iron bars, she says: 'Here I am! whatever you have to say, say it
quickly and go your way.' Says Tom: 'I am come to bid you one
eternal farewell, and have but one last slight request to make,
which is that you vouchsafe to stretch out of the window your lily-
white hand, that I may impress one last burning kiss of love on the
same.' Well, the lady hesitates one little time; at last, having
one woman's heart, she thinks she may grant him this last little
request, and stretching her hand through the bars, she says:
'Well, there's my hand, kiss it once and begone.' Forthwith Tom,
seizing her wrist with his left hand, says: 'I have got you now,
and will never let you go till you swear to become my wife.'
'Never,' said the lady, 'will I become the wife of one thief,' and
strives with all her might to pull her hand free, but cannot, for
the left hand of Tom is more strong than the right of other man.
Thereupon Tom with his right hand draws forth his sword, and with
one dreadful shout does exclaim, - 'Now will you swear to become my
wife, for if you don't, by God's blood and nails, I will this
moment smite off your hand with this sword.' Then the lady being
very much frightened, and having one sneaking kindness for Tom, who
though he looked very fierce looked also very handsome, said, -
'Well, well! a promise is a promise; I promised to become your
wife, and so I will; I swear I will; by all I hold holy I swear; so
let go my hand, which you have almost pulled off, and come in and
welcome!' So Tom lets go her hand, and the lady opens her door,
and before night they were married, and in less than one month Tom,
being now very rich and Lord of Ystrad Feen, was made justice of
the peace and chairman at quarter session."

"And what kind of justice of the peace did Tom make?"

"Ow, the very best justice of the peace that there ever was. He
made the old saying good: you must get one thief to catch one
thief. He had not been a justice three year before there was not a
thief in Shire Brecon nor in Shire Car, for they also made him
justice of Carmarthenshire, and a child might walk through the
country quite safe with a purse of gold in its hand. He said that
as he himself could not have a finger in the pie, he would take
care nobody else should. And yet he was not one bloody justice
either; never hanged thief without giving him a chance to reform;
but when he found him quite hardened he would say: 'Hang up de
rogue!' Oh, Tom was not a very hard man, and had one grateful
heart for any old kindness which had been sewn him. One day as Tom
sat on de bench with other big wigs, Tom the biggest wig of the
lot, a man was brought up charged with stealing one bullock. Tom
no sooner cast eye on the man than he remembered him quite well.
Many years before Tom had stole a pair of oxen, which he wished to
get through the town of Brecon, but did not dare to drive them
through, for at that very time there was one warrant out against
Tom at Brecon for something he had done. So Tom stands with his
oxen on the road, scratching his head and not knowing what to do.
At length there comes a man along the road, making towards Brecon,
to whom Tom says: 'Honest man, I want these two oxen to be driven
to such and such a public-house two miles beyond Brecon; I would
drive them myself only I have business to do elsewhere of more
importance. Now if you will drive them for me there and wait till
I come, which will not be long, I will give you a groat.' Says the
man; 'I will drive them there for nothing, for as my way lies past
that same public-house I can easily afford to do so.' So Tom
leaves the oxen with the man, and by rough and roundabout road
makes for the public-house - beyond Brecon, where he finds the man
waiting with the oxen, who hands them over to him and goes on his
way. Now, in the man brought up before him and the other big wigs
on the bench for stealing the bullock, Tom does recognise the man
who had done him that same good turn. Well! the evidence was heard
against the man, and it soon appeared quite clear that the man did
really steal the bullock. Says the other big wigs to Tom: 'The
fact has been proved quite clear. What have we now to do but to
adshudge at once that the domm'd thief be hung?' But Tom, who
remembered that the man had once done him one good turn, had made
up his mind to save the man. So says he to the other big wigs:
'My very worthy esteemed friends and coadshutors, I do perfectly
agree with you that the fact has been proved clear enough, but with
respect to de man, I should be very much grieved should he be hung
for this one fact, for I did know him long time ago, and did find
him to be one domm'd honest man in one transaction which I had with
him. So my wordy and esteemed friends and coadshutors I should
esteem it one great favour if you would adshudge that the man
should be let off this one time. If, however, you deem it
inexpedient to let the man off, then of course the man must be
hung, for I shall not presume to set my opinions and judgments
against your opinions and judgments, which are far better than my
own.' Then the other big wigs did look very big and solemn, and
did shake their heads and did whisper to one another that they were
afraid the matter could not be done. At last, however, they did
come to the conclusion that as Tom had said that he had known the
fellow once to be one domm'd honest man, and as they had a great
regard for Tom, who was one domm'd good magistrate and highly
respectable gentleman with whom they were going to dine the next
day - for Tom I must tell you was in the habit of giving the very
best dinners in all Shire Brecon - it might not be incompatible
with the performance of their duty to let the man off this one
time, seeing as how the poor fellow had probably merely made one
slight little mistake. Well: to make the matter short, the man
was let off with only a slight reprimand, and left the court.
Scarcely, however, had he gone twenty yards, when Tom was after
him, and tapping him on the shoulder said: 'Honest friend, a word
with you!' Then the man turning round Tom said: 'Do you know me,
pray?' 'I think I do, your honour,' said the man. 'I think your
honour was one of the big wigs, who were just now so kind as to let
me off.' 'I was so,' said Tom; 'and it is well for you that I was
the biggest of these big wigs before whom you stood placed,
otherwise to a certainty you would have been hung up on high; but
did you ever see me before this affair?' 'No, your honour,' said
the man, 'I don't remember ever to have seen your honour before.'
Says Tom, 'Don't you remember one long time ago driving a pair of
oxen through Brecon for a man who stood scratching his head on the
road?' 'Oh yes,' says the man; 'I do remember that well enough.'
'Well,' said Tom; 'I was that man. I had stolen that pair of oxen,
and I dared not drive them through Brecon. You drove them for me;
and for doing me that good turn I have this day saved your life. I
was thief then but am now big wig. I am Twm Shone Catti. Now
lookee! I have saved your life this one time, but I can never save
it again. Should you ever be brought up before me again, though
but for stealing one kid, I will hang you as high as ever Haman was
hung. One word more; here are five pieces of gold. Take them:
employ them well, and reform as I have done, and perhaps in time
you may become one big wig, like myself.' Well: the man took the
money, and laid it out to the best advantage, and became at last so
highly respectable a character that they made him a constable. And
now, my gentleman, we are close upon Tregaron."

After descending a hill we came to what looked a small suburb, and
presently crossed a bridge over the stream, the waters of which
sparkled merrily in the beams of the moon which was now shining
bright over some lofty hills to the south-east. Beyond the bridge
was a small market-place, on the right-hand side of which stood an
ancient looking church. The place upon the whole put me very much
in mind of an Andalusian village overhung by its sierra. "Where is
the inn?" said I to my companion.

"Yonder it be;" said he pointing to a large house at the farther
end of the market-place. "Very good inn that - Talbot Arms - where
they are always glad to see English gentlemans." Then touching his
hat, and politely waving his hand, he turned on one side, and I saw
him no more.



CHAPTER XCIII



Tregaron Church - The Minister - Good Morning - Tom Shone's
Disguises - Tom and the Lady - Klim and Catti.


I EXPERIENCED very good entertainment at the Tregaron Inn, had an
excellent supper and a very comfortable bed. I arose at about
eight in the morning. The day was dull and misty. After
breakfast, according to my usual fashion, I took a stroll to see
about. The town, which is very small, stands in a valley, near
some wild hills called the Berwyn, like the range to the south of
Llangollen. The stream, which runs through it and which falls into
the Teivi at a little distance from the town, is called the
Brennig, probably because it descends from the Berwyn hills. These
southern Berwyns form a very extensive mountain region, extending
into Brecon and Carmarthenshire, and contain within them, as I long
subsequently found, some of the wildest solitudes and most romantic
scenery in Wales. High up amidst them, at about five miles from
Tregaron, is a deep, broad lake which constitutes the source of the
Towy, a very beautiful stream, which after many turnings and
receiving the waters of numerous small streams discharges itself
into Carmarthen Bay.

I did not fail to pay a visit to Tregaron church. It is an antique
building with a stone tower. The door being open, as the door of a
church always should be, I entered, and was kindly shown by the
clerk, whom I met in the aisle, all about the sacred edifice.
There was not much to be seen. Amongst the monuments was a stone
tablet to John Herbert, who died 1690. The clerk told me that the
name of the clergyman of Tregaron was Hughes; he said that he was
an excellent, charitable man, who preached the Gospel, and gave
himself great trouble in educating the children of the poor. He
certainly seemed to have succeeded in teaching them good manners:
as I was leaving the church, I met a number of little boys
belonging to the church school: no sooner did they see me than
they drew themselves up it, a rank on one side, and as I passed
took off their caps and simultaneously shouted, "Good-morning!"

And now something with respect to the celebrated hero of Tregaron,
Tom Shone Catti, concerning whom I picked up a good deal during my
short stay there, and of whom I subsequently read something in
printed books. (14)

According to the tradition of the country, he was the illegitimate
son of Sir John Wynn of Gwedir, by one Catherine Jones of Tregaron,
and was born at a place called Fynnon Lidiart, close by Tregaron,
towards the conclusion of the sixteenth century. He was baptised
by the name of Thomas Jones, but was generally called Tom Shone
Catti, that is Tom Jones, son of Catti or Catherine. His mother,
who was a person of some little education, brought him up, and
taught him to read and write. His life, till his eighteenth year,
was much like other peasant boys; he kept crows, drove bullocks,
and learned to plough and harrow, but always showed a disposition
to roguery and mischief. Between eighteen and nineteen, in order
to free himself and his mother from poverty which they had long
endured, he adopted the profession of a thief, and soon became
celebrated through the whole of Wales for the cleverness and
adroitness which he exercised in his calling; qualities in which he
appears to have trusted much more than in strength and daring,
though well endowed with both. His disguises were innumerable, and
all impenetrable; sometimes he would appear as an ancient crone;
sometimes as a begging cripple; sometimes as a broken soldier.
Though by no means scrupulous as to what he stole, he was
particularly addicted to horse and cattle stealing, and was no less
successful in altering the appearance of animals than his own, as
he would frequently sell cattle to the very persons from whom he
had stolen them, after they had been subjected to such a
metamorphosis, by means of dyes and the scissors, that recognition
was quite impossible. Various attempts were made to apprehend him,
but all without success; he was never at home to people who
particularly wanted him, or if at home he looked anything but the
person they came in quest of. Once a strong and resolute man, a
farmer, who conceived, and very justly, that Tom had abstracted a
bullock from his stall, came to Tregaron well armed in order to
seize him. Riding up to the door of Tom's mother, he saw an aged
and miserable-looking object, with a beggar's staff and wallet,
sitting on a stone bench beside the door. Does Tom Shone Catti
live here?" said the farmer. "Oh yes, he lives here," replied the
beggar. "Is he at home?" "Oh yes, he is at home." "Will you hold
my horse whilst I go in and speak to him?" "Oh yes, I will hold
your horse." Thereupon the man dismounted, took a brace of pistols
out of his holsters, gave the cripple his horse's bridle and
likewise his whip, and entered the house boldly. No sooner was he
inside than the beggar, or rather Tom Shone Catti, for it was he,
jumped on the horse's back, and rode away to the farmer's house
which was some ten miles distant, altering his dress and appearance
as he rode along, having various articles of disguise in his
wallet. Arriving at the house he told the farmer's wife that her
husband was in the greatest trouble, and wanted fifty pounds, which
she was to send by him, and that he came mounted on her husband's
horse, and brought his whip, that she might know he was authorised
to receive the money. The wife, seeing the horse and the whip,
delivered the money to Tom without hesitation, who forthwith made
the best of his way to London, where he sold the horse, and made
himself merry with the price, and with what he got from the
farmer's wife, not returning to Wales for several months. Though
Tom was known by everybody to be a thief, he appears to have lived
on very good terms with the generality of his neighbours, both rich
and poor. The poor he conciliated by being very free of the money
which he acquired by theft and robbery, and with the rich he
ingratiated himself by humorous jesting, at which he was a
proficient, and by being able to sing a good song. At length,
being an extremely good-looking young fellow, he induced a wealthy
lady to promise to marry him. This lady is represented by some as
a widow, and by others as a virgin heiress. After some time,
however, she refused to perform her promise and barred her doors
against him. Tom retired to a cave on the side of a steep wild
hill near the lady's house, to which he frequently repaired, and at
last, having induced her to stretch her hand to him through the
window bars, under the pretence that he wished to imprint a parting
kiss upon it, he won her by seizing her hand and threatening to cut
it off unless she performed her promise. Then, as everything at
the time at which he lived could be done by means of money, he soon
obtained for himself a general pardon, and likewise a commission as
justice of the peace, which he held to the time of his death, to
the satisfaction of everybody except thieves and ill-doers, against
whom he waged incessant war, and with whom he was admirably
qualified to cope, from the knowledge he possessed of their ways
and habits, from having passed so many years of his life in the
exercise of the thieving trade. In his youth he was much addicted
to poetry, and a great many pennillion of his composition, chiefly
on his own thievish exploits, are yet recited by the inhabitants of
certain districts of the shires of Brecon, Carmarthen, and
Cardigan.

Such is the history or rather the outline of the history of Twm
Shone Catti. Concerning the actions attributed to him, it is
necessary to say that the greater part consist of myths, which are
told of particular individuals of every country, from the Indian
Ocean to the Atlantic: for example, the story of cutting off the
bull's tail is not only told of him but of the Irish thief Delany,
and is to be found in the "Lives of Irish Rogues and Rapparees;"
certain tricks related of him in the printed tale bearing his name
are almost identical with various rogueries related in the story-
book of Klim the Russian robber, (15) and the most poetical part of
Tom Shone's history, namely, that in which he threatens to cut off
the hand of the reluctant bride unless she performs her promise,
is, in all probability, an offshoot of the grand myth of "the
severed hand," which in various ways figures in the stories of most
nations, and which is turned to considerable account in the tale of
the above-mentioned Russian worthy Klim.



CHAPTER XCIV



Llan Ddewi Brefi - Pelagian Heresy - Hu Gadarn - God of Agriculture
- The Silver Cup - Rude Tablet.


IT was about eleven o'clock in the morning when I started from
Tregaron; the sky was still cloudy and heavy. I took the road to
Lampeter, distant about eight miles, intending, however, to go much
farther ere I stopped for the night. The road lay nearly south-
west. I passed by Aber Coed, a homestead near the bottom of a
dingle down which runs a brook into the Teivi, which flows here
close by the road; then by Aber Carvan, where another brook
disembogues. Aber, as perhaps the reader already knows, is a
disemboguement, and wherever a place commences with Aber there to a
certainty does a river flow into the sea, or a brook or rivulet
into a river. I next passed through Nant Derven, and in about
three-quarters of an hour after leaving Tregaron reached a place of
old renown called Llan Ddewi Brefi.

Llan Ddewi Brefi is a small village situated at the entrance of a
gorge leading up to some lofty hills which rise to the east and
belong to the same mountain range as those near Tregaron. A brook
flowing from the hills murmurs through it and at length finds its
way into the Teivi. An ancient church stands on a little rising
ground just below the hills; multitudes of rooks inhabit its
steeple and fill throughout the day the air with their cawing. The
place wears a remarkable air of solitude, but presents nothing of
gloom and horror, and seems just the kind of spot in which some
quiet pensive man, fatigued but not soured by the turmoil of the
world, might settle down, enjoy a few innocent pleasures, make his
peace with God, and then compose himself to his long sleep.

It is not without reason that Llan Ddewi Brefi has been called a
place of old renown. In the fifth century, one of the most
remarkable ecclesiastical convocations which the world has ever
seen was held in this secluded spot. It was for the purpose of
refuting certain doctrines, which had for some time past caused
much agitation in the Church, and which originated with one Morgan,
a native of North Wales, who left his country at an early age and
repaired to Italy, where having adopted the appellation of
Pelagius, which is a Latin translation of his own name Morgan,
which signifies "by the seashore," he soon became noted as a
theological writer. It is not necessary to enter into any detailed
exposition of his opinions; it will, however, be as well to state
that one of the points which he was chiefly anxious to inculcate
was that it is possible for a man to lead a life entirely free from
sin by obeying the dictates of his own reason without any
assistance from the grace of God - a dogma certainly to the last
degree delusive and dangerous. When the convocation met there were
a great many sermons preached by various learned and eloquent
divines, but nothing was produced which was pronounced by the
general voice a satisfactory answer to the doctrines of the
heresiarch. At length it was resolved to send for Dewi, a
celebrated teacher of theology at Mynyw in Pembrokeshire, who from
motives of humility had not appeared in the assembly. Messengers
therefore were despatched to Dewi, who, after repeated entreaties,
was induced to repair to the place of meeting, where after three
days' labour in a cell he produced a treatise in writing in which
the tenets of Morgan were so triumphantly overthrown that the
convocation unanimously adopted it and sent it into the world with
a testimony of approbation as an antidote to the heresy, and so
great was its efficacy that from that moment the doctrines of
Morgan fell gradually into disrepute. (16)

Dewi shortly afterwards became primate of Wales, being appointed to
the see of Minevai or Mynyw, which from that time was called Ty
Ddewi or David's House, a name which it still retains amongst the
Cumry, though at present called by the Saxons Saint David's. About
five centuries after his death the crown of canonization having
been awarded to Dewi, various churches were dedicated to him,
amongst which was that now called Llan Ddewi Brefi, which was built
above the cell in which the good man composed his celebrated
treatise.

If this secluded gorge or valley is connected with a remarkable
historical event it is also associated with one of the wildest
tales of mythology. Here according to old tradition died one of
the humped oxen of the team of Hu Gadarn. Distracted at having
lost its comrade, which perished from the dreadful efforts which it
made along with the others in drawing the afanc hen or old
crocodile from the lake of lakes, it fled away from its master, and
wandered about, till coming to the glen now called that of Llan
Ddewi Brefi, it fell down and perished after excessive bellowing,
from which noise the place probably derived its name of Brefi, for
Bref in Cumbric signifies a mighty bellowing or lowing. Horns of
enormous size, said to have belonged to this humped ox or bison,
were for many ages preserved in the church.

Many will exclaim who was Hu Gadarn? Hu Gadarn in the Gwlad yr Haf
or summer country, a certain region of the East, perhaps the
Crimea, which seems to be a modification of Cumria, taught the
Cumry the arts of civilised life, to build comfortable houses, to
sow grain and reap, to tame the buffalo and the bison, and turn
their mighty strength to profitable account, to construct boats
with wicker and the skins of animals, to drain pools and morasses,
to cut down forests, cultivate the vine and encourage bees, make
wine and mead, frame lutes and fifes and play upon them, compose
rhymes and verses, fuse minerals and form them into various
instruments and weapons, and to move in masses against their
enemies, and finally when the summer country became over-populated
led an immense multitude of his countrymen across many lands to
Britain, a country of forests, in which bears, wolves, and bisons
wandered, and of morasses and pools full of dreadful efync or
crocodiles, a country inhabited only by a few savage Gauls, but
which shortly after the arrival of Hu and his people became a
smiling region, forests being thinned, bears and wolves hunted
down, efync annihilated, bulls and bisons tamed, corn planted and
pleasant cottages erected. After his death he was worshipped as
the God of agriculture and war by the Cumry and the Gauls. The
Germans paid him divine honours under the name of Heus, from which
name the province of Hesse in which there was a mighty temple
devoted to him, derived its appellation. The Scandinavians
worshipped him under the name of Odin and Gautr, the latter word a
modification of Cadarn or mighty. The wild Finns feared him as a
wizard and honoured him as a musician under the name of
Wainoemoinen, and it is very probable that he was the wondrous
being whom the Greeks termed Odysses. Till a late period the word
Hu amongst the Cumry was frequently used to express God - Gwir Hu,
God knows, being a common saying. Many Welsh poets have called the
Creator by the name of the creature, amongst others Iolo Goch in
his ode to the ploughman:-


"The mighty Hu who lives for ever,
Of mead and wine to men the giver,
The emperor of land and sea,
And of all things that living be
Did hold a plough with his good hand,
Soon as the deluge left the land,
To show to men both strong and weak,
The haughty-hearted and the meek,
Of all the arts the heaven below
The noblest is to guide the plough."


So much for Hu Gadarn or Hu the Mighty, whose name puts one
strangely in mind of the Al Kader Hu or the Almighty He of the
Arabians.

I went to see the church. The inside was very rude and plain - a
rough table covered with a faded cloth served for an altar - on the
right-hand side was a venerable-looking chest.

"What is there in that box?" said I to the old sexton who attended
me.

"The treasure of the church, sir," he replied in a feeble quaking
voice.

"Dear me!" said I, "what does the treasure consist of?"

"You shall see, sir," said he, and drawing a large key out of his
pocket he unlocked the chest and taking out a cup of silver he put
it into my hand saying:- "This is the treasure of the church, sir!"

I looked at the cup. It was tolerably large and of very chaste
workmanship. Graven upon it were the following words:-


"Poculum Eclesie De LXXN Dewy Brefy 1574."


"Do you always keep this cup in that chest?" said I.

"Yes sir! we have kept it there since the cup was given to us by de
godly Queen Elizabeth."

I said nothing, but I thought to myself:- "I wonder how long a cup
like this would have been safe in a crazy chest in a country church
in England."

I kissed the sacred relic of old times with reverence, and returned
it to the old sexton.

"What became of the horns of Hu Gadarn's bull?" said I, after he
had locked the cup again in its dilapidated coffer.

"They did dwindle away, sir, till they came to nothing."

"Did you ever see any part of them?" said I.

"Oh no, sir; I did never see any part of them, but one very old man
who is buried here did tell me shortly before he died that he had
seen one very old man who had seen of dem one little tip."

"Who was the old man who said that to you?" said I.

"I will show you his monument, sir," then taking me into a dusky
pew he pointed to a small rude tablet against the church wall and
said:- "That is his monument, sir."

The tablet bore the following inscription, and below it a rude
englyn on death not worth transcribing:-


Coffadwriaeth am
THOMAS JONES
Diweddar o'r Draws Llwyn yn y Plwyf hwn:
Bu farw Chwefror 6 fed 1830
Yn 92 oed.

To the memory of
THOMAS JONES
Of Traws Llwyn (across the Grove) in this
parish who died February the sixth, 1830.
Aged 92.


After copying the inscription I presented the old man with a trifle
and went my way.



CHAPTER XCV



Lampeter - The Monk Austin - The Three Publicans - The Tombstone -
Sudden Change - Trampers - A Catholic - The Bridge of Twrch.


THE country between Llan Ddewi and Lampeter presented nothing
remarkable, and I met on the road nothing worthy of being recorded.
On arriving at Lampeter I took a slight refreshment at the inn, and
then went to see the college which stands a little way to the north
of the town. It was founded by Bishop Burgess in the year 1820,
for the education of youths intended for the ministry of the Church
of England. It is a neat quadrate edifice with a courtyard in
which stands a large stone basin. From the courtyard you enter a
spacious dining-hall, over the door of which hangs a well-executed
portrait of the good bishop. From the hall you ascend by a
handsome staircase to the library, a large and lightsome room, well
stored with books in various languages. The grand curiosity is a
manuscript Codex containing a Latin synopsis of Scripture which
once belonged to the monks of Bangor Is Coed. It bears marks of
blood with which it was sprinkled when the monks were massacred by
the heathen Saxons, at the instigation of Austin the Pope's
missionary in Britain. The number of students seldom exceeds
forty.

It might be about half-past two in the afternoon when I left
Lampeter. I passed over a bridge, taking the road to Llandovery
which, however, I had no intention of attempting to reach that
night, as it was considerably upwards of twenty miles distant. The
road lay, seemingly, due east. After walking very briskly for
about an hour I came to a very small hamlet consisting of not more
than six or seven houses; of these three seemed to be public-
houses, as they bore large flaming signs. Seeing three rather
shabby-looking fellows standing chatting with their hands in their
pockets, I stopped and inquired in English the name of the place.

"Pen- something," said one of them, who had a red face and a large
carbuncle on his nose, which served to distinguish him from his
companions, who though they had both very rubicund faces had no
carbuncles.

"It seems rather a small place to maintain three public-houses,"
said I; "how do the publicans manage to live?"

"Oh, tolerably well, sir; we get bread and cheese and have a groat
in our pockets. No great reason to complain; have we, neighbours?"

"No! no great reason to complain," said the other two.

"Dear me!" said I; "are you the publicans?"

"We are, sir," said the man with the carbuncle on his nose, "and
shall be each of us glad to treat you to a pint in his own house in
order to welcome you to Shire Car - shan't we, neighbours?"

"Yes, in truth we shall," said the other two.

"By Shire Car," said I, "I suppose you mean Shire Cardigan?"

"Shire Cardigan!" said the man; "no indeed; by Shire Car is meant
Carmarthenshire. Your honour has left beggarly Cardigan some way
behind you. Come, your honour, come and have a pint; this is my
house," said he, pointing to one of the buildings.

"But," said I, "I suppose if I drink at your expense you expect to
drink at mine?"

"Why, we can't say that we shall have any objection, your honour; I
think we will arrange the matter in this way; we will go into my
house, where we will each of us treat your honour with a pint, and
for each pint we treat your honour with your honour shall treat us
with one."

"Do you mean each?" said I.

"Why, yes! your honour, for a pint amongst three would be rather a
short allowance."

"Then it would come to this," said I, "I should receive three pints
from you three, and you three would receive nine from me."

"Just so, your honour, I see your honour is a ready reckoner."

"I know how much three times three make," said I. "Well, thank
you, kindly, but I must decline your offer; I am bound on a
journey."

"Where are you bound to, master?"

"To Llandovery, but if I can find an inn a few miles farther on I
shall stop there for the night."

"Then you will put up at the 'Pump Saint,' master; well, you can
have your three pints here and your three pipes too, and yet get
easily there by seven. Come in, master, come in! If you take my
advice you will think of your pint and your pipe and let all the
rest go to the devil."

"Thank you," said I, "but I can't accept your invitation, I must be
off;" and in spite of yet more pressing solicitations I went on.

I had not gone far when I came to a point where the road parted
into two; just at the point were a house and premises belonging
apparently to a stonemason, as a great many pieces of half-cut
granite were standing about, and not a few tombstones. I stopped
and looked at one of the latter. It was to the memory of somebody
who died at the age of sixty-six, and at the bottom bore the
following bit of poetry:-


"Ti ddaear o ddaear ystyria mewn braw,
Mai daear i ddaear yn fuan a ddaw;
A ddaear mewn ddaear raid aros bob darn
Nes daear o ddaear gyfrodir i farn."

"Thou earth from earth reflect with anxious mind
That earth to earth must quickly be consigned,
And earth in earth must lie entranced enthralled
Till earth from earth to judgment shall be called."


"What conflicting opinions there are in this world," said I, after
I had copied the quatrain and translated it. "The publican yonder
tells me to think of my pint and pipe and let everything else go to
the devil, and the tombstone here tells me to reflect with dread -
a much finer expression by-the-bye than reflect with anxious mind,
as I have got it - that in a very little time I must die, and lie
in the ground till I am called to judgment. Now, which is most
right, the tombstone or the publican? Why, I should say the
tombstone decidedly. The publican is too sweeping when he tells
you to think of your pint and pipe and nothing else. A pint and
pipe are good things. I don't smoke myself, but I daresay a pipe
is a good thing for them who like it, but there are certainly
things worth being thought of in this world besides a pint and pipe
- hills and dales, woods and rivers, for example - death and
judgment too are worthy now and then of very serious thought. So
it won't do to go with the publican the whole hog. But with
respect to the tombstone, it is quite safe and right to go with it
its whole length. It tells you to think of death and judgment -
and assuredly we ought to of them. It does not, however, tell you
to think of nothing but death and judgment and to eschew every
innocent pleasure within your reach. If it did it would be a
tombstone quite as sweeping in what it says as the publican, who
tells you to think of your pint and pipe and let everything else go
to the devil. The wisest course evidently is to blend the whole of
the philosophy of the tombstone with a portion of the philosophy of
the publican and something more, to enjoy one's pint and pipe and
other innocent pleasures, and to think every now and then of death
and judgment - that is what I intend to do, and indeed is what I
have done for the last thirty years."

I went on - desolate hills rose in the east, the way I was going,
but on the south were beautiful hillocks adorned with trees and
hedge-rows. I was soon amongst the desolate hills, which then
looked more desolate than they did at a distance. They were of a
wretched russet colour, and exhibited no other signs of life and
cultivation than here and there a miserable field and vile-looking
hovel; and if there was here nothing to cheer the eye there was
also nothing to cheer the ear. There were no songs of birds, no
voices of rills; the only sound I heard was the lowing of a
wretched bullock from a far-off slope.

I went on slowly and heavily; at length I got to the top of this
wretched range - then what a sudden change! Beautiful hills in the
far east, a fair valley below me, and groves and woods on each side
of the road which led down to it. The sight filled my veins with
fresh life, and I descended this side of the hill as merrily as I
had come up the other side despondingly. About half-way down the
hill I came to a small village. Seeing a public-house I went up to
it, and inquired in English of some people within the name of the
village.

"Dolwen," said a dark-faced young fellow of about four-and-twenty.

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

"Dolwen," was the answer, "the valley is named after the village."

"You mean that the village is named after the valley," said I, "for
Dolwen means fair valley."

"It may be so," said the young fellow, "we don't know much here."

Then after a moment's pause he said:

"Are you going much farther?"

"Only as far as the 'Pump Saint.'"

"Have you any business there?" said he.

"No," I replied, "I am travelling the country, and shall only put
up there for the night"

"You had better stay here," said the young fellow. "You will be
better accommodated here than at the 'Pump Saint.'"

"Very likely," said I; "but I have resolved to go there, and when I
once make a resolution I never alter it."

Then bidding him good evening I departed. Had I formed no
resolution at all about stopping at the 'Pump Saint,' I certainly
should not have stayed in this house, which had all the appearance
of a trampers' hostelry, and though I am very fond of the
conversation of trampers, who are the only people from whom you can
learn anything, I would much rather have the benefit of it abroad
than in their own lairs. A little farther down I met a woman
coming up the ascent. She was tolerably respectably dressed,
seemed about five-and-thirty, and was rather good-looking. She
walked somewhat slowly, which was probably more owing to a large
bundle which she bore in her hand than to her path being up-hill.

"Good evening," said I, stopping.

"Good evening, your honour," said she, stopping and brightly
panting.

"Do you come from far?" said I.

"Not very far, your honour, but quite far enough for a poor feeble
woman."

"Are you Welsh?" said I.

"Och no! your honour; I am Mary Bane from Dunmanway in the kingdom
of Ireland."

"And what are you doing here?" said I.

"Och sure! I am travelling the country with soft goods."

"Are you going far?" said I.

"Merely to the village a little farther up, your honour."

"I am going farther," said I, "I am thinking of passing the night
at the 'Pump Saint.'"

"Well, then, I would just advise your honour to do no such thing,
but to turn back with me to the village above, where there is an
illigant inn where your honour will be well accommodated."

"Oh, I saw that as I came past," said I; "I don't think there is
much accommodation there."

"Oh, your honour is clane mistaken; there is always an illigant
fire and an illigant bed too."

"Is there only one bed?" said I.

"Oh, yes, there are two beds, one for the accommodation of the
people of the house and the other for that of the visitors."

"And do the visitors sleep together then?" said I.

"Oh yes! unless they wish to be unsociable. Those who are not
disposed to be sociable sleeps in the chimney-corners."

"Ah," said I, "I see it is a very agreeable inn; however, I shall
go on to the 'Pump Saint.'"

"I am sorry for it, your honour, for your honour's sake; your
honour won't be half so illigantly served at the 'Pump Saint' as
there above."

"Of what religion are you?" said I.

"Oh, I'm a Catholic, just like your honour, for if I am not clane
mistaken your honour is an Irishman."

"Who is your spiritual director?" said I.

"Why, then, it is just Father Toban, your honour, whom of course
your honour knows."

"Oh yes!" said I; "when you next see him present my respects to
him."

"What name shall I mention, your honour?"

"Shorsha Borroo," said I.

"Oh, then I was right in taking your honour for an Irishman. None
but a raal Paddy bears that name. A credit to your honour is your
name, for it is a famous name, (17) and a credit to your name is
your honour, for it is a neat man without a bend you are. God
bless your honour and good night! and may you find dacent quarters
in the 'Pump Saint.'"

Leaving Mary Bane I proceeded on my way. The evening was rather
fine but twilight was coming rapidly on. I reached the bottom of
the valley and soon overtook a young man dressed something like a
groom. We entered into conversation. He spoke Welsh and a little
English. His Welsh I had great difficulty in understanding, as it
was widely different from that which I had been accustomed to. He
asked me where I was going to; I replied to the "Pump Saint," and
then enquired if he was in service.

"I am," said he.

"With whom do you live?" said I.

"With Mr Johnes of Dol Cothi," he answered.

Struck by the word Cothi, I asked if Dol Cothi was ever called Glyn
Cothi.

"Oh yes," said he, "frequently."

"How odd," thought I to myself, "that I should have stumbled all of
a sudden upon the country of my old friend Lewis Glyn Cothi, the
greatest poet after Ab Gwilym of all Wales!"

"Is Cothi a river?" said I to my companion.

"It is," said he.

Presently we came to a bridge over a small river.

"Is this river the Cothi?" said I.

"No," said he, "this is the Twrch; the bridge is called Pont y
Twrch."

"The bridge of Twrch or the hog," said I to myself; "there is a
bridge of the same name in the Scottish Highlands, not far from the
pass of the Trossachs. I wonder whether it has its name from the
same cause as this, namely, from passing over a river called the
Twrch or Torck, which word in Gaelic signifies boar or hog even as
it does in Welsh." It had now become nearly dark. After
proceeding some way farther I asked the groom if we were far from
the inn of the "Pump Saint."

"Close by," said he, and presently pointing to a large building on
the right-hand side he said: "This is the inn of the 'Pump Saint,'
sir. Nos Da'chi!"



CHAPTER XCVI



"Pump Saint" - Pleasant Residence - The Watery Coom - Philological
Fact - Evening Service - Meditation.


I ENTERED the inn of the "Pump Saint." It was a comfortable old-
fashioned place, with a very large kitchen and a rather small
parlour. The people were kind and attentive, and soon set before
me in the parlour a homely but savoury supper, and a foaming
tankard of ale. After supper I went into the kitchen, and sitting
down with the good folks in an immense chimney-corner, listened to
them talking in their Carmarthenshire dialect till it was time to
go to rest, when I was conducted to a large chamber where I found
an excellent and clean bed awaiting me, in which I enjoyed a
refreshing sleep, occasionally visited by dreams in which some of
the scenes of the preceding day again appeared before me, but in an
indistinct and misty manner.

Awaking in the very depth of the night I thought I heard the
murmuring of a river; I listened and soon found that I had not been
deceived. "I wonder whether that river is the Cothi," said I, "the
stream of the immortal Lewis. I will suppose that it is" - and
rendered quite happy by the idea, I soon fell asleep again.

I arose about eight and went out to look about me. The village
consists of little more than half-a-dozen houses. The name "Pump
Saint" signifies "Five Saints." Why the place is called so I know
not. Perhaps the name originally belonged to some chapel which
stood either where the village now stands or in the neighbourhood.
The inn is a good specimen of an ancient Welsh hostelry. Its gable
is to the road and its front to a little space on one side of the
way. At a little distance up the road is a blacksmith's shop. The
country around is interesting: on the north-west is a fine wooded
hill - to the south a valley through which flows the Cothi, a fair
river, the one whose murmur had come so pleasingly upon my ear in
the depth of night.

After breakfast I departed for Llandovery. Presently I came to a
lodge on the left-hand beside an ornamental gate at the bottom of
an avenue leading seemingly to a gentleman's seat. On inquiring of
a woman, who sat at the door of the lodge, to whom the grounds
belonged, she said to Mr Johnes, and that if I pleased I was
welcome to see them. I went in and advanced along the avenue,
which consisted of very noble oaks; on the right was a vale in
which a beautiful brook was running north and south. Beyond the
vale to the east were fine wooded hills. I thought I had never
seen a more pleasing locality, though I saw it to great
disadvantage, the day being dull, and the season the latter fall.
Presently, on the avenue making a slight turn, I saw the house, a
plain but comfortable gentleman's seat with wings. It looked to
the south down the dale. "With what satisfaction I could live in
that house," said I to myself, "if backed by a couple of thousands
a-year. With what gravity could I sign a warrant in its library,
and with what dreamy comfort translate an ode of Lewis Glyn Cothi,
my tankard of rich ale beside me. I wonder whether the proprietor
is fond of the old bard and keeps good ale. Were I an Irishman
instead of a Norfolk man I would go in and ask him."

Returning to the road I proceeded on my journey. I passed over
Pont y Rhanedd or the bridge of the Rhanedd, a small river flowing
through a dale, then by Clas Hywel, a lofty mountain which appeared
to have three heads. After walking for some miles I came to where
the road divided into two. By a sign-post I saw that both led to
Llandovery, one by Porth y Rhyd and the other by Llanwrda. The
distance by the first was six miles and a half, by the latter eight
and a half. Feeling quite the reverse of tired I chose the longest
road, namely the one by Llanwrda, along which I sped at a great
rate.

In a little time I found myself in the heart of a romantic winding
dell, overhung with trees of various kinds, which a tall man whom I
met told me was called Cwm Dwr Llanwrda, or the Watery Coom of
Llanwrda; and well might it be called the Watery Coom, for there
were several bridges in it, two within a few hundred yards of each
other. The same man told me that the war was going on very badly,
that our soldiers were suffering much, and that the snow was two
feet deep at Sebastopol.

Passing through Llanwrda, a pretty village with a singular-looking
church, close to which stood an enormous yew, I entered a valley
which I learned was the valley of the Towey. I directed my course
to the north, having the river on my right, which runs towards the
south in a spacious bed, which, however, except in times of flood,
it scarcely half fills. Beautiful hills were on other side, partly
cultivated, partly covered with wood, and here and there dotted
with farm-houses and gentlemen's seats; green pastures which
descended nearly to the river occupying in general the lower parts.
After journeying about four miles amid this kind of scenery I came
to a noble suspension bridge, and crossing it found myself in about
a quarter of an hour at Llandovery.

It was about half-past two when I arrived. I put up at the Castle
Inn and forthwith ordered dinner, which was served up between four
and five. During dinner I was waited upon by a strange old fellow
who spoke Welsh and English with equal fluency.

"What countryman are you?" said I.

"An Englishman," he replied.

"From what part of England?"

"From Herefordshire."

"Have you been long here?"

"Oh yes! upwards of twenty years."

"How came you to learn Welsh?"

"Oh, I took to it and soon picked it up."

"Can you read it?" said I.

"No, I can't."

"Can you read English?"

"Yes, I can; that is, a little."

"Why didn't you try to learn to read Welsh?"

"Well, I did; but I could make no hand of it. It's one thing to
speak Welsh and another to read it."

"I can read Welsh much better than I can speak it," said I.

"Ah, you are a gentleman - gentlefolks always find it easier to
learn to read a foreign lingo than to speak it, but it's quite the
contrary with we poor folks."

"One of the most profound truths ever uttered connected with
language," said I to myself. I asked him if there were many Church
of England people in Llandovery.

"A good many," he replied.

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

"Yes, I do."

"If this were Sunday I would go to church," said I.

"Oh, if you wish to go to church you can go to-night. This is
Wednesday, and there will be service at half-past six. If you like
I will come for you."

"Pray do," said I; "I should like above all things to go."

Dinner over I sat before the fire occasionally dozing, occasionally
sipping a glass of whiskey-and-water. A little after six the old
fellow made his appearance with a kind of Spanish hat on his head.
We set out; the night was very dark; we went down a long street
seemingly in the direction of the west. "How many churches are
there in Llandovery?" said I to my companion.

"Only one, but you are not going to Llandovery Church, but to that
of Llanfair, in which our clergyman does duty once or twice a
week."

"Is it far?" said I.

"Oh no; just out of the town, only a few steps farther."

We seemed to pass over a bridge and began to ascend a rising
ground. Several people were going in the same direction.

"There," said the old man, "follow with these, and a little farther
up you will come to the church, which stands on the right hand."

He then left me. I went with the rest and soon came to the church.
I went in and was at once conducted by an old man, who I believe
was the sexton, to a large pew close against the southern wall.
The inside of the church was dimly lighted; it was long and narrow,
and the walls were painted with a yellow colour. The pulpit stood
against the northern wall near the altar, and almost opposite to
the pew in which I sat. After a little time the service commenced;
it was in Welsh. When the litanies were concluded the clergyman,
who appeared to be a middle-aged man, and who had rather a fine
voice, began to preach. His sermon was from the 119th Psalm: "Am
hynny hoffais dy gorchymynion yn mwy nag aur:" "Therefore have I
loved thy commandments more than gold." The sermon, which was
extempore, was delivered with great earnestness, and I make no
doubt was a very excellent one, but owing to its being in South
Welsh I did not derive much benefit from it as I otherwise might
have done. When it was over a great many got up and went away.
Observing, however, that not a few remained, I determined upon
remaining too. When everything was quiet the clergyman, descending
from the pulpit, repaired to the vestry, and having taken off his
gown went into a pew, and standing up began a discourse, from which
I learned that there was to be a sacrament on the ensuing Sabbath.
He spoke with much fervency, enlarging upon the high importance of
the holy communion, and exhorting people to come to it in a fit
state of mind. When he had finished a man in a neighbouring pew
got up and spoke about his own unworthiness, saying this and that
about himself, his sins of commission and omission, and dwelling
particularly on his uncharitableness and the malicious pleasure
which he took in the misfortunes of his neighbours. The clergyman
listened attentively, sometimes saying "Ah!" and the congregation
also listened attentively, a voice here and there frequently
saying "Ah." When the man had concluded the clergyman again spoke,
making observations on what he had heard, and hoping that the rest
would be visited with the same contrite spirit as their friend.
Then there was a hymn and we went away.

The moon was shining on high and cast its silvery light on the
tower, the church, some fine trees which surrounded it, and the
congregation going home; a few of the better dressed were talking
to each other in English, but with an accent and pronunciation
which rendered the discourse almost unintelligible to my ears.

I found my way back to my inn and went to bed, after musing awhile
on the concluding scene of which I had been witness in the church.



CHAPTER XCVII



Llandovery - Griffith ap Nicholas - Powerful Enemies - Last Words -
Llandovery Church - Rees Pritchard - The Wiser Creature - God's
better than All - The Old Vicarage.


THE morning of the ninth was very beautiful, with a slight tendency
to frost. I breakfasted, and having no intention of proceeding on
my journey that day, I went to take a leisurely view of Llandovery
and the neighbourhood.

Llandovery is a small but beautiful town, situated amidst fertile
meadows. It is a water-girdled spot, whence its name Llandovery or
Llanymdyfri, which signifies the church surrounded by water. On
its west is the Towey, and on its east the river Bran or Brein,
which descending from certain lofty mountains to the north-east
runs into the Towey a little way below the town. The most striking
object which Llandovery can show is its castle, from which the inn,
which stands near to it, has its name. This castle, majestic
though in ruins, stands on a green mound, the eastern side of which
is washed by the Bran. Little with respect to its history is
known. One thing, however, is certain, namely that it was one of
the many strongholds, which at one time belonged to Griffith ap
Nicholas, Lord of Dinevor, one of the most remarkable men which
South Wales has ever produced, of whom a brief account here will
not be out of place.

Griffith ap Nicholas flourished towards the concluding part of the
reign of Henry the Sixth. He was a powerful chieftain of South
Wales and possessed immense estates in the counties of Carmarthen
and Cardigan. King Henry the Sixth, fully aware of his importance
in his own country, bestowed upon him the commission of the peace,
an honour at that time seldom vouchsafed to a Welshman, and the
captaincy of Kilgarran, a strong royal castle situated on the
southern bank of the Teivi a few miles above Cardigan. He had many
castles of his own, in which he occasionally resided, but his chief
residence was Dinevor, half way between Llandovery and Carmarthen,
once a palace of the kings of South Wales, from whom Griffith
traced lineal descent. He was a man very proud at heart, but with
too much wisdom to exhibit many marks of pride, speaking generally
with the utmost gentleness and suavity, and though very brave
addicted to dashing into danger for the mere sake of displaying his
valour. He was a great master of the English tongue, and well
acquainted with what learning it contained, but nevertheless was
passionately attached to the language and literature of Wales, a
proof of which he gave by holding a congress of bards and literati
at Carmarthen, at which various pieces of eloquence and poetry were
recited, and certain alterations introduced into the canons of
Welsh versification. Though holding offices of trust and emolument
under the Saxon, he in the depths of his soul detested the race,
and would have rejoiced to see it utterly extirpated from Britain.
This hatred of his against the English was the cause of his doing
that which cannot be justified on any principle of honour, giving
shelter and encouragement to Welsh thieves, who were in the habit
of plundering and ravaging the English borders. Though at the head
of a numerous and warlike clan, which was strongly attached to him
on various accounts, Griffith did not exactly occupy a bed of
roses. He had amongst his neighbours four powerful enemies who
envied him his large possessions, with whom he had continual
disputes about property and privilege. Powerful enemies they may
well be called, as they were no less personages than Humphrey Duke
of Buckingham, Richard Duke of York, who began the contest for the
crown with King Henry the Sixth, Jasper Earl of Pembroke, son of
Owen Tudor, and half-brother of the king, and the Earl of Warwick.
These accused him at court of being a comforter and harbourer of
thieves, the result being that he was deprived not only of the
commission of the peace, but of the captaincy of Kilgarran, which
the Earl of Pembroke, through his influence with his half-brother,
procured for himself. They moreover induced William Borley and
Thomas Corbet, two justices of the peace for the county of
Hereford, to grant a warrant for his apprehension on the ground of
his being in league with the thieves of the Marches. Griffith in
the bosom of his mighty clan bade defiance to Saxon warrants,
though once having ventured to Hereford he nearly fell into the
power of the ministers of justice, only escaping by the
intervention of Sir John Scudamore, with whom he was connected by
marriage. Shortly afterwards, the civil war breaking out, the Duke
of York apologised to Griffith, and besought his assistance against
the king which the chieftain readily enough promised, not out of
affection for York, but from the hatred which he felt, on account
of the Kilgarran affair, for the Earl of Pembroke, who had sided,
very naturally, with his half-brother, the king, and commanded his
forces in the west. Griffith fell at the great battle of
Mortimer's cross, which was won for York by a desperate charge made
right at Pembroke's banner by Griffith and his Welshmen, when the
rest of the Yorkists were wavering. His last words were:
"Welcome, Death! since honour and victory make for us."

The power and wealth of Griffith ap Nicholas, and also parts of his
character, have been well described by one of his bards, Gwilym ab
Ieuan Hen, in an ode to the following effect:-


"Griffith ap Nicholas, who like thee
For wealth and power and majesty!
Which most abound, I cannot say,
On either side of Towey gay,
From hence to where it meets the brine,
Trees or stately towers of thine?
The chair of judgment thou didst gain,
But not to deal in judgments vain -
To thee upon thy judgment chair
From near and far do crowds repair;
But though betwixt the weak and strong
No questions rose from right or wrong
The strong the weak to thee would hie;
The strong to do thee injury,
And to the weak thou wine wouldst deal,
And wouldst trip up the mighty heel.
A lion unto the lofty thou,
A lamb unto the weak and low.
Much thou resemblest Nudd of yore,
Surpassing all who went before;
Like him thou'rt fam'd for bravery,
For noble birth and high degree.
Hail, captain of Kilgarran's hold!
Lieutenant of Carmarthen old!
Hail, chieftain, Cambria's choicest boast!
Hail, justice, at the Saxon's cost!
Seven castles high confess thy sway,
Seven palaces thy hands obey.
Against my chief, with envy fired,
Three dukes and judges two conspired,
But thou a dauntless front didst show,
And to retreat they were not slow.
O, with what gratitude is heard
From mouth of thine the whispered word,
The deepest pools in rivers found
In summer are of softest sound;
The sage concealeth what he knows,
A deal of talk no wisdom shows;
The sage is silent as the grave,
Whilst of his lips the fool is slave;
Thy smile doth every joy impart,
Of faith a fountain is thy heart;
Thy hand is strong, thine eye is keen,
Thy head o'er every head is seen."


The church of Llandovery is a large edifice standing at the
southern extremity of the town in the vicinity of the Towey. The
outside exhibits many appearances of antiquity, but the interior
has been sadly modernized. It contains no remarkable tombs; I was
pleased, however, to observe upon one or two of the monuments the
name of Ryce, the appellation of the great clan to which Griffith
ap Nicholas belonged; of old the regal race of South Wales. On
inquiring of the clerk, an intelligent young man who showed me over
the sacred edifice, as to the state of the Church of England at
Llandovery, he gave me a very cheering account, adding, however,
that before the arrival of the present incumbent it was very low
indeed. "What is the clergyman's name?" said I; "I heard him
preach last night."

"I know you did, sir," said the clerk, bowing, "for I saw you at
the service at Llanfair - his name is Hughes."

"Any relation of the clergyman at Tregaron?" said I.

"Own brother, sir."

"He at Tregaron bears a very high character," said I.

"And very deservedly, sir," said the clerk, "for he is an excellent
man; he is, however, not more worthy of his high character than his
brother here is of the one which he bears, which is equally high,
and which the very dissenters have nothing to say against."

"Have you ever heard," said I, "of a man of the name of Rees
Pritchard, who preached within these walls some two hundred years
ago?"

"Rees Pritchard, sir! Of course I have - who hasn't heard of the
old vicar - the Welshman's candle? Ah, he was a man indeed! We
have some good men in the Church, very good; but the old vicar -
where shall we find his equal?"

"Is he buried in this church?" said I.

"No, sir, he was buried out abroad in the churchyard, near the wall
by the Towey."

"Can you show me his tomb?" said I. "No, sir, nor can any one; his
tomb was swept away more than a hundred years ago by a dreadful
inundation of the river, which swept away not only tombs but dead
bodies out of graves. But there's his house in the market-place,
the old vicarage, which you should go and see. I would go and show
it you myself but I have church matters just now to attend to - the
place of church clerk at Llandovery, long a sinecure, is anything
but that under the present clergyman, who, though not a Rees
Pritchard, is a very zealous Christian, and not unworthy to preach
in the pulpit of the old vicar."

Leaving the church I went to see the old vicarage, but before
saying anything respecting it, a few words about the old vicar.

Rees Pritchard was born at Llandovery, about the year 1575, of
respectable parents. He received the rudiments of a classical
education at the school of the place, and at the age of eighteen
was sent to Oxford, being intended for the clerical profession. At
Oxford he did not distinguish himself in an advantageous manner,
being more remarkable for dissipation and riot than application in
the pursuit of learning. Returning to Wales, he was admitted into
the ministry, and after the lapse of a few years was appointed
vicar of Llandovery. His conduct for a considerable time was not
only unbecoming a clergyman, but a human being in any sphere.
Drunkenness was very prevalent in the age in which he lived, but
Rees Pritchard was so inordinately addicted to that vice that the
very worst of his parishioners were scandalized, and said: "Bad as
we may be we are not half so bad as the parson."

He was in the habit of spending the greater part of his time in the
public-house, from which he was generally trundled home in a wheel-
barrow in a state of utter insensibility. God, however, who is
aware of what every man is capable of, had reserved Rees Pritchard
for great and noble things, and brought about his conversion in a
very remarkable manner.

The people of the tavern which Rees Pritchard frequented had a
large he-goat, which went in and out and mingled with the guests.
One day Rees in the midst of his orgies called the goat to him and
offered it some ale; the creature, far from refusing it, drank
greedily, and soon becoming intoxicated, fell down upon the floor,
where it lay quivering, to the great delight of Rees Pritchard, who
made its drunkenness a subject of jest to his boon companions, who,
however, said nothing, being struck with horror at such conduct in
a person who was placed among them to be a pattern and example.
Before night, however, Pritchard became himself intoxicated, and
was trundled to the vicarage in the usual manner. During the whole
of the next day he was very ill and kept at home, but on the
following one he again repaired to the public-house, sat down and
called for his pipe and tankard. The goat was now perfectly
recovered, and was standing nigh. No sooner was the tankard
brought than Rees taking hold of it held it to the goat's mouth.
The creature, however, turned away its head in disgust, and hurried
out of the room. This circumstance produced an instantaneous
effect upon Rees Pritchard. "My God!" said he to himself, "is this
poor dumb creature wiser than I? Yes, surely; it has been drunk,
but having once experienced the wretched consequences of
drunkenness, it refuses to be drunk again. How different is its
conduct to mine! I, after having experienced a hundred times the
filthiness and misery of drunkenness, have still persisted in
debasing myself below the condition of a beast. Oh, if I persist
in this conduct what have I to expect but wretchedness and contempt
in this world and eternal perdition in the next? But, thank God,
it is not yet too late to amend; I am still alive - I will become a
new man - the goat has taught me a lesson." Smashing his pipe he
left his tankard untasted on the table, went home, and became an
altered man.

Different as an angel of light is from the fiend of the pit was
Rees Pritchard from that moment from what he had been in former
days. For upwards of thirty years he preached the Gospel as it had
never been preached before in the Welsh tongue since the time of
Saint Paul, supposing the beautiful legend to be true which tells
us that Saint Paul in his wanderings found his way to Britain and
preached to the inhabitants the inestimable efficacy of Christ's
bloodshedding in the fairest Welsh, having like all the other
apostles the miraculous gift of tongues. The good vicar did more.
In the short intervals of relaxation which he allowed himself from
the labour of the ministry during those years he composed a number
of poetical pieces, which after his death were gathered together
into a volume and published, under the title of "Canwyll y Cymry;
or, the Candle of the Welshman." This work, which has gone through
almost countless editions, is written in two common easy measures,
and the language is so plain and simple that it is intelligible to
the homeliest hind who speaks the Welsh language. All of the
pieces are of a strictly devotional character, with the exception
of one, namely, a welcome to Charles, Prince of Wales, on his
return from Spain, to which country he had gone to see the Spanish
ladye whom at one time he sought as bride. Some of the pieces are
highly curious, as they bear upon events at present forgotten; for
example, the song upon the year 1629, when the corn was blighted
throughout the land, and "A Warning to the Cumry to repent when the
Plague of Blotches and Boils was prevalent in London." Some of the
pieces are written with astonishing vigour, for example, "The Song
of the Husbandman," and "God's Better than All," of which last
piece the following is a literal translation:-


"GOD'S BETTER THAN ALL -

"God's better than heaven or aught therein,
Than the earth or aught we there can win,
Better than the world or its wealth to me -
God's better than all that is or can be.
Better than father, than mother, than nurse,
Better than riches, oft proving a curse,
Better than Martha or Mary even -
Better by far is the God of heaven.
If God for thy portion thou hast ta'en
There's Christ to support thee in every pain,
The world to respect thee thou wilt gain,
To fear thee the fiend and all his train.
Of the best of portions thou choice didst make
When thou the high God to thyself didst take,
A portion which none from thy grasp can rend
Whilst the sun and the moon on their course shall wend
When the sun grows dark and the moon turns red,
When the stars shall drop and millions dread,
When the earth shall vanish with its pomps in fire,
Thy portion still shall remain entire.
Then let not thy heart, though distressed, complain!
A hold on thy portion firm maintain.
Thou didst choose the best portion, again I say -
Resign it not till thy dying day."


The old vicarage of Llandovery is a very large mansion of dark red
brick, fronting the principal street or market-place, and with its
back to a green meadow bounded by the river Bran. It is in a very
dilapidated condition, and is inhabited at present by various poor
families. The principal room, which is said to have been the old
vicar's library, and the place where he composed his undying
Candle, is in many respects a remarkable apartment. It is of large
dimensions. The roof is curiously inlaid with stucco or mortar,
and is traversed from east to west by an immense black beam. The
fire-place, which is at the south, is very large and seemingly of
high antiquity. The windows, which are two in number and look
westward into the street, have a quaint and singular appearance.
Of all the houses in Llandovery the old vicarage is by far the most
worthy of attention, irrespective of the wonderful monument of
God's providence and grace who once inhabited it.

The reverence in which the memory of Rees Pritchard is still held
in Llandovery the following anecdote will show. As I was standing
in the principal street staring intently at the antique vicarage, a
respectable-looking farmer came up and was about to pass, but
observing how I was employed he stopped, and looked now at me and
now at the antique house. Presently he said

"A fine old place, is it not, sir? but do you know who lived
there?"

Wishing to know what the man would say provided he thought I was
ignorant as to the ancient inmate, I turned a face of inquiry upon
him; whereupon he advanced towards me two or three steps, and
placing his face so close to mine that his nose nearly touched my
cheek, he said in a kind of piercing whisper -

"The Vicar."

Then drawing his face back he looked me full in the eyes as if to
observe the effect of his intelligence, gave me two nods as if to
say, "He did, indeed," and departed.

THE Vicar of Llandovery had then been dead nearly two hundred
years. Truly the man in whom piety and genius are blended is
immortal upon earth.



CHAPTER XCVIII



Departure from Llandovery - A Bitter Methodist - North and South -
The Caravan - Captain Bosvile - Deputy Ranger - A Scrimmage - The
Heavenly Gwynfa - Dangerous Position.


ON the tenth I departed from Llandovery, which I have no hesitation
in saying is about the pleasantest little town in which I have
halted in the course of my wanderings. I intended to sleep at
Gutter Vawr, a place some twenty miles distant, just within
Glamorganshire, to reach which it would be necessary to pass over
part of a range of wild hills, generally called the Black
Mountains. I started at about ten o'clock; the morning was
lowering, and there were occasional showers of rain and hail. I
passed by Rees Pritchard's church, holding my hat in my hand as I
did so, not out of respect for the building, but from reverence for
the memory of the sainted man who of old from its pulpit called
sinners to repentance, and whose remains slumber in the churchyard
unless washed away by some frantic burst of the neighbouring Towey.
Crossing a bridge over the Bran just before it enters the greater
stream, I proceeded along a road running nearly south and having a
range of fine hills on the east. Presently violent gusts of wind
came on, which tore the sear leaves by thousands from the trees, of
which there were plenty by the roadsides. After a little time,
however, this elemental hurly-burly passed away, a rainbow made its
appearance, and the day became comparatively fine. Turning to the
south-east under a hill covered with oaks, I left the vale of the
Towey behind me, and soon caught a glimpse of some very lofty hills
which I supposed to be the Black Mountains. It was a mere glimpse,
for scarcely had I descried them when mist settled down and totally
obscured them from my view.

In about an hour I reached Llangadog, a large village. The name
signifies the church of Gadog. Gadog was a British saint of the
fifth century, who after labouring amongst his own countrymen for
their spiritual good for many years, crossed the sea to Brittany,
where he died. Scarcely had I entered Llangadog when a great
shower of rain came down. Seeing an ancient-looking hostelry I at
once made for it. In a large and comfortable kitchen I found a
middle-aged woman seated by a huge deal table near a blazing fire,
with a couple of large books open before her. Sitting down on a
chair I told her in English to bring me a pint of ale. She did so,
and again sat down to her books, which on inquiry I found to be a
Welsh Bible and Concordance. We soon got into discourse about
religion, but did not exactly agree, for she was a bitter
Methodist, as bitter as her beer, only half of which I could get
down.

Leaving Llangadog I pushed forward. The day was now tolerably
fine. In two or three hours I came to a glen, the sides of which
were beautifully wooded. On my left was a river, which came
roaring down from a range of lofty mountains right before me to the
south-east. The river, as I was told by a lad, was the Sawdde or
Southey, the lofty range the Black Mountains. Passed a pretty
village on my right standing something in the shape of a
semicircle, and in about half-an-hour came to a bridge over a river
which I supposed to be the Sawdde which I had already seen, but
which I subsequently learned was an altogether different stream.
It was running from the south, a wild, fierce flood, amidst rocks
and stones, the waves all roaring and foaming.

After some time I reached another bridge near the foot of a very
lofty ascent. On my left to the east upon a bank was a small
house, on one side of which was a wheel turned round by a flush of
water running in a little artificial canal; close by it were two
small cascades, the waters of which, and also those of the canal,
passed under the bridge in the direction of the west. Seeing a
decent-looking man engaged in sawing a piece of wood by the
roadside, I asked him in Welsh whether the house with the wheel was
a flour mill.

"Nage," said he, "it is a pandy, fulling mill."

"Can you tell me the name of a river," said I, "which I have left
about a mile behind me. Is it the Sawdde?'

"Nage," said he, "it is the Lleidach."

Then looking at me with great curiosity, he asked if I came from
the north country.

"Yes," said I, "I certainly come from there."

"I am glad to hear it," said he, "for I have long wished to see a
man from the north country."

"Did you never see one before?" said I.

"Never in my life," he replied; "men from the north country seldom
show themselves in these parts."

"Well," said I; "I am not ashamed to say that I come from the
north."

"Ain't you? Well, I don't know that you have any particular reason
to be ashamed, for it is rather your misfortune than your fault;
but the idea of any one coming from the north - ho, ho!"

"Perhaps in the north," said I, "they laugh at a man from the
south."

"Laugh at a man from the south! No, no; they can't do that."

"Why not?" said I; "why shouldn't the north laugh at the south as
well as the south at the north?"

"Why shouldn't it? why, you talk like a fool. How could the north
laugh at the south as long as the south remains the south and the
north the north? Laugh at the south! you talk like a fool, David,
and if you go on in that way I shall be angry with you. However,
I'll excuse you; you are from the north, and what can one expect
from the north but nonsense? Now tell me, do you of the north eat
and drink like other people? What do you live upon?"

"Why, as for myself," said I; "I generally live on the best I can
get."

"Let's hear what you eat; bacon and eggs?

"Oh yes, I eat bacon and eggs when I can get nothing better."

"And what do you drink? Can you drink ale?"

"Oh yes," said I; "I am very fond of ale when it's good. Perhaps
you will stand a pint?"

"Hm," said the man looking somewhat blank; "there is no ale in the
Pandy and there is no public-house near at hand, otherwise - Where
are you going to-night?"

"To Gutter Vawr."

"Well, then, you had better not loiter; Gutter Vawr is a long way
off over the mountain. It will be dark, I am afraid, long before
you get to Gutter Vawr. Good evening, David! I am glad to have
seen you, for I have long wished to see a man from the north
country. Good evening! you will find plenty of good ale at Gutter
Vawr."

I went on my way. The road led in a south-eastern direction
gradually upward to very lofty regions. After walking about half-
an-hour I saw a kind of wooden house on wheels drawn by two horses
coming down the hill towards me. A short black-looking fellow in
brown-top boots, corduroy breeches, jockey coat and jockey cap sat
on the box, holding the reins in one hand and a long whip in the
other. Beside him was a swarthy woman in a wild flaunting dress.
Behind the box out of the fore part of the caravan peered two or
three black children's heads. A pretty little foal about four
months old came frisking and gambolling now before now beside the
horses, whilst a colt of some sixteen months followed more
leisurely behind. When the caravan was about ten yards distant I
stopped, and raising my left hand with the little finger pointed
aloft, I exclaimed:

"Shoon, Kaulomengro, shoon! In Dibbel's nav, where may tu be
jawing to?"

Stopping his caravan with considerable difficulty the small black
man glared at me for a moment like a wild cat, and then said in a
voice partly snappish, partly kind:

"Savo shan tu? Are you one of the Ingrines?"

"I am the chap what certain folks calls the Romany Rye."

"Well, I'll be jiggered if I wasn't thinking so and if I wasn't
penning so to my juwa as we were welling down the chong."

"It is a long time since we last met, Captain Bosvile, for I
suppose I may call you Captain now?"

"Yes! the old man has been dead and buried this many a year, and
his sticks and titles are now mine. Poor soul, I hope he is happy;
indeed I know he is, for he lies in Cockleshell churchyard, the
place he was always so fond of, and has his Sunday waistcoat on him
with the fine gold buttons, which he was always so proud of. Ah,
you may well call it a long time since we met - why, it can't be
less than thirty year."

"Something about that - you were a boy then of about fifteen."

"So I was, and you a tall young slip of about twenty; well, how did
you come to jin mande?"

"Why, I knew you by your fighting mug - there ain't such another
mug in England."

"No more there an't - my old father always used to say it was of no
use hitting it for it always broke his knuckles. Well, it was kind
of you to jin mande after so many years. The last time I think I
saw you was near Brummagem, when you were travelling about with
Jasper Petulengro and - I say, what's become of the young woman you
used to keep company with?"

"I don't know."

"You don't? Well, she was a fine young woman and a vartuous. I
remember her knocking down and giving a black eye to my old mother,
who was wonderfully deep in Romany, for making a bit of a gillie
about you and she. What was the song? Lord, how my memory fails
me! Oh, here it is:-


"'Ando berkho Rye cano
Oteh pivo teh khavo
Tu lerasque ando berkho piranee
Teh corbatcha por pico.'"


"Have you seen Jasper Petulengro lately?" said I.

"Yes, I have seen him, but it was at a very considerable distance.
Jasper Petulengro doesn't come near the likes of we now. Lord! you
can't think what grand folks he and his wife have become of late
years, and all along of a trumpery lil which somebody has written
about them. Why, they are hand and glove with the Queen and
Prince, and folks say that his wife is going to be made dame of
honour, and Jasper Justice of the Peace and Deputy Ranger of
Windsor Park."

"Only think," said I. "And now tell me, what brought you into
Wales?"

"What brought me into Wales? I'll tell you; my own fool's head. I
was doing nicely in the Kaulo Gav and the neighbourhood, when I
must needs pack up and come into these parts with bag and baggage,
wife and childer. I thought that Wales was what it was some thirty
years agone when our foky used to say - for I was never here before
- that there was something to be done in it; but I was never more
mistaken in my life. The country is overrun with Hindity mescrey,
woild Irish, with whom the Romany foky stand no chance. The
fellows underwork me at tinkering, and the women outscream my wife
at telling fortunes - moreover, they say the country is theirs and
not intended for niggers like we, and as they are generally in vast
numbers what can a poor little Roman family do but flee away before
them? A pretty journey I have made into Wales. Had I not
contrived to pass off a poggado bav engro - a broken-winded horse -
at a fair, I at this moment should be without a tringoruschee piece
in my pocket. I am now making the best of my way back to
Brummagem, and if ever I come again to this Hindity country may
Calcraft nash me."

"I wonder you didn't try to serve some of the Irish out," said I.

"I served one out, brother; and my wife and childer helped to wipe
off a little of the score. We had stopped on a nice green, near a
village over the hills in Glamorganshire, when up comes a Hindity
family, and bids us take ourselves off. Now it so happened that
there was but one man and a woman and some childer, so I laughed,
and told them to drive us off. Well, brother, without many words,
there was a regular scrimmage. The Hindity mush came at me, the
Hindity mushi at y my juwa, and the Hindity chaves at my chai. It
didn't last long, brother. In less than three minutes I had hit
the Hindity mush, who was a plaguey big fellow, but couldn't fight,
just under the point of the chin, and sent him to the ground with
all his senses gone. My juwa had almost scratched an eye out of
the Hindity mushi, and my chai had sent the Hindity childer
scampering over the green. 'Who has got to quit now?' said I to
the Hindity mush after he had got on his legs, looking like a man
who has been cut down after hanging just a minute and a half. 'Who
has got notice to quit, now, I wonder?' Well, brother, he didn't
say anything, nor did any of them, but after a little time they all
took themselves off, with a cart they had, to the south. Just as
they got to the edge of the green, however, they turned round and
gave a yell which made all our blood run cold. I knew what it
meant, and said, 'This is no place for us.' So we got everything
together and came away and, though the horses were tired, never
stopped till we had got ten miles from the place; and well it was
we acted as we did, for, had we stayed, I have no doubt that a
whole Hindity clan would have been down upon us before morning and
cut our throats."

"Well," said I, "farewell. I can't stay any longer. As it is, I
shall be late at Gutter Vawr."

"Farewell, brother!" said Captain Bosvile; and, giving a cry, he
cracked, his whip and set his horses in motion.

"Won't you give us sixpence to drink?" cried Mrs Bosvile, with a
rather shrill voice.

"Hold your tongue, you she-dog," said Captain Bosvile. "Is that
the way in which you take leave of an old friend? Hold your
tongue, and let the Ingrine gentleman jaw on his way."

I proceeded on my way as fast as I could, for the day was now
closing in. My progress, however, was not very great; for the road
was steep, and was continually becoming more so. In about half-an-
hour I came to a little village, consisting of three or four
houses; one of them, at the door of which several carts were
standing, bore the sign of a tavern.

"What is the name of this place?" said I to a man who was breaking
stones on the road.

"Capel Gwynfa," said he.

Rather surprised at the name, which signifies in English the Chapel
of the place of bliss, I asked the man why it was called so.

"I don't know," said the man.

"Was there ever a chapel here?" said I.

"I don't know, sir; there is none now."

"I daresay there was in the old time," said I to myself, as I went
on, "in which some holy hermit prayed and told his beads, and
occasionally received benighted strangers. What a poetical word
that Gwynfa, place of bliss, is. Owen Pugh uses it in his
translation of 'Paradise Lost' to express Paradise, for he has
rendered the words Paradise Lost by Col Gwynfa - the loss of the
place of bliss. I wonder whether the old scholar picked up the
word here. Not unlikely. Strange fellow that Owen Pugh. Wish I
had seen him. No hope of seeing him now, except in the heavenly
Gwynfa. Wonder whether there is such a place. Tom Payne thinks
there's not. Strange fellow that Tom Payne. Norfolk man. Wish I
had never read him."

Presently I came to a little cottage with a toll-bar. Seeing a
woman standing at the door, I inquired of her the name of the gate.

"Cowslip Gate, sir."

"Has it any Welsh name?"

"None that I know of, sir."

This place was at a considerable altitude, and commanded an
extensive view to the south, west, and north. Heights upon heights
rose behind it to the east. From here the road ran to the south
for a little way nearly level, then turned abruptly to the east,
and was more steep than ever. After the turn, I had a huge chalk
cliff towering over me on the right, and a chalk precipice on my
left. Night was now coming on fast, and, rather to my uneasiness,
masses of mist began to pour down the sides of the mountain. I
hurried on, the road making frequent turnings. Presently the mist
swept down upon me, and was so thick that I could only see a few
yards before me. I was now obliged to slacken my pace, and to
advance with some degree of caution. I moved on in this way for
some time, when suddenly I heard a noise, as if a number of carts
were coming rapidly down the hill. I stopped, and stood with my
back close against the high bank. The noise drew nearer, and in a
minute I saw distinctly through the mist, horses, carts, and forms
of men passing. In one or two cases the wheels appeared to be
within a few inches of my feet. I let the train go by, and then
cried out in English, "Am I right for Gutter Vawr?"

"Hey?" said a voice, after a momentary interval.

"Am I right for Gutter Vawr?" I shouted yet louder.

"Yes sure!" said a voice, probably the same.

Then instantly a much rougher voice cried, "Who the Devil are you?"

I made no answer, but went on, whilst the train continued its way
rumbling down the mountain. At length I gained the top, where the
road turned and led down a steep descent towards the south-west.
It was now quite night, and the mist was of the thickest kind. I
could just see that there was a frightful precipice on my left, so
I kept to the right, hugging the side of the hill. As I descended
I heard every now and then loud noises in the vale, probably
proceeding from stone quarries. I was drenched to the skin, nay,
through the skin, by the mist, which I verily believe was more
penetrating than that described by Ab Gwilym. When I had proceeded
about a mile I saw blazes down below, resembling those of furnaces,
and soon after came to the foot of the hill. It was here pouring
with rain, but I did not put up my umbrella, as it was impossible
for me to be more drenched than I was. Crossing a bridge over a
kind of torrent, I found myself amongst some houses. I entered one
of them from which a blaze of light and a roar of voices proceeded,
and, on inquiring of an old woman who confronted me in the passage,
I found that I had reached my much needed haven of rest, the tavern
of Gutter Vawr in the county of Glamorgan.



CHAPTER XCIX



Inn at Gutter Vawr - The Hurly-burly - Bara y Caws - Change of
Manner - Welsh Mistrust - Wonders of Russia - The Emperor - The
Grand Ghost Story.


THE old woman who confronted me in the passage of the inn turned
out to be the landlady. On learning that I intended to pass the
night at her house, she conducted me into a small room on the
right-hand side of the passage, which proved to be the parlour. It
was cold and comfortless, for there was no fire in the grate. She
told me, however, that one should be lighted, and going out,
presently returned with a couple of buxom wenches, who I soon found
were her daughters. The good lady had little or no English; the
girls, however, had plenty, and of a good kind too. They soon
lighted a fire, and then the mother inquired if I wished for any
supper.

"Certainly," said I, "for I have not eaten anything since I left
Llandovery. What can I have?"

"We have veal and bacon," said she.

"That will do," said I; "fry me some veal and bacon, and I shan't
complain. But pray tell what prodigious noise is that which I hear
on the other side of the passage?"

"It is only the miners and the carters in the kitchen making
merry," said one of the girls.

"Is there a good fire there?" said I.

"Oh yes," said the girl, "we have always a good fire in the
kitchen."

"Well then," said I, "I shall go there till supper is ready, for I
am wet to the skin, and this fire casts very little heat."

"You will find them a rough set in the kitchen," said the girl.

"I don't care if I do" said I; "when people are rough I am civil,
and I have always found that civility beats roughness in the long
run." Then going out I crossed the passage and entered the
kitchen.

It was nearly filled with rough unkempt fellows, smoking, drinking,
whistling, singing, shouting or jabbering, some in a standing, some
in a sitting, posture. My entrance seemed at once to bring
everything to a dead stop; the smokers ceased to smoke, the hand
that was conveying the glass or the mug to the mouth was arrested
in air, the hurly-burly ceased and every eye was turned upon me
with a strange inquiring stare. Without allowing myself to be
disconcerted I advanced to the fire, spread out my hands before it
for a minute, gave two or three deep "ahs" of comfort, and then
turning round said: "Rather a damp night, gentlemen - fire
cheering to one who has come the whole way from Llandovery - Taking
a bit of a walk in Wales, to see the scenery and to observe the
manners and customs of the inhabitants - Fine country, gentlemen,
noble prospects, hill and dale - Fine people too - open-hearted and
generous; no wonder! descendants of the Ancient Britons - Hope I
don't intrude - other room rather cold and smoking - If I do, will
retire at once - don't wish to interrupt any gentleman in their
avocations or deliberations - scorn to do anything ungenteel or
calculated to give offence - hope I know how to behave myself -
ought to do so - learnt grammar at the High School at Edinburgh."

"Offence, intrusion!" cried twenty voices. "God bless your honour!
no intrusion and no offence at all; sit down - sit here - won't you
drink?"

"Please to sit here, sir," said an old grimy-looking man, getting
up from a seat in the chimney-corner - "this is no seat for me
whilst you are here, it belongs to you - sit down in it," and
laying hold of me he compelled me to sit down in the chair of
dignity, whilst half-a-dozen hands pushed mugs of beer towards my
face; these, however, I declined to partake of on the very
satisfactory ground that I had not taken supper, and that it was a
bad thing to drink before eating, more especially after coming out
of a mist.

"Have you any news to tell of the war, sir?" said a large tough
fellow, who was smoking a pipe.

"The last news that I heard of the war," said I, "was that the snow
was two feet deep at Sebastopol."

"I heard three," said the man; "however, if there be but two it
must be bad work for the poor soldiers. I suppose you think that
we shall beat the Russians in the end."

"No, I don't," said I; "the Russians are a young nation and we are
an old; they are coming on and we are going off; every dog has its
day."

"That's true," said the man, "but I am sorry that you think we
shall not beat the Russians, for the Russians are a bad set."

"Can you speak Welsh?" said a darkish man with black, bristly hair
and a small inquisitive eye.

"Oh, I know two words in Welsh," said I; "bara y caws."

"That's bread and cheese," said the man, then turning to a
neighbour of his he said in Welsh: "He knows nothing of Cumraeg,
only two words; we may say anything we please; he can't understand
us. What a long nose he has!"

"Mind that he an't nosing us," said his neighbour. "I should be
loth to wager that he doesn't understand Welsh; and, after all, he
didn't say that he did not, but got off by saying he understood
those two words."

"No, he doesn't understand Welsh," said the other; "no Sais
understands Welsh, and this is a Sais. Now with regard to that
piece of job-work which you and I undertook." And forthwith he and
the other entered into a disquisition about the job-work.

The company soon got into its old train, drinking and smoking and
making a most terrific hullabaloo. Nobody took any farther notice
of me. I sat snug in the chimney-corner, trying to dry my wet
things, and as the heat was very great, partially succeeded. In
about half-an-hour one of the girls came to tell me that my supper
was ready, whereupon I got up and said:

"Gentlemen, I thank you for your civility; I am now going to
supper; perhaps before I turn in for the night I may look in upon
you again." Then without waiting for an answer I left the kitchen
and went into the other room, where I found a large dish of veal
cutlets and fried bacon awaiting me, and also a smoking bowl of
potatoes. Ordering a jug of ale I sat down, and what with hunger
and the goodness of the fare, for everything was first-rate, made
one of the best suppers I ever made in my life.

Supper over I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, over which I
trifled for about half-an-hour and then betook myself again to the
kitchen. Almost as soon as I entered, the company - who seemed to
be discussing some point, and were not making much hurly-burly -
became silent, and looked at me in a suspicious and uneasy manner.
I advanced towards the fire. The old man who had occupied the seat