went duly north till I came to a place amongst hills where the road
was crossed by an angry-looking rivulet, the same, I believe which
enters the Rheidol near Pont Erwyd, and which is called the Castle
River. I was just going to pull off my boots and stockings in
order to wade through, when I perceived a pole and a rail laid over
the stream at little distance above where I was. This rustic
bridge enabled me to cross without running the danger of getting a
regular sousing, for these mountain streams, even when not reaching
so high as the knee, occasionally sweep the wader off his legs, as
I know by my own experience. From a lad whom I presently met I
learned that the place where I crossed the water was called Troed
rhiw goch, or the Foot of the Red Slope.

About twenty minutes' walk from hence brought me to Castell
Dyffryn, an inn about six miles distant from the Devil's Bridge,
and situated near a spur of the Plynlimmon range. Here I engaged a
man to show me the sources of the rivers and the other wonders of
the mountain. He was a tall, athletic fellow, dressed in brown
coat, round buff hat, corduroy trousers, linen leggings and
highlows, and, though a Cumro, had much more the appearance of a
native of Tipperary than a Welshman. He was a kind of shepherd to
the people of the house, who, like many others in South Wales,
followed farming and inn-keeping at the same time.



CHAPTER LXXXVIII



The Guide - The Great Plynlimmon - A Dangerous Path - Source of the
Rheidol - Source of the Severn - Pennillion - Old Times and New -
The Corpse Candle - Supper.


LEAVING the inn, my guide and myself began to ascend a steep hill
just behind it. When we were about halfway up I asked my
companion, who spoke very fair English, why the place was called
the Castle.

"Because, sir," said he, "there was a castle here in the old time."

"Whereabouts was it?" said I.

"Yonder," said the man, standing still and pointing to the right.
"Don't you see yonder brown spot in the valley? There the castle
stood."

"But are there no remains of it?" said I. "I can see nothing but a
brown spot."

"There are none, sir; but there a castle once stood, and from it
the place we came from had its name, and likewise the river that
runs down to Pont Erwyd."

"And who lived there?" said I.

"I don't know, sir," said the man; "but I suppose they were grand
people, or they would not have lived in a castle."

After ascending the hill and passing over its top, we went down its
western side and soon came to a black, frightful bog between two
hills. Beyond the bog and at some distance to the west of the two
hills rose a brown mountain, not abruptly, but gradually, and
looking more like what the Welsh call a rhiw, or slope, than a
mynydd, or mountain.

"That, sir," said my guide, "is the grand Plynlimmon."

"It does not look much of a hill," said I.

"We are on very high ground, sir, or it would look much higher. I
question, upon the whole, whether there is a higher hill in the
world. God bless Pumlummon Mawr!" said he, looking with reverence
towards the hill. "I am sure I have a right to say so, for many is
the good crown I have got by showing gentlefolks like yourself to
the top of him."

"You talk of Plynlimmon Mawr, or the great Plynlymmon," said I;
"where are the small ones?"

"Yonder they are," said the guide, pointing to two hills towards
the north; "one is Plynlimmon Canol, and the other Plynlimmon Bach
- the middle and the small Plynlimmon."

"Pumlummon," said I, "means five summits. You have pointed out
only three; now, where are the other two?"

"Those two hills which we have just passed make up the five.
However, I will tell your worship that there is a sixth summit.
Don't you see that small hill connected with the big Pumlummon, on
the right?"

"I see it very clearly," said I.

"Well, your worship, that's called Bryn y Llo - the Hill of the
Calf, or the Calf Plynlimmon, which makes the sixth summit."

"Very good," said I, "and perfectly satisfactory. Now let us
ascend the Big Pumlummon."

In about a quarter of an hour we reached the summit of the hill,
where stood a large carn or heap of stones. I got upon the top and
looked around me.

A mountainous wilderness extended on every side, a waste of russet
coloured hills, with here and there a black, craggy summit. No
signs of life or cultivation were to be discovered, and the eye
might search in vain for a grove or even a single tree. The scene
would have been cheerless in the extreme had not a bright sun
lighted up the landscape.

"This does not seem to be a country of much society," said I to my
guide.

"It is not, sir. The nearest house is the inn we came from, which
is now three miles behind us. Straight before you there is not one
for at least ten, and on either side it is an anialwch to a vast
distance. Plunlummon is not a sociable country, sir; nothing to be
found in it, but here and there a few sheep or a shepherd."

"Now," said I, descending from the carn, "we will proceed to the
sources of the rivers."

"The ffynnon of the Rheidol is not far off," said the guide; "it is
just below the hill."

We descended the western side of the hill for some way; at length,
coming to a very craggy and precipitous place, my guide stopped,
and pointing with his finger into the valley below, said:-

"There, sir, if you look down you can see the source of the
Rheidol."

I looked down, and saw far below what appeared to be part of a
small sheet of water.

"And that is the source of the Rheidol?" said I.

"Yes, sir," said my guide; "that is the ffynnon of the Rheidol."

"Well," said I; "is there no getting to it?"

"Oh yes! but the path, sir, as you see, is rather steep and
dangerous."

"Never mind," said I. "Let us try it."

"Isn't seeing the fountain sufficient for you, sir?"

"By no means," said I. "It is not only necessary for me to see the
sources of the rivers, but to drink of them, in order that in after
times I may be able to harangue about them with a tone of
confidence and authority."

"Then follow me, sir; but please to take care, for this path is
more fit for sheep or shepherds than gentlefolk."

And a truly bad path I found it; so bad indeed that before I had
descended twenty yards I almost repented having ventured. I had a
capital guide, however, who went before and told me where to plant
my steps. There was one particularly bad part, being little better
than a sheer precipice; but even here I got down in safety with the
assistance of my guide, and a minute afterwards found myself at the
source of the Rheidol.

The source of the Rheidol is a small beautiful lake, about a
quarter of a mile in length. It is overhung on the east and north
by frightful crags, from which it is fed by a number of small
rills. The water is of the deepest blue, and of very considerable
depth. The banks, except to the north and east, slope gently down,
and are clad with soft and beautiful moss. The river, of which it
is the head, emerges at the south-western side, and brawls away in
the shape of a considerable brook, amidst moss, and rushes down a
wild glen tending to the south. To the west the prospect is
bounded, at a slight distance, by high, swelling ground. If few
rivers have a more wild and wondrous channel than the Rheidol,
fewer still have a more beautiful and romantic source.

After kneeling down and drinking freely of the lake I said:

"Now, where are we to go to next?"

"The nearest ffynnon to that of the Rheidol, sir, is the ffynnon of
the Severn."

"Very well," said I; "let us now go and see the ffynnon of the
Severn!"

I followed my guide over a hill to the north-west into a valley, at
the farther end of which I saw a brook streaming apparently to the
south, where was an outlet.

"That brook," said the guide, "is the young Severn." The brook
came from round the side of a very lofty rock, singularly
variegated, black and white, the northern summit presenting
something of the appearance of the head of a horse. Passing round
this crag we came to a fountain surrounded with rushes, out of
which the brook, now exceedingly small, came murmuring.

"The crag above," said my guide, "is called Crag y Cefyl, or the
Rock of the Horse, and this spring at its foot is generally called
the ffynnon of the Hafren. However, drink not of it, master; for
the ffynnon of the Hafren is higher up the nant. Follow me, and I
will presently show you the real ffynnon of the Hafren."

I followed him up a narrow and very steep dingle. Presently we
came to some beautiful little pools of water in the turf, which was
here remarkably green.

"These are very pretty pools, an't they, master?" said my
companion. "Now, if I was a false guide I might bid you stoop and
drink, saying that these were the sources of the Severn; but I am a
true cyfarwydd, and therefore tell you not to drink, for these
pools are not the sources of the Hafren, no more than the spring
below. The ffynnon of the Severn is higher up the nant. Don't
fret, however, but follow me, and we shall be there in a minute."

So I did as he bade me, following him without fretting higher up
the nant. Just at the top he halted and said: "Now, master, I
have conducted you to the source of the Severn. I have considered
the matter deeply, and have come to the conclusion that here, and
here only, is the true source. Therefore stoop down and drink, in
full confidence that you are taking possession of the Holy Severn."

The source of the Severn is a little pool of water some twenty
inches long, six wide, and about three deep. It is covered at the
bottom with small stones, from between which the water gushes up.
It is on the left-hand side of the nant, as you ascend, close by
the very top. An unsightly heap of black turf-earth stands right
above it to the north. Turf-heaps, both large and small, are in
abundance in the vicinity.

After taking possession of the Severn by drinking at its source,
rather a shabby source for so noble a stream, I said, "Now let us
go to the fountain of the Wye."

"A quarter of an hour will take us to it, your honour," said the
guide, leading the way.

The source of the Wye, which is a little pool, not much larger than
that which constitutes the fountain of the Severn, stands near the
top of a grassy hill which forms part of the Great Plynlimmon. The
stream after leaving its source runs down the hill towards the
east, and then takes a turn to the south. The Mountains of the
Severn and the Wye are in close proximity to each other. That of
the Rheidol stands somewhat apart front both, as if, proud of its
own beauty, it disdained the other two for their homeliness. All
three are contained within the compass of a mile.

"And now, I suppose, sir, that our work is done, and we may go back
to where we came from," said my guide, as I stood on the grassy
hill after drinking copiously of the fountain of the Wye.

"We may," said I; "but before we do I must repeat some lines made
by a man who visited these sources, and experienced the hospitality
of a chieftain in this neighbourhood four hundred years ago." Then
taking off my hat, I lifted up my voice and sang:-


"From high Plynlimmon's shaggy side
Three streams in three directions glide;
To thousands at their mouths who tarry
Honey, gold and mead they carry.
Flow also from Plynlimmon high
Three streams of generosity;
The first, a noble stream indeed,
Like rills of Mona runs with mead;
The second bears from vineyards thick
Wine to the feeble and the sick;
The third, till time shall be no more,
Mingled with gold shall silver pour."


"Nice pennillion, sir, I daresay," said my guide, "provided a
person could understand them. What's meant by all this mead, wine,
gold, and silver?"

"Why," said I, "the bard meant to say that Plynlimmon, by means of
its three channels, sends blessings and wealth in three different
directions to distant places, and that the person whom he came to
visit, and who lived on Plynlimmon, distributed his bounty in three
different ways, giving mead to thousands at his banquets, wine from
the vineyards of Gascony to the sick and feeble of the
neighbourhood, and gold and silver to those who were willing to be
tipped, amongst whom no doubt was himself, as poets have never been
above receiving a present."

"Nor above asking for one, your honour; there's a prydydd in this
neighbourhood who will never lose a shilling for want of asking for
it. Now, sir, have the kindness to tell me the name of the man who
made those pennillion."

"Lewis Glyn Cothi," said I; "at least, it was he who made the
pennillion from which those verses are translated."

"And what was the name of the gentleman whom he came to visit?"

"His name," said I, "was Dafydd ab Thomas Vychan."

"And where did he live?"

"Why, I believe, he lived at the castle, which you told me once
stood on the spot which you pointed out as we came up. At any
rate, he lived somewhere upon Plynlimmon."

"I wish there was some rich gentleman at present living on
Plynlimmon," said my guide; "one of that sort is much wanted."

"You can't have everything at the same time," said I; "formerly you
had a chieftain who gave away wine and mead, and occasionally a bit
of gold or silver, but then no travellers and tourists came to see
the wonders of the hills, for at that time nobody cared anything
about hills; at present you have no chieftain, but plenty of
visitors, who come to see the hills and the sources, and scatter
plenty of gold about the neighbourhood."

We now bent our steps homeward, bearing slightly to the north,
going over hills and dales covered with gorse and ling. My guide
walked with a calm and deliberate gait, yet I had considerable
difficulty in keeping up with him. There was, however, nothing
surprising in this; he was a shepherd walking on his own hill, and
having first-rate wind, and knowing every inch of the ground, made
great way without seeming to be in the slightest hurry: I would
not advise a road-walker, even if he be a first-rate one, to
attempt to compete with a shepherd on his own, or indeed any hill;
should he do so, the conceit would soon be taken out of him.

After a little time we saw a rivulet running from the west.

"This ffrwd," said my guide, "is called Frennig. It here divides
shire Trefaldwyn from Cardiganshire, one in North and the other in
South Wales."

Shortly afterwards we came to a hillock of rather a singular shape.

"This place, sir," said he, "is called Eisteddfa."

"Why is it called so?" said I. "Eisteddfa means the place where
people sit down."

"It does so," said the guide, "and it is called the place of
sitting because three men from different quarters of the world once
met here, and one proposed that they should sit down."

"And did they?" said I.

"They did, sir; and when they had sat down they told each other
their histories."

"I should be glad to know what their histories were," said I.

"I can't exactly tell you what they were, but I have heard say that
there was a great deal in them about the Tylwyth Teg or fairies."

"Do you believe in fairies?" said I.

"I do, sir; but they are very seldom seen, and when they are they
do no harm to anybody. I only wish there were as few corpse-
candles as there are Tylwith Teg, and that they did as little
harm."

"They foreshow people's deaths, don't they?" said I.

"They do, sir; but that's not all the harm they do. They are very
dangerous for anybody to meet with. If they come bump up against
you when you are walking carelessly it's generally all over with
you in this world. I'll give you an example: A man returning from
market from Llan Eglos to Llan Curig, not far from Plynlimmon, was
struck down dead as a horse not long ago by a corpse-candle. It
was a rainy, windy night, and the wind and rain were blowing in his
face, so that he could not see it, or get out of its way. And yet
the candle was not abroad on purpose to kill the man. The business
that it was about was to prognosticate the death of a woman who
lived near the spot, and whose husband dealt in wool - poor thing!
she was dead and buried in less than a fortnight. Ah, master, I
wish that corpse-candles were as few and as little dangerous as the
Tylwith Teg or fairies."

We returned to the inn, where I settled with the honest fellow,
adding a trifle to what I had agreed to give him. Then sitting
down, I called for a large measure of ale, and invited him to
partake of it. He accepted my offer with many thanks and bows, and
as we sat and drank our ale we had a great deal of discourse about
the places we had visited. The ale being finished, I got up and
said:

"I must now be off for the Devil's Bridge!"

Whereupon he also arose, and offering me his hand, said:

"Farewell, master; I shall never forget you. Were all the
gentlefolks who come here to see the sources like you, we should
indeed feel no want in these hills of such a gentleman as is spoken
of in the pennillion."

The sun was going down as I left the inn. I recrossed the
streamlet by means of the pole and rail. The water was running
with much less violence than in the morning, and was considerably
lower. The evening was calm and beautifully cool, with a slight
tendency to frost. I walked along with a bounding and elastic
step, and never remember to have felt more happy and cheerful.

I reached the hospice at about six o'clock, a bright moon shining
upon me, and found a capital supper awaiting me, which I enjoyed
exceedingly.

How one enjoys one's supper at one's inn after a good day's walk,
provided one has the proud and glorious consciousness of being able
to pay one's reckoning on the morrow!



CHAPTER LXXXIX



A Morning View - Hafod Ychdryd - The Monument - Fairy-looking Place
- Edward Lhuyd.


THE morning of the sixth was bright and glorious. As I looked from
the window of the upper sitting-room of the hospice the scene which
presented itself was wild and beautiful to a degree. The oak-
covered tops of the volcanic crater were gilded with the brightest
sunshine, whilst the eastern sides remained in dark shade and the
gap or narrow entrance to the north in shadow yet darker, in the
midst of which shone the silver of the Rheidol cataract. Should I
live a hundred years I shall never forget the wild fantastic beauty
of that morning scene.

I left the friendly hospice at about nine o'clock to pursue my
southern journey. By this time the morning had lost much of its
beauty, and the dull grey sky characteristic of November began to
prevail. The way lay up a hill to the south-east; on my left was a
glen down which the river of the Monk rolled with noise and foam.
The country soon became naked and dreary, and continued so for some
miles. At length, coming to the top of a hill, I saw a park before
me, through which the road led after passing under a stately
gateway. I had reached the confines of the domain of Hafod.

Hafod Ychdryd, or the summer mansion of Uchtryd, has from time
immemorial been the name of a dwelling on the side of a hill above
the Ystwyth, looking to the east. At first it was a summer boothie
or hunting lodge to Welsh chieftains, but subsequently expanded to
the roomy, comfortable dwelling of Welsh squires, where hospitality
was much practised and bards and harpers liberally encouraged.
Whilst belonging to an ancient family of the name of Johnes,
several members of which made no inconsiderable figure in
literature, it was celebrated, far and wide, for its library, in
which was to be found, amongst other treasures, a large collection
of Welsh manuscripts on various subjects - history, medicine,
poetry and romance. The house, however, and the library were both
destroyed in a dreadful fire which broke out. This fire is
generally called the great fire of Hafod, and some of those who
witnessed it have been heard to say that its violence was so great
that burning rafters mixed with flaming books were hurled high
above the summits of the hills. The loss of the house was a matter
of triviality compared with that of the library. The house was
soon rebuilt, and probably, phoenix-like, looked all the better for
having been burnt, but the library could never be restored. On the
extinction of the family, the last hope of which, an angelic girl,
faded away in the year 1811, the domain became the property of the
late Duke of Newcastle, a kind and philanthrophic nobleman, and a
great friend of agriculture, who held it for many years, and
considerably improved it. After his decease it was purchased by
the head of an ancient Lancashire family, who used the modern house
as a summer residence, as the Welsh chieftains had used the wooden
boothie of old.

I went to a kind of lodge, where I had been told that I should find
somebody who would admit me to the church, which stood within the
grounds and contained a monument which I was very desirous of
seeing, partly from its being considered one of the masterpieces of
the great Chantrey, and partly because it was a memorial to the
lovely child, the last scion of the old family who had possessed
the domain. A good-looking young woman, the only person whom I
saw, on my telling my errand, forthwith took a key and conducted me
to the church. The church was a neat edifice with rather a modern
look. It exhibited nothing remarkable without, and only one thing
remarkable within, namely, the monument, which was indeed worthy of
notice, and which, had Chantrey executed nothing else, might well
have entitled him to be considered, what the world has long
pronounced him, the prince of British sculptors.

This monument, which is of the purest marble, is placed on the
eastern side of the church, below a window of stained glass, and
represents a truly affecting scene: a lady and gentleman are
standing over a dying girl of angelic beauty, who is extended on a
couch, and from whose hand a volume, the Book of Life, is falling.
The lady is weeping.

Beneath is the following inscription -


To the Memory of
MARY
The only child of THOMAS and JANE JOHNES
Who died in 1811
After a few days' sickness
This monument is dedicated
By her parents.


An inscription worthy, by its simplicity and pathos, to stand below
such a monument.

After presenting a trifle to the woman, who, to my great surprise,
could not speak a word of English, I left the church, and descended
the side of the hill, near the top of which it stands. The scenery
was exceedingly beautiful. Below me was a bright green valley, at
the bottom of which the Ystwyth ran brawling, now hid amongst
groves, now showing a long stretch of water. Beyond the river to
the east was a noble mountain, richly wooded. The Ystwyth, after a
circuitous course, joins the Rheidol near the strand of the Irish
Channel, which the united rivers enter at a place called Aber
Ystwyth, where stands a lovely town of the same name, which sprang
up under the protection of a baronial castle, still proud and
commanding even in its ruins, built by Strongbow, the conqueror of
the great western isle. Near the lower part of the valley the road
tended to the south, up and down through woods and bowers, the
scenery still ever increasing in beauty. At length, after passing
through a gate and turning round a sharp corner, I suddenly beheld
Hafod on my right hand, to the west at a little distance above me,
on a rising ground, with a noble range of mountains behind it.

A truly fairy place it looked, beautiful but fantastic, in the
building of which three styles of architecture seemed to have been
employed. At the southern end was a Gothic tower; at the northern
an Indian pagoda; the middle part had much the appearance of a
Grecian villa. The walls were of resplendent whiteness, and the
windows, which were numerous, shone with beautiful gilding. Such
was modern Hafod, a strange contrast, no doubt, to the hunting
lodge of old.

After gazing at this house of eccentric taste for about a quarter
of an hour, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with a strong
disposition to laugh, I followed the road, which led past the house
in nearly a southerly direction. Presently the valley became more
narrow, and continued narrowing till there was little more room
than was required for the road and the river, which ran deep below
it on the left-hand side. Presently I came to a gate, the boundary
in the direction in which I was going of the Hafod domain.

Here, when about to leave Hafod, I shall devote a few lines to a
remarkable man whose name should be ever associated with the place.
Edward Lhuyd was born in the vicinity of Hafod about the period of
the Restoration. His father was a clergyman, who after giving him
an excellent education at home sent him to Oxford, at which seat of
learning he obtained an honourable degree, officiated for several
years as tutor, and was eventually made custodiary of the Ashmolean
Museum. From his early youth he devoted himself with indefatigable
zeal to the acquisition of learning. He was fond of natural
history and British antiquities, but his favourite pursuit, and
that in which he principally distinguished himself, was the study
of the Celtic dialects; and it is but doing justice to his memory
to say, that he was not only the best Celtic scholar of his time,
but that no one has arisen since worthy to be considered his equal
in Celtic erudition. Partly at the expense of the university,
partly at that of various powerful individuals who patronized him,
he travelled through Ireland, the Western Highlands, Wales,
Cornwall and Armorica, for the purpose of collecting Celtic
manuscripts. He was particularly successful in Ireland and Wales.
Several of the most precious Irish manuscripts in Oxford, and also
in the Chandos Library, were of Lhuyd's collection, and to him the
old hall at Hafod was chiefly indebted for its treasures of ancient
British literature. Shortly after returning to Oxford from his
Celtic wanderings he sat down to the composition of a grand work in
three parts, under the title of Archaeologia Britannica, which he
had long projected. The first was to be devoted to the Celtic
dialects; the second to British Antiquities, and the third to the
natural history of the British Isles. He only lived to complete
the first part. It contains various Celtic grammars and
vocabularies, to each of which there is a preface written by Lhuyd
in the particular dialect to which the vocabulary or grammar is
devoted. Of all these prefaces the one to the Irish is the most
curious and remarkable. The first part of the Archaeologia was
published at Oxford in 1707, two years before the death of the
author. Of his correspondence, which was very extensive, several
letters have been published, all of them relating to philology,
antiquities, and natural history.



CHAPTER XC



An Adventure - Spytty Ystwyth - Wormwood.


SHORTLY after leaving the grounds of Hafod I came to a bridge over
the Ystwyth. I crossed it, and was advancing along the road which
led apparently to the south-east, when I came to a company of
people who seemed to be loitering about. It consisted entirely of
young men and women, the former with crimson favours, the latter in
the garb of old Wales, blue tunics and sharp crowned hats. Going
up to one of the young women, I said, "Petti yw? what's the
matter!"

"Priodas (a marriage)," she replied, after looking at me
attentively. I then asked her the name of the bridge, whereupon
she gave a broad grin, and after some, little time replied: "Pont
y Groes (the bridge of the cross)." I was about to ask her some
other question when she turned away with a loud chuckle, and said
something to another wench near her, who, grinning yet more
uncouthly, said something to a third, who grinned too, and lifting
up her hands and spreading her fingers wide, said: "Dyn oddi dir y
Gogledd - a man from the north country, hee, hee!" Forthwith there
was a general shout, the wenches crying: "A man from the north
country, hee, hee!" and the fellows crying: "A man from the north
country, hoo, hoo!"

"Is this the way you treat strangers in the south?" said I. But I
had scarcely uttered the words when with redoubled shouts the
company exclaimed: "There's Cumraeg! there's pretty Cumraeg. Go
back, David, to shire Fon! That Cumraeg won't pass here."

Finding they disliked my Welsh I had recourse to my own language.
"Really," said I in English, "such conduct is unaccountable. What
do you mean?" But this only made matters worse, for the shouts
grew louder still, and every one cried: "There's pretty English!
Well, if I couldn't speak better English than that I'd never speak
English at all. No, David; if you must speak at all, stick to
Cumraeg." Then forthwith, all the company set themselves in
violent motion, the women rushing up to me with their palms and
fingers spread out in my face, without touching me, however, as
they wheeled round me at about a yard's distance, crying: "A man
from the north country, hee, hee!" and the fellows acting just in
the same way, rushing up with their hands spread out, and then
wheeling round me with cries of "A man from the north country, hoo,
hoo!" I was so enraged that I made for a heap of stones by the
road-side, intending to take some up and fling them at the company.
Reflecting, however, that I had but one pair of hands and the
company at least forty, and that by such an attempt at revenge I
should only make myself ridiculous, I gave up my intention, and
continued my journey at a rapid pace, pursued for a long way by
"hee, hee," and "hoo, hoo," and: "Go back, David, to your goats in
Anglesey, you are not wanted here."

I began to descend a hill forming the eastern side of an immense
valley, at the bottom of which rolled the river. Beyond the valley
to the west was an enormous hill, on the top of which was a most
singular-looking crag, seemingly leaning in the direction of the
south. On the right-hand side of the road were immense works of
some kind in full play and activity, for engines were clanging and
puffs of smoke were ascending from tall chimneys. On inquiring of
a boy the name of the works I was told that they were called the
works of Level Vawr, or the Great Level, a mining establishment;
but when I asked him the name of the hill with the singular peak,
on the other side of the valley, he shook his head and said he did
not know. Near the top of the hill I came to a village consisting
of a few cottages and a shabby-looking church. A rivulet
descending from some crags to the east crosses the road, which
leads through the place, and tumbling down the valley, joins the
Ystwyth at the bottom. Seeing a woman standing at the door, I
inquired the name of the village.

"Spytty Ystwyth," she replied, but she, no more than the boy down
below, could tell me the name of the strange-looking hill across
the valley. This second Spytty or monastic hospital, which I had
come to, looked in every respect an inferior place to the first.
Whatever its former state might have been, nothing but dirt and
wretchedness were now visible. Having reached the top of the hill
I entered upon a wild moory region. Presently I crossed a little
bridge over a rivulet, and seeing a small house on the shutter of
which was painted "cwrw," I went in, sat down on an old chair,
which I found vacant, and said in English to an old woman who sat
knitting by the window: "Bring me a pint of ale!"

"Dim Saesneg!" said the old woman.

"I told you to bring me a pint of ale," said I to her in her own
language.

"You shall have it immediately, sir," said she, and going to a
cask, she filled a jug with ale, and after handing it to me resumed
her seat and knitting.

"It is not very bad ale," said I, after I had tasted it.

"It ought to be very good," said the old woman, "for I brewed it
myself."

"The goodness of ale," said I, "does not so much depend on who
brews it as on what it is brewed of. Now there is something in
this ale which ought not to be. What is it made of?"

"Malt and hop."

"It tastes very bitter," said I. "Is there no chwerwlys (13) in
it?"

"I do not know what chwerwlys is," said the old woman.

"It is what the Saxons call wormwood," said I.

"Oh, wermod. No, there is no wermod in my beer, at least not
much."

"Oh, then there is some; I thought there was. Why do you put such
stuff into your ale?"

"We are glad to put it in sometimes when hops are dear, as they are
this year. Moreover, wermod is not bad stuff, and some folks like
the taste better than that of hops."

"Well, I don't. However, the ale is drinkable. What am I to give
you for the pint?"

"You are to give me a groat."

"That is a great deal," said I, "for a groat I ought to have a pint
of ale made of the best malt and hops."

"I give you the best I can afford. One must live by what one
sells. I do not find that easy work."

"Is this house your own?"

"Oh no! I pay rent for it, and not a cheap one."

"Have you a husband?

"I had, but he is dead."

"Have you any children?"

"I had three, but they are dead too, and buried with my husband at
the monastery."

"Where is the monastery?"

"A good way farther on, at the strath beyond Rhyd Fendigaid."

"What is the name of the little river by the house?"

"Avon Marchnad (Market River)."

"Why is it called Avon Marchnad?"

"Truly, gentleman, I cannot tell you."

I went on sipping my ale and finding fault with its bitterness till
I had finished it, when getting up I gave the old lady her groat,
bade her farewell, and departed.



CHAPTER XCI



Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid - Strata Florida - The Yew-Tree - Idolatry -
The Teivi - The Llostlydan.


AND now for the resting-place of Dafydd Ab Gwilym! After wandering
for some miles towards the south over a bleak moory country I came
to a place called Fair Rhos, a miserable village, consisting of a
few half-ruined cottages, situated on the top of a hill. From the
hill I looked down on a wide valley of a russet colour, along which
a river ran towards the south. The whole scene was cheerless.
Sullen hills were all around. Descending the hill I entered a
large village divided into two by the river, which here runs from
east to west, but presently makes a turn. There was much mire in
the street; immense swine lay in the mire, who turned up their
snouts at me as I passed. Women in Welsh hats stood in the mire,
along with men without any hats at all, but with short pipes in
their mouths; they were talking together; as I passed, however,
they held their tongues, the women leering contemptuously at me,
the men glaring sullenly at me, and causing tobacco smoke curl in
my face; on my taking off my hat, however and inquiring the way to
the Monachlog, everybody was civil enough, and twenty voices told
me the way the Monastery. I asked the name of the river:

"The Teivi, sir: the Teivi."

"The name of the bridge?"

"Pony y Rhyd Fendigaid - the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, sir."

I crossed the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, and presently leaving the
main road, I turned to the east by a dung-hill, up a narrow lane
parallel with the river. After proceeding a mile up the lane,
amidst trees and copses, and crossing a little brook, which runs
into the Teivi, out of which I drank, I saw before me in the midst
of a field, in which were tombstones and broken ruins, a rustic-
looking church; a farm-house stood near it, in the garden of which
stood the framework of a large gateway. I crossed over into the
churchyard, ascended a green mound, and looked about me. I was now
in the very midst of the Monachlog Ystrad Flur, the celebrated
monastery of Strata Florida, to which in old times Popish pilgrims
from all parts of the world repaired. The scene was solemn and
impressive: on the north side of the river a large bulky hill
looked down upon the ruins and the church, and on the south side,
some way behind the farm-house, was another which did the same.
Rugged mountains formed the background of the valley to the east,
down from which came murmuring the fleet but shallow Teivi. Such
is the scenery which surrounds what remains of Strata Florida:
those scanty broken ruins compose all which remains of that
celebrated monastery, in which saints and mitred abbots were
buried, and in which, or in whose precincts, was buried Dafydd Ab
Gwilym, the greatest genius of the Cimbric race and one of the
first poets of the world.

After standing for some time on the mound I descended, and went up
to the church. I found the door fastened, but obtained through a
window a tolerable view of the interior, which presented an
appearance of the greatest simplicity. I then strolled about the
churchyard looking at the tombstones, which were humble enough and
for the most part modern. I would give something, said I, to know
whereabouts in this neighbourhood Ab Gwilym lies. That, however,
is a secret that no one can reveal to me. At length I came to a
yew-tree which stood just by the northern wall, which is at a
slight distance from the Teivi. It was one of two trees, both of
the same species, which stood in the churchyard, and appeared to be
the oldest of the two. Who knows, said I, but this is the tree
that was planted over Ab Gwilym's grave, and to which Gruffydd Gryg
wrote an ode? I looked at it attentively, and thought that there
was just a possibility of its being the identical tree. If it was,
however, the benison of Gruffydd Gryg had not had exactly the
effect which he intended, for either lightning or the force of wind
had splitten off a considerable part of the head and trunk, so that
though one part of it looked strong and blooming, the other was
white and spectral. Nevertheless, relying on the possibility of
its being the sacred tree, I behaved just as I should have done had
I been quite certain of the fact. Taking off my hat I knelt down
and kissed its root, repeating lines from Gruffydd Gryg, with which
I blended some of my own in order to accommodate what I said to
present circumstances:-


"O tree of yew, which here I spy,
By Ystrad Flur's blest monast'ry,
Beneath thee lies, by cold Death bound,
The tongue for sweetness once renown'd.
Better for thee thy boughs to wave,
Though scath'd, above Ab Gwilym's grave,
Than stand in pristine glory drest
Where some ignobler bard doth rest;
I'd rather hear a taunting rhyme
From one who'll live through endless time,
Than hear my praises chanted loud
By poets of the vulgar crowd."


I had left the churchyard, and was standing near a kind of garden,
at some little distance from the farm-house, gazing about me and
meditating, when a man came up attended by a large dog. He had
rather a youthful look, was of the middle size, and dark
complexioned. He was respectably dressed, except that upon his
head he wore a common hairy cap.

"Good evening," said I to him in Welsh.

"Good evening, gentleman," said he in the same language.

"Have you much English?" said I.

"Very little; I can only speak a few words."

"Are you the farmer?"

"Yes! I farm the greater part of the Strath."

"I suppose the land is very good here?"

"Why do you suppose so?"

"Because the monks built their house here in the old time, and the
monks never built their houses except on good land."

"Well, I must say the land is good; indeed I do not think there is
any so good in Shire Aberteifi."

"I suppose you are surprised to see me here; I came to see the old
Monachlog."

"Yes, gentleman; I saw you looking about it."

"Am I welcome to see it?"

"Croesaw! gwr boneddig, croesaw! many, many welcomes to you,
gentleman!"

"Do many people come to see the monastery?"

FARMER. - Yes! many gentlefolks come to see it in the summer time.

MYSELF. - It is a poor place now.

FARMER. - Very poor, I wonder any gentlefolks come to look at it.

MYSELF. - It was a wonderful place once; you merely see the ruins
of it now. It was pulled down at the Reformation.

FARMER. - Why was it pulled down then?

MYSELF. - Because it was a house of idolatry to which people used
to resort by hundreds to worship images. Had you lived at that
time you would have seen people down on their knees before stocks
and stones, worshipping them, kissing them, and repeating
pennillion to them.

FARMER. - What fools! How thankful I am that I live in wiser days.
If such things were going on in the old Monachlog it was high time
to pull it down.

MYSELF. - What kind of a rent do you pay for your land?

FARMER. - Oh, rather a stiffish one.

MYSELF. - Two pounds an acre?

FARMER. - Two pound an acre! I wish I paid no more!

MYSELF. - Well, I think that would be quite enough. In the time of
the old monastery you might have had the land at two shillings an
acre.

FARMER. - Might I? Then those couldn't have been such bad times,
after all.

MYSELF. - I beg your pardon! They were horrible times - times in
which there were monks and friars and graven images, which people
kissed and worshipped and sang pennillion to. Better pay three
pounds an acre and live on crusts and water in the present
enlightened days than pay two shillings an acre and sit down to
beef and ale three times a day in the old superstitious times.

FARMER. - Well, I scarcely know what to say to that.

MYSELF. - What do you call that high hill on the other side of the
river?

FARMER. - I call that hill Bunk Pen Bannedd.

MYSELF. - Is the source of the Teivi far from here?

FARMER. - The head of the Teivi is about two miles from here high
up in the hills.

MYSELF. - What kind of place is the head of the Teivi?

FARMER. - The head of the Teivi is a small lake about fifty yards
long and twenty across.

MYSELF. - Where does the Teivi run to?

FARMER. - The Teivi runs to the sea, which it enters at a place
which the Cumri call Aber Teivi and the Saxons Cardigan.

MYSELF. - Don't you call Cardiganshire Shire Aber Teivi?

FARMER. - We do.

MYSELF. - Are there many gleisiaid in the Teivi?

FARMER. - Plenty, and salmons too - that is, farther down. The
best place for salmon and gleisiaid is a place, a great way down
the stream, called Dinas Emlyn.

MYSELF. - Do you know an animal called Llostlydan?

FARMER. - No, I do not know that beast.

MYSELF. - There used to be many in the Teivi.

FARMER. - What kind of beast is the Llostlydan?

MYSELF. - A beast with a broad tail, on which account the old Cumri
did call him Llostlydan. Clever beast he was; made himself house
of wood in middle of the river, with two doors, so that when hunter
came upon him he might have good chance of escape. Hunter often
after him, because he had skin good to make hat.

FARMER. - Ha, I wish I could catch that beast now in Teivi.

MYSELF. - Why so?

Farmer. - Because I want hat. Would make myself hat of his skin.

MYSELF. - Oh, you could not make yourself a hat even if you had the
skin.

FARMER. - Why not? Shot coney in Bunk Pen Banedd; made myself cap
of his skin. So why not make hat of skin of broadtail, should I
catch him in Teivi?

MYSELF. - How far is it to Tregaron?

FARMER. -'Tis ten miles from here, and eight from the Rhyd
Fendigaid.

MYSELF. - Must I go back to Rhyd Fendigaid to get to Tregaron?

FARMER. - You must.

MYSELF. - Then I must be going, for the night is coming down.
Farewell!

FARMER. - Farvel, Saxon gentleman!



CHAPTER XCII



Nocturnal Journey - Maes y Lynn - The Figure - Earl of Leicester -
Twm Shone Catti - The Farmer and Bull - Tom and the Farmer - The
Cave - The Threat - Tom a Justice - The Big Wigs - Tregaron.


IT was dusk by the time I had regained the high-road by the village
of the Rhyd Fendigaid.

As I was yet eight miles from Tregaron, the place where I intended
to pass the night, I put on my best pace. In a little time I
reached a bridge over a stream which seemed to carry a considerable
tribute to the Teivi.

"What is the name of this bridge?" said I to a man riding in a
cart, whom I met almost immediately after I had crossed the bridge.

"Pont Vleer," methought he said, but as his voice was husky and
indistinct, very much like that of a person somewhat the worse for
liquor, I am by no means positive.

It was now very dusk, and by the time I had advanced about a mile
farther dark night settled down, which compelled me to abate my
pace a little, more especially as the road was by no means first-
rate. I had come, to the best of my computation, about four miles
from the Rhyd Fendigaid when the moon began partly to show itself,
and presently by its glimmer I saw some little way off on my right
hand what appeared to be a large sheet of water. I went on, and in
about a minute saw two or three houses on the left, which stood
nearly opposite to the object which I had deemed to be water, and
which now appeared to be about fifty yards distant in a field which
was separated from the road by a slight hedge. Going up to the
principal house I knocked, and a woman making her appearance at the
door, I said:

"I beg pardon for troubling you, but I wish to know the name of
this place."

"Maes y Lynn - The Field of the Lake," said the woman.

"And what is the name of the lake?" said I.

"I do not know," said she; "but the place where it stands is called
Maes Llyn, as I said before."

"Is the lake deep?" said I.

"Very deep," said she.

"How deep?" said I.

"Over the tops of the houses," she replied.

"Any fish in the lake?"

"Oh yes! plenty."

"What fish?"

"Oh, there are llysowen, and the fish we call ysgetten."

"Eels and tench," said I; "anything else?"

"I do not know," said the woman; "folks say that there used to be
queer beast in the lake, water-cow used to come out at night and
eat people's clover in the fields."

"Pooh," said I, "that was merely some person's cow or horse, turned
out at night to fill its belly at other folks' expense."

"Perhaps so," said the woman; "have you any more questions to ask?"

"Only one," said I; "how far is it to Tregaron?"

"About three miles: are you going there?"

"Yes, I am going to Tregaron."

"Pity that you did not come a little time ago," said the woman;
"you might then have had pleasant company on your way; pleasant man
stopped here to light his pipe; he too going to Tregaron."

"It doesn't matter," said I; "I am never happier than when keeping
my own company." Bidding the woman good night, I went on. The
moon now shone tolerably bright, so that I could see my way, and I
sped on at a great rate. I had proceeded nearly half a mile, when
I thought I heard steps in advance, and presently saw a figure at
some little distance before me. The individual, probably hearing
the noise of my approach, soon turned round and stood still. As I
drew near I distinguished a stout burly figure of a man, seemingly
about sixty, with a short pipe in his mouth.

"Ah, is it you?" said the figure, in English, taking the pipe out
of his mouth; "good evening, I am glad to see you." Then shaking
some burning embers out of his pipe, he put it into his pocket, and
trudged on beside me.

"Why are you glad to see I me?" said I, slackening my pace; "I am a
stranger to you; at any rate, you are to me."

"Always glad to see English gentleman," said the figure; "always
glad to see him."

"How do you know that I am an English gentleman?" said I.

"Oh, I know Englishman at first sight; no one like him in the whole
world."

"Have you seen many English gentleman?" said I.

"Oh yes, have seen plenty when I have been up in London."

"Have you been much in London?"

"Oh yes; when I was a drover was up in London every month."

"And were you much in the society of English gentlemen when you
were there?"

"Oh yes; a great deal."

"Whereabouts in London did you chiefly meet them?"

"Whereabouts? Oh, in Smithfield."

"Dear me!" said I; "I thought that was rather a place for butchers
than gentlemen."

"Great place for gentlemen, I assure you," said the figure; "met
there the finest gentleman I ever saw in my life; very grand, but
kind and affable, like every true gentleman. Talked to me a great
deal about Anglesey runts, and Welsh legs of mutton, and at parting
shook me by the hand, and asked me to look in upon him, if I was
ever down in his parts, and see his sheep and taste his ale."

"Do you know who he was?" said I.

"Oh yes; know all about him; Earl of Leicester, from county of
Norfolk; fine old man indeed - you very much like him - speak just
in same way."

"Have you given up the business of drover long?" said I.

"Oh yes; given him up a long time, ever since domm'd railroad came
into fashion."

"And what do you do now?" said I.

"Oh, not much; live upon my means; picked up a little property, a
few sticks, just enough for old crow to build him nest with -
sometimes, however, undertake a little job for neighbouring people
and get a little money. Can do everything in small way, if
necessary; build little bridge, if asked; - Jack of all Trades -
live very comfortably."

"And where do you live?"

"Oh, not very far from Tregaron."

"And what kind of place is Tregaron?"

"Oh, very good place; not quite so big as London but very good
place."

"What is it famed for?" said I,

"Oh, famed for very good ham; best ham at Tregaron in all Shire
Cardigan."

"Famed for anything else?"

"Oh yes! famed for great man, clever thief, Twm Shone Catti, who
was born there."

"Dear me!" said I; "when did he live?"

"Oh, long time ago, more than two hundred year."

"And what became of him?" said I; "was he hung?"

"Hung, no! only stupid thief hung. Twm Shone clever thief; died
rich man, justice of the peace and mayor of Brecon."

"Very singular," said I, "that they should make a thief mayor of
Brecon."

"Oh Twm Shone Catti very different from other thieves; funny
fellow, and so good-natured that everybody loved him - so they made
him magistrate, not, however, before he had become very rich man by
marrying great lady who fell in love with him."

"Ah, ah," said I; "that's the way of the world. He became rich, so
they made him a magistrate; had he remained poor they would have
hung him in spite of all his fun and good-nature. Well, can't you
tell me some of the things he did?"

"Oh yes, can tell you plenty. One day in time of fair Tom Shone
Catti goes into ironmonger's shop in Llandovery. 'Master,' says
he, 'I want to buy a good large iron porridge pot; please to show
me some.' So the man brings three or four big iron porridge pots,
the very best he has. Tom takes up one and turns it round. 'This
look very good porridge pot,' said he; 'I think it will suit me.'
Then he turns it round and round again, and at last lifts it above
his head and peeks into it. 'Ha, ha,' says he; 'this won't do; I
see one hole here. What mean you by wanting to sell article like
this to stranger?' Says the man, 'There be no hole in it.' 'But
there is,' says Tom, holding it up and peeking into it again; 'I
see the hole quite plain. Take it and look into it yourself.' So
the man takes the pot, and having held it up and peeked in, 'as I
hope to be saved,' says he, 'I can see no hole.' Says Tom, 'Good
man, if you put your head in, you will find that there is a hole.'
So the man tries to put in his head, but having some difficulty,
Tom lends him a helping hand by jamming the pot quite down over the
man's face, then whisking up the other pots Tom leaves the shop,
saying as he goes, 'Friend, I suppose you now see there is a hole
in the pot, otherwise how could you have got your head inside?"'

"Very good," said I; "can you tell us something more about Twm
Shone Catti?"

"Oh yes; can tell you plenty about him. The farmer at Newton, just
one mile beyond the bridge at Brecon, had one very fine bull, but
with a very short tail. Says Tom to himself: 'By God's nails and
blood, I will steal the farmer's bull, and then sell it to him for
other bull in open market place.' Then Tom makes one fine tail,
just for all the world such a tail as the bull ought to have had,
then goes by night to the farmer's stall at Newton, steals away the
bull, and then sticks to the bull's short stump the fine bull's
tail which he himself had made. The next market day he takes the
bull to the market-place at Brecon, and calls out; 'Very fine bull
this, who will buy my fine bull?' Quoth the farmer who stood nigh
at hand, 'That very much like my bull, which thief stole t'other
night; I think I can swear to him.' Says Tom, 'What do you mean?
This bull is not your bull, but mine.' Says the farmer, 'I could
swear that this is my bull but for the tail. The tail of my bull
was short, but the tail of this is long. I would fain know whether
the tail of this be real tail or not.' 'You would?' says Tom;
'well, so you shall.' Thereupon he whips out big knife and cuts
off the bull's tail, some little way above where the false tail was
joined on. 'Ha, ha,' said Tom, as the bull's stump of tail bled,
and the bit of tail bled too to which the false tail was stuck, and
the bull kicked and bellowed. 'What say you now? Is it a true
tail or no?' 'By my faith!' says the farmer, 'I see that the tail
is a true tail, and that the bull is not mine. I beg pardon for
thinking that he was.' 'Begging pardon,' says Tom, 'is all very
well; but will you buy the bull?' 'No,' said the farmer; 'I should
be loth to buy a bull with tail cut off close to the rump.' 'Ha,'
says Tom; 'who made me cut off the tail but yourself? Did you not
force me to do so in order to clear my character? Now as you made
me cut off my bull's tail, I will make you buy my bull without his
tail.' 'Yes, yes,' cried the mob; 'as he forced you to cut off the
tail, do you now force him to buy the bull without the tail.' Says
the farmer, 'What do you ask for the bull?' Says Tom: 'I ask for
him ten pound.' Says the farmer, 'I will give you eight.' 'No,'
says Tom; 'you shall give me ten, or I will have you up before the
justice.' 'That is right,' cried the mob. 'If he won't pay you
ten pound, have him up before the justice.' Thereupon the farmer,
becoming frightened, pulled out the ten pounds and gave it for his
own bull to Tom Shone Catti, who wished him joy of his bargain. As
the farmer was driving the bull away he said to Tom: 'Won't you
give me the tail?' 'No,' said Tom; 'I shall keep it against the
time I steal another bull with a short tail;' and thereupon he runs
off."

"A clever fellow," said I; "though it was rather cruel in him to
cut off the poor bull's tail. Now, perhaps, you will tell me how
he came to marry the rich lady?

"Oh yes; I will tell you. One day as he was wandering about,
dressed quite like a gentleman, he heard a cry, and found one very
fine lady in the hands of one highwayman, who would have robbed and
murdered her. Tom kills the highwayman and conducts the lady home
to her house and her husband, for she was a married lady. Out of
gratitude to Tom for the service he has done, the gentleman and
lady invite him to stay with them. The gentleman, who is a great
gentleman, fond of his bottle and hunting, takes mightily to Tom
for his funny sayings and because Tom's a good hand at a glass when
at table, and a good hand at a leap when in field; the lady also
takes very much to Tom, because he one domm'd handsome fellow, with
plenty of wit and what they call boetry - for Tom, amongst other
things, was no bad boet, and could treat a lady to pennillion about
her face and her ancle, and the tip of her ear. At last Tom goes
away upon his wanderings, not, however, before he has got one
promise from the lady, that if ever she becomes disengaged she will
become his wife. Well, after some time, the lady's husband dies
and leaves her all his property, so that all of a sudden she finds
herself one great independent lady, mistress of the whole of Strath
Feen, one fair and pleasant valley far away there over the Eastern
hills, by the Towey, on the borders of Shire Car. Tom, as soon as
he hears the news of all this, sets off for Strath Feen and asks
the lady to perform her word; but the lady, who finds herself one
great and independent lady, and moreover does not quite like the
idea of marrying one thief, for she had learnt who Tom was, does
hum and hah, and at length begs to be excused, because she has
changed her mind. Tom begs and entreats, but quite in vain, till
at last she tells him to go away and not trouble her any more. Tom
goes away, but does not yet lose hope. He takes up his quarters in
one strange little cave, nearly at the top of one wild hill, very
much like sugar loaf, which does rise above the Towey, just within
Shire Car. I have seen the cave myself, which is still called
Ystafell Twm Shone Catty. Very queer cave it is, in strange
situation; steep rock just above it, Towey River roaring below.
There Tom takes up his quarters, and from there he often sallies
forth, in hope of having interview with fair lady and making her
alter her mind, but she will have nothing to do with him, and at
last shuts herself up in her house and will not go out. Well, Tom
nearly loses all hope; he, however, determines to make one last
effort; so one morning he goes to the house and stands before the
door, entreating with one loud and lamentable voice that the lady
will see him once more, because he is come to bid her one eternal
farewell, being about to set off for the wars in the kingdom of
France. Well, the lady who hears all he says relents one little,
and showing herself at the window, before which are very strong