of back and arms."

He was once run over by a loaded waggon, but strange to say escaped
without the slightest injury.

Towards the close of his life he had strong religious convictions,
and felt a loathing for the sins which he had committed. "On their
account," says he in the concluding page of his biography, "there
is a strong necessity for me to consider my ways and to inquire
about a Saviour, since it is utterly impossible for me to save
myself without obtaining knowledge of the merits of the Mediator,
in which I hope I shall terminate my short time on earth in the
peace of God enduring unto all eternity."

He died in the year 1810, at the age of 71, shortly after the death
of his wife, who seems to have been a faithful, loving partner. By
her side he was buried in the earth of the graveyard of the White
Church, near Denbigh. There can be little doubt that the souls of
both will be accepted on the great day when, as Gronwy Owen says:-


"Like corn from the belly of the ploughed field, in a thick crop,
those buried in the earth shall arise, and the sea shall cast forth
a thousand myriads of dead above the deep billowy way."



CHAPTER LX



Mystery Plays - The Two Prime Opponents - Analysis of Interlude -
Riches and Poverty - Tom's Grand Qualities.


IN the preceding chapter I have given an abstract of the life of
Tom O' the Dingle; I will now give an analysis of his interlude;
first, however, a few words on interludes in general. It is
difficult to say with anything like certainty what is the meaning
of the word interlude. It may mean, as Warton supposes in his
history of English Poetry, a short play performed between the
courses of a banquet or festival; or it may mean the playing of
something by two or more parties, the interchange of playing or
acting which occurs when two or more people act. It was about the
middle of the fifteenth century that dramatic pieces began in
England to be called Interludes; for some time previous they had
been styled Moralities; but the earliest name by which they were
known was Mysteries. The first Mysteries composed in England were
by one Ranald, or Ranulf, a monk of Chester, who flourished about
1322, whose verses are mentioned rather irreverently in one of the
visions of Piers Plowman, who puts them in the same rank as the
ballads about Robin Hood and Maid Marion, making Sloth say:


"I cannon perfitly my Paternoster as the priest it singeth,
But I can rhymes of Robin Hood and Ranald of Chester."


Long, however, before the time of this Ranald Mysteries had been
composed and represented both in Italy and France. The Mysteries
were very rude compositions, little more, as Warton says, than
literal representations of portions of Scripture. They derived
their name of Mysteries from being generally founded on the more
mysterious parts of Holy Writ, for example the Incarnation, the
Atonement, and the Resurrection. The Moralities displayed
something more of art and invention than the Mysteries; in them
virtues, vices and qualities were personified, and something like a
plot was frequently to be discovered. They were termed Moralities
because each had its moral, which was spoken at the end of the
piece by a person called the Doctor. (7) Much that has been said
about the moralities holds good with respect to the interludes.
Indeed, for some time dramatic pieces were called moralities and
interludes indifferently. In both there is a mixture of allegory
and reality. The latter interludes, however, display more of
every-day life than was ever observable in the moralities; and more
closely approximate to modern plays. Several writers of genius
have written interludes, amongst whom are the English Skelton and
the Scottish Lindsay, the latter of whom wrote eight pieces of that
kind, the most celebrated of which is called "The Puir Man and the
Pardoner." Both of these writers flourished about the same period,
and made use of the interlude as a means of satirizing the vices of
the popish clergy. In the time of Charles the First the interlude
went much out of fashion in England; in fact, the play or regular
drama had superseded it. In Wales, however, it continued to the
beginning of the present century, when it yielded to the influence
of Methodism. Of all Welsh interlude composers Twm O'r Nant or Tom
of the Dingle was the most famous. Here follows the promised
analysis of his "Riches and Poverty."

The entire title of the interlude is to this effect. The two prime
opponents Riches and Poverty. A brief exposition of their contrary
effects on the world; with short and appropriate explanations of
their quality and substance according to the rule of the four
elements, Water, Fire, Earth, and Air.

First of all enter Fool, Sir Jemant Wamal, who in rather a foolish
speech tells the audience that they are about to hear a piece
composed by Tom the poet. Then appears Captain Riches, who makes a
long speech about his influence in the world and the general
contempt in which Poverty is held; he is, however, presently
checked by the Fool, who tells him some home truths, and asks him,
among other questions, whether Solomon did not say that it is not
meet to despise a poor man, who conducts himself rationally. Then
appears Howel Tightbelly, the miser, who in capital verse, with
very considerable glee and exultation, gives an account of his
manifold rascalities. Then comes his wife, Esther Steady, home
from the market, between whom and her husband there is a pithy
dialogue. Captain Riches and Captain Poverty then meet, without
rancour, however, and have a long discourse about the providence of
God, whose agents they own themselves to be. Enter then an old
worthless scoundrel called Diogyn Trwstan, or Luckless Lazybones,
who is upon the parish, and who, in a very entertaining account of
his life, confesses that he was never good for anything, but was a
liar and an idler from his infancy. Enter again the Miser along
with poor Lowry, who asks the Miser for meal and other articles,
but gets nothing but threatening language. There is then a very
edifying dialogue between Mr Contemplation and Mr Truth, who, when
they retire, are succeeded on the stage by the Miser and John the
Tavern-keeper. The publican owes the Miser money, and begs that he
will be merciful to him. The Miser, however, swears that he will
be satisfied with nothing but bond and judgment on his effects.
The publican very humbly says that he will go to a friend of his in
order to get the bond made out; almost instantly comes the Fool who
reads an inventory of the publican's effects. The Miser then sings
for very gladness, because everything in the world has hitherto
gone well with him; turning round, however, what is his horror and
astonishment to behold Mr Death, close by him. Death hauls the
Miser away, and then appears the Fool to moralise and dismiss the
audience.

The appropriate explanations mentioned in the title are given in
various songs which the various characters sing after describing
themselves, or after dialogues with each other. The announcement
that the whole exposition, etc., will be after the rule of the four
elements, is rather startling; the dialogue, however, between
Captain Riches and Captain Poverty shows that Tom was equal to his
subject, and promised nothing that he could not perform.


ENTER CAPTAIN POVERTY

O Riches, thy figure is charming and bright,
And to speak in thy praise all the world doth delight,
But I'm a poor fellow all tatter'd and torn,
Whom all the world treateth with insult and scorn.


RICHES


However mistaken the judgment may be
Of the world which is never from ignorance free,
The parts we must play, which to us are assign'd,
According as God has enlightened our mind.

Of elements four did our Master create
The earth and all in it with skill the most great;
Need I the world's four materials declare -
Are they not water, fire, earth, and air?

Too wise was the mighty Creator to frame
A world from one element, water or flame;
The one is full moist and the other full hot,
And a world made of either were useless, I wot.

And if it had all of mere earth been compos'd
And no water nor fire been within it enclos'd,
It could ne'er have produc'd for a huge multitude
Of all kinds of living things suitable food.

And if God what was wanted had not fully known,
But created the world of these three things alone,
How would any creature the heaven beneath,
Without the blest air have been able to breathe?

Thus all things created, the God of all grace,
Of four prime materials, each good in its place.
The work of His hands, when completed, He view'd,
And saw and pronounc'd that 'twas seemly and good.


POVERTY


In the marvellous things, which to me thou hast told
The wisdom of God I most clearly behold,
And did He not also make man of the same
Materials He us'd when the world He did frame?


RICHES


Creation is all, as the sages agree,
Of the elements four in man's body that be;
Water's the blood, and fire is the nature,
Which prompts generation in every creature.

The earth is the flesh which with beauty is rife
The air is the breath, without which is no life;
So man must be always accounted the same
As the substances four which exist in his frame.

And as in their creation distinction there's none
'Twixt man and the world, so the Infinite One
Unto man a clear wisdom did bounteously give
The nature of everything to perceive.


POVERTY


But one thing to me passing strange doth appear
Since the wisdom of man is so bright and so clear
How comes there such jarring and warring to be
In the world betwixt Riches and Poverty?


RICHES


That point we'll discuss without passion or fear
With the aim of instructing the listeners here;
And haply some few who instruction require
May profit derive like the bee from the briar.

Man as thou knowest, in his generation
Is a type of the world and of all the creation;
Difference there's none in the manner of birth
'Twixt the lowliest hinds and the lords of the earth.

The world which the same thing as man we account
In one place is sea, in another is mount;
A part of it rock, and a part of it dale -
God's wisdom has made every place to avail.

There exist precious treasures of every kind
Profoundly in earth's quiet bosom enshrin'd;
There's searching about them, and ever has been,
And by some they are found, and by some never seen.

With wonderful wisdom the Lord God on high
Has contriv'd the two lights which exist in the sky;
The sun's hot as fire, and its ray bright as gold,
But the moon's ever pale, and by nature is cold.

The sun, which resembles a huge world of fire,
Would burn up full quickly creation entire
Save the moon with its temp'rament cool did assuage
Of its brighter companion the fury and rage.

Now I beg you the sun and the moon to behold,
The one that's so bright and the other so cold.
And say if two things in creation there be
Better emblems of Riches and Poverty.


POVERTY


In manner most brief, yet convincing and clear,
You have told the whole truth to my wond'ring ear,
And I see that 'twas God, who in all things is fair,
Has assign'd us the forms, in this world which we bear.

In the sight of the world doth the wealthy man seem
Like the sun which doth warm everything with its beam;
Whilst the poor needy wight with his pitiable case
Resembles the moon which doth chill with its face.


RICHES


You know that full oft, in their course as they run,
An eclipse cometh over the moon or the sun;
Certain hills of the earth with their summits of pride
The face of the one from the other do hide.

The sun doth uplift his magnificent head,
And illumines the moon, which were otherwise dead,
Even as Wealth from its station on high,
Giveth work and provision to Poverty.


POVERTY


I know, and the thought mighty sorrow instils,
The sins of the world are the terrible hills
An eclipse which do cause, or a dread obscuration,
To one or another in every vocation.


RICHES


It is true that God gives unto each from his birth
Some task to perform while he wends upon earth,
But He gives correspondent wisdom and force
To the weight of the task, and the length of the course.

[Exit.


POVERTY


I hope there are some, who 'twixt me and the youth
Have heard this discourse, whose sole aim is the truth,
Will see and acknowledge, as homeward they plod,
Each thing is arrang'd by the wisdom of God.


There can be no doubt that Tom was a poet, or he could never have
treated the hackneyed subjects of Riches and Poverty in a manner so
original and at the same time so masterly as he has done in the
interlude above analyzed: I cannot, however, help thinking that he
was greater as a man than a poet, and that his fame depends more on
the cleverness, courage and energy, which it is evident by his
biography that he possessed, than on his interludes. A time will
come when his interludes will cease to be read, but his making ink
out of elderberries, his battle with the "cruel fighter," his
teaching his horses to turn the crane, and his getting the ship to
the water, will be talked of in Wales till the peak of Snowdon
shall fall down.



CHAPTER LXI



Set out for Wrexham - Craig y Forwyn - Uncertainty - The Collier -
Cadogan Hall - Methodistical Volume.


HAVING learnt from a newspaper that a Welsh book on Welsh Methodism
had been just published at Wrexham, I determined to walk to that
place and purchase it. I could easily have procured the work
through a bookseller at Llangollen, but I wished to explore the
hill-road which led to Wrexham, what the farmer under the Eglwysig
rocks had said of its wildness having excited my curiosity, which
the procuring of the book afforded me a plausible excuse for
gratifying. If one wants to take any particular walk it is always
well to have some business, however trifling, to transact at the
end of it; so having determined to go to Wrexham by the mountain
road, I set out on the Saturday next after the one on which I had
met the farmer who had told me of it.

The day was gloomy, with some tendency to rain. I passed under the
hill of Dinas Bran. About a furlong from its western base I turned
round and surveyed it - and perhaps the best view of the noble
mountain is to be obtained from the place where I turned round.
How grand though sad from there it looked, that grey morning, with
its fine ruin on its brow above which a little cloud hovered! It
put me in mind of some old king, unfortunate and melancholy but a
king still, with the look of a king, and the ancestral crown still
on his furrowed forehead. I proceeded on my way, all was wild and
solitary, and the yellow leaves were falling from the trees of the
groves. I passed by the farmyard, where I had held discourse with
the farmer on the preceding Saturday, and soon entered the glen,
the appearance of which had so much attracted my curiosity. A
torrent, rushing down from the north, was on my right. It soon
began to drizzle, and mist so filled the glen that I could only
distinguish objects a short way before me, and on either side. I
wandered on a considerable way, crossing the torrent several times
by rustic bridges. I passed two lone farm-houses and at last saw
another on my left hand. The mist had now cleared up, but it still
slightly rained - the scenery was wild to a degree - a little way
before me was a tremendous pass, near it an enormous crag of a
strange form rising to the very heavens, the upper part of it of a
dull white colour. Seeing a respectable-looking man near the house
I went up to him.

"Am I in the right way to Wrexham?" said I, addressing him in
English.

"You can get to Wrexham this way, sir," he replied.

"Can you tell me the name of that crag?" said I, pointing to the
large one.

"That crag, sir, is called Craig y Forwyn."

"The maiden's crag," said I; "why is it called so?"

"I do not know sir; some people say that it is called so because
its head is like that of a woman, others because a young girl in
love leaped from the top of it and was killed."

"And what is the name of this house?" said I.

"This house, sir, is called Plas Uchaf."

"Is it called Plas Uchaf," said I, "because it is the highest house
in the valley?"

"It is, sir; it is the highest of three homesteads; the next below
it is Plas Canol - and the one below that Plas Isaf."

"Middle place and lower place," said I. "It is very odd that I
know in England three people who derive their names from places so
situated. One is Houghton, another Middleton, and the third
Lowdon; in modern English, Hightown, Middletown, and Lowtown."

"You appear to be a person of great intelligence, sir."

"No, I am not - but I am rather fond of analysing words,
particularly the names of persons and places. Is the road to
Wrexham hard to find?"

"Not very, sir; that is, in the day-time. Do you live at Wrexham?"

"No," I replied, "I am stopping at Llangollen."

"But you won't return there to-night?"

"Oh yes, I shall!"

"By this road?"

"No, by the common road. This is not a road to travel by night."

"Nor is the common road, sir, for a respectable person on foot;
that is, on a Saturday night. You will perhaps meet drunken
colliers who may knock you down."

"I will take my chance for that," said I, and bade him farewell. I
entered the pass, passing under the strange-looking crag. After I
had walked about half a mile the pass widened considerably and a
little way further on debauched on some wild moory ground. Here
the road became very indistinct. At length I stopped in a state of
uncertainty. A well-defined path presented itself, leading to the
east, whilst northward before me there seemed scarcely any path at
all. After some hesitation I turned to the east by the well-
defined path, and by so doing went wrong, as I soon found.

I mounted the side of a brown hill covered with moss-like grass,
and here and there heather. By the time I arrived at the top of
the hill the sun shone out, and I saw Rhiwabon and Cefn Mawr before
me in the distance. "I am going wrong," said I; "I should have
kept on due north. However, I will not go back, but will steeple-
chase it across the country to Wrexham, which must be towards the
north-east." So turning aside from the path, I dashed across the
hills in that direction; sometimes the heather was up to my knees,
and sometimes I was up to the knees in quags. At length I came to
a deep ravine which I descended; at the bottom was a quagmire,
which, however, I contrived to cross by means of certain stepping-
stones, and came to a cart path up a heathery hill which I
followed. I soon reached the top of the hill, and the path still
continuing, I followed it till I saw some small grimy-looking huts,
which I supposed were those of colliers. At the door of the first
I saw a girl. I spoke to her in Welsh, and found she had little or
none. I passed on, and seeing the door of a cabin open I looked in
- and saw no adult person, but several grimy but chubby children.
I spoke to them in English, and found they could only speak Welsh.
Presently I observed a robust woman advancing towards me; she was
barefooted and bore on her head an immense lump of coal. I spoke
to her in Welsh, and found she could only speak English. "Truly,"
said I to myself, "I am on the borders. What a mixture of races
and languages!" The next person I met was a man in a collier's
dress; he was a stout-built fellow of the middle age, with a coal-
dusty surly countenance. I asked him in Welsh if I was in the
right direction for Wrexham, he answered in a surly manner in
English, that I was. I again spoke to him in Welsh, making some
indifferent observation on the weather, and he answered in English
yet more gruffly than before. For the third time I spoke to him in
Welsh, whereupon looking at me with a grin of savage contempt, and
showing a set of teeth like those of a mastiff, he said, "How's
this? why you haven't a word of English? A pretty fellow you, with
a long coat on your back and no English on your tongue, an't you
ashamed of yourself? Why, here am I in a short coat, yet I'd have
you to know that I can speak English as well as Welsh, aye and a
good deal better." "All people are not equally clebber," said I,
still speaking Welsh. "Clebber," said he, "clebber! what is
clebber? why can't you say clever! Why, I never saw such a low,
illiterate fellow in my life;" and with these words he turned away
with every mark of disdain, and entered a cottage near at hand.

"Here I have had," said I to myself, as I proceeded on my way, "to
pay for the over-praise which I lately received. The farmer on the
other side of the mountain called me a person of great
intelligence, which I never pretended to be, and now this collier
calls me a low, illiterate fellow, which I really don't think I am.
There is certainly a Nemesis mixed up with the affairs of this
world; every good thing which you get, beyond what is strictly your
due, is sure to be required from you with a vengeance. A little
over-praise by a great deal of underrating - a gleam of good
fortune by a night of misery."

I now saw Wrexham Church at about the distance of three miles, and
presently entered a lane which led gently down from the hills,
which were the same heights I had seen on my right hand, some
months previously, on my way from Wrexham to Rhiwabon. The scenery
now became very pretty - hedge-rows were on either side, a
luxuriance of trees and plenty of green fields. I reached the
bottom of the lane, beyond which I saw a strange-looking house upon
a slope on the right hand. It was very large, ruinous, and
seemingly deserted. A little beyond it was a farm-house, connected
with which was a long row of farming buildings along the road-side.
Seeing a woman seated knitting at the door of a little cottage, I
asked her in English the name of the old, ruinous house?

"Cadogan Hall, sir," she replied.

"And whom does it belong to?" said I.

"I don't know exactly," replied the woman, "but Mr Morris at the
farm holds it, and stows his things in it."

"Can you tell me anything about it?" said I.

"Nothing farther," said the woman, "than that it is said to be
haunted, and to have been a barrack many years ago."

"Can you speak Welsh?" said I.

"No," said the woman, "I are Welsh but have no Welsh language."

Leaving the woman I put on my best speed and in about half an hour
reached Wrexham.

The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to the bookshop and
purchase the Welsh Methodistic book. It cost me seven shillings,
and was a thick, bulky octavo with a cut-and-come-again expression
about it, which was anything but disagreeable to me, for I hate
your flimsy publications. The evening was now beginning to set in,
and feeling somewhat hungry I hurried off to the Wynstay Arms
through streets crowded with market people. On arriving at the inn
I entered the grand room and ordered dinner. The waiters,
observing me splashed with mud from head to foot, looked at me
dubiously; seeing, however, the respectable-looking volume which I
bore in my hand - none of your railroad stuff - they became more
assured, and I presently heard one say to the other, "It's all
right - that's Mr So-and-So, the great Baptist preacher. He has
been preaching amongst the hills - don't you see his Bible?"

Seating myself at a table I inspected the volume. And here perhaps
the reader expects that I shall regale him with an analysis of the
Methodistical volume at least as long as that of the life of Tom O'
the Dingle. In that case, however, he will be disappointed; all
that I shall at present say of it is, that it contained a history
of Methodism in Wales, with the lives of the principal Welsh
Methodists. That it was fraught with curious and original matter,
was written in a straightforward, Methodical style, and that I have
no doubt it will some day or other be extensively known and highly
prized.

After dinner I called for half a pint of wine. Whilst I was
trifling over it, a commercial traveller entered into conversation
with me. After some time he asked me if I was going further that
night.

"To Llangollen," said I.

"By the ten o'clock train?" said he.

"No," I replied, "I'm going on foot."

"On foot!" said he; "I would not go on foot there this night for
fifty pounds."

"Why not?" said I.

"For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all
out and drunk."

"If not more than two attack me," said I, "I shan't much mind.
With this book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can
find play for the other with my fists."

The commercial traveller looked at me. "A strange kind of Baptist
minister," I thought I heard him say.



CHAPTER LXII



Rhiwabon Road - The Public-house Keeper - No Welsh - The Wrong Road
- The Good Wife.


I PAID my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing
in. I passed the toll-gate and hurried along the Rhiwabon road,
overtaking companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many
individuals, whom, from their thick and confused speech, as well as
from their staggering gait, I judged to be intoxicated. As I
passed a red public-house on my right hand, at the door of which
stood several carts, a scream of Welsh issued from it.

"Let any Saxon," said I, "who is fond of fighting and wishes for a
bloody nose go in there."

Coming to the small village about a mile from Rhiwabon, I felt
thirsty, and seeing a public-house, in which all seemed to be
quiet, I went in. A thick-set man with a pipe in his mouth sat in
the tap-room, and also a woman.

"Where is the landlord?" said I.

"I am the landlord," said the man, huskily. "What do you want?"

"A pint of ale," said I.

The man got up and with his pipe in his mouth went staggering out
of the room. In about a minute he returned holding a mug in his
hand, which he put down on a table before me, spilling no slight
quantity of the liquor as he did so. I put down three-pence on the
table. He took the money up slowly piece by piece, looked at it
and appeared to consider, then taking the pipe out of his mouth he
dashed it to seven pieces against the table, then staggered out of
the room into the passage, and from thence apparently out of the
house. I tasted the ale which was very good, then turning to the
woman who seemed about three-and-twenty and was rather good-
looking, I spoke to her in Welsh.

"I have no Welsh, sir," said she.

"How is that?" said I; "this village is I think in the Welshery."

"It is," said she, "but I am from Shropshire."

"Are you the mistress of the house?" said I.

"No," said she, "I am married to a collier;" then getting up she
said, "I must go and see after my husband."

"Won't you take a glass of ale first?" said I, offering to fill a
glass which stood on the table.

"No," said she; "I am the worst in the world for a glass of ale;"
and without saying anything more she departed.

"I wonder whether your husband is anything like you with respect to
a glass of ale," said I to myself; then finishing my ale I got up
and left the house, which when I departed appeared to be entirely
deserted.

It was now quite night, and it would have been pitchy-dark but for
the glare of forges. There was an immense glare to the south-west,
which I conceived proceeded from those of Cefn Mawr. It lighted up
the south-western sky; then there were two other glares nearer to
me, seemingly divided by a lump of something, perhaps a grove of
trees.

Walking very fast I soon overtook a man. I knew him at once by his
staggering gait.

"Ah, landlord!" said I; "whither bound?"

"To Rhiwabon," said he, huskily, "for a pint."

"Is the ale so good at Rhiwabon," said I, "that you leave home for
it?"

"No," said he, rather shortly, "there's not a glass of good ale in
Rhiwabon."

"Then why do you go thither?" said I.

"Because a pint of bad liquor abroad is better than a quart of good
at home," said the landlord, reeling against the hedge.

"There are many in a higher station than you who act upon that
principle," thought I to myself as I passed on.

I soon reached Rhiwabon. There was a prodigious noise in the
public-houses as I passed through it. "Colliers carousing," said
I. "Well, I shall not go amongst them to preach temperance, though
perhaps in strict duty I ought." At the end of the town, instead
of taking the road on the left side of the church, I took that on
the right. It was not till I had proceeded nearly a mile that I
began to be apprehensive that I had mistaken the way. Hearing some
people coming towards me on the road I waited till they came up;
they proved to be a man and a woman. On my inquiring whether I was
right for Llangollen, the former told me that I was not, and in
order to get there it was necessary that I should return to
Rhiwabon. I instantly turned round. About half-way back I met a
man who asked me in English where I was hurrying to. I said to
Rhiwabon, in order to get to Llangollen. "Well, then," said he,
"you need not return to Rhiwabon - yonder is a short cut across the
fields," and he pointed to a gate. I thanked him, and said I would
go by it; before leaving him I asked to what place the road led
which I had been following.

"To Pentre Castren," he replied. I struck across the fields and
should probably have tumbled half-a-dozen times over pales and the
like, but for the light of the Cefn furnaces before me which cast
their red glow upon my path. I debauched upon the Llangollen road
near to the tramway leading to the collieries. Two enormous sheets
of flame shot up high into the air from ovens, illumining two
spectral chimneys as high as steeples, also smoky buildings, and
grimy figures moving about. There was a clanging of engines, a
noise of shovels and a falling of coals truly horrible. The glare
was so great that I could distinctly see the minutest lines upon my
hand. Advancing along the tramway I obtained a nearer view of the
hellish buildings, the chimneys, and the demoniac figures. It was
just such a scene as one of those described by Ellis Wynn in his
Vision of Hell. Feeling my eyes scorching I turned away, and
proceeded towards Llangollen, sometimes on the muddy road,
sometimes on the dangerous causeway. For three miles at least I
met nobody. Near Llangollen, as I was walking on the causeway,
three men came swiftly towards me. I kept the hedge, which was my
right; the two first brushed roughly past me, the third came full
upon me and was tumbled into the road. There was a laugh from the
two first and a loud curse from the last as he sprawled in the
mire. I merely said "Nos Da'ki," and passed on, and in about a
quarter of an hour reached home, where I found my wife awaiting me
alone, Henrietta having gone to bed being slightly indisposed. My
wife received me with a cheerful smile. I looked at her and the
good wife of the Triad came to my mind.

"She is modest, void of deceit, and obedient.

"Pure of conscience, gracious of tongue, and true to her husband.

"Her heart not proud, her manners affable, and her bosom full of
compassion for the poor.

"Labouring to be tidy, skilful of hand, and fond of praying to God.

"Her conversation amiable, her dress decent, and her house orderly.

"Quick of hand, quick of eye, and quick of understanding.

"Her person shapely, her manners agreeable, and her heart innocent.

"Her face benignant, her head intelligent, and provident.

"Neighbourly, gentle, and of a liberal way of thinking.

"Able in directing, providing what is wanting, and a good mother to
her children.

"Loving her husband, loving peace, and loving God.

"Happy the man," adds the Triad, "who possesses such a wife." Very
true, O Triad, always provided he is in some degree worthy of her;
but many a man leaves an innocent wife at home for an impure
Jezebel abroad, even as many a one prefers a pint of hog's wash
abroad to a tankard of generous liquor at home.



CHAPTER LXIII



Preparations for Departure - Cat provided for - A Pleasant Party -
Last Night at Llangollen.


I WAS awakened early on the Sunday morning by the howling of wind.
There was a considerable storm throughout the day, but
unaccompanied by rain. I went to church both in the morning and
the evening. The next day there was a great deal of rain. It was
now the latter end of October; winter was coming on, and my wife
and daughter were anxious to return home. After some consultation
it was agreed that they should depart for London, and that I should
join them there after making a pedestrian tour in South Wales.

I should have been loth to quit Wales without visiting the
Deheubarth or Southern Region, a land differing widely, as I had
heard, both in language and customs from Gwynedd or the Northern, a
land which had given birth to the illustrious Ab Gwilym, and where
the great Ryce family had flourished, which very much distinguished
itself in the Wars of the Roses - a member of which Ryce ap Thomas
placed Henry the Seventh on the throne of Britain - a family of
royal extraction, and which after the death of Roderic the Great
for a long time enjoyed the sovereignty of the south.

We set about making the necessary preparations for our respective
journeys. Those for mine were soon made. I bought a small leather
satchel with a lock and key, in which I placed a white linen shirt,
a pair of worsted stockings, a razor and a prayer-book. Along with
it I bought a leather strap with which to sling it over my
shoulder: I got my boots new soled, my umbrella, which was rather
dilapidated, mended; put twenty sovereigns into my purse, and then
said I am all right for the Deheubarth.

As my wife and daughter required much more time in making
preparations for their journey than I for mine, and as I should
only be in their way whilst they were employed, it was determined
that I should depart on my expedition on Thursday, and that they
should remain at Llangollen till the Saturday.

We were at first in some perplexity with respect to the disposal of
the ecclesiastical cat; it would of course not do to leave it in
the garden to the tender mercies of the Calvinistic Methodists of
the neighbourhood, more especially those of the flannel
manufactory, and my wife and daughter could hardly carry it with
them. At length we thought of applying to a young woman of sound
church principles, who was lately married and lived over the water
on the way to the railroad station, with whom we were slightly
acquainted, to take charge of the animal, and she on the first
intimation of our wish, willingly acceded to it. So with her poor
puss was left along with a trifle for its milk-money, and with her,
as we subsequently learned, it continued in peace and comfort till
one morning it sprang suddenly from the hearth into the air, gave a
mew, and died. So much for the ecclesiastical cat!

The morning of Tuesday was rather fine, and Mr Ebenezer E-, who had
heard of our intended departure, came to invite us to spend the
evening at the Vicarage. His father had left Llangollen the day
before for Chester, where he expected to be detained some days. I
told him we should be most happy to come. He then asked me to take
a walk. I agreed with pleasure, and we set out, intending to go to
Llansilio at the western end of the valley and look at the church.
The church was an ancient building. It had no spire, but had the
little erection on its roof, so usual to Welsh churches, for
holding a bell.

In the churchyard is a tomb in which an old squire of the name of
Jones was buried about the middle of the last century. There is a
tradition about this squire and tomb to the following effect.
After the squire's death there was a lawsuit about his property, in
consequence of no will having been found. It was said that his
will had been buried with him in the tomb, which after some time
was opened, but with what success the tradition sayeth not.

In the evening we went to the Vicarage. Besides the family and
ourselves there was Mr R- and one or two more. We had a very
pleasant party; and as most of those present wished to hear
something connected with Spain, I talked much about that country,
sang songs of Germania, and related in an abridged form Lope de
Vega's ghost story, which is decidedly the best ghost story in the
world.

In the afternoon of Wednesday I went and took leave of certain
friends in the town; amongst others of old Mr Jones. On my telling
him that I was about to leave Llangollen, he expressed considerable
regret, but said that it was natural for me to wish to return to my
native country. I told him that before returning to England I
intended to make a pedestrian tour in South Wales. He said that he
should die without seeing the south; that he had had several
opportunities of visiting it when he was young, which he had
neglected, and that he was now too old to wander far from home. He
then asked me which road I intended to take. I told him that I
intended to strike across the Berwyn to Llan Rhyadr, then visit
Sycharth, once the seat of Owain Glendower, lying to the east of
Llan Rhyadr, then return to that place, and after seeing the
celebrated cataract across the mountains to Bala - whence I should
proceed due south. I then asked him whether he had ever seen
Sycharth and the Rhyadr; he told me that he had never visited
Sycharth, but had seen the Rhyadr more than once. He then smiled
and said that there was a ludicrous anecdote connected with the
Rhyadr, which he would relate to me. "A traveller once went to see
the Rhyadr, and whilst gazing at it a calf which had fallen into
the stream above, whilst grazing upon the rocks, came tumbling down
the cataract. 'Wonderful!' said the traveller, and going away
reported that it was not only a fall of water, but of calves, and
was very much disappointed, on visiting the waterfall on another
occasion, to see no calf come tumbling down." I took leave of the
kind old gentleman with regret, never expecting to see him again,
as he was in his eighty-fourth year - he was a truly excellent
character, and might be ranked amongst the venerable ornaments of
his native place.

About half-past eight o'clock at night John Jones came to bid me
farewell. I bade him sit down, and sent for a pint of ale to
regale him with. Notwithstanding the ale, he was very melancholy
at the thought that I was about to leave Llangollen, probably never
to return. To enliven him I gave him an account of my late
expedition to Wrexham, which made him smile more than once. When I
had concluded he asked me whether I knew the meaning of the word
Wrexham: I told him I believed I did, and gave him the derivation
which the reader will find in an early chapter of this work. He
told me that with all due submission, he thought he could give me a
better, which he had heard from a very clever man, gwr deallus
iawn, who lived about two miles from Llangollen on the Corwen road.
In the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at
the place where Wrexham flow stands; when he died he left it to his
wife, who kept it after him, on which account the house was first
called Ty wraig Sam, the house of Sam's wife, and then for
shortness Wraig Sam, and a town arising about it by degrees, the
town too was called Wraig Sam, which the Saxons corrupted into
Wrexham.

I was much diverted with this Welsh derivation of Wrexham, which I
did not attempt to controvert. After we had had some further
discourse John Jones got up, shook me by the hand, gave a sigh,
wished me a "taith hyfryd," and departed. Thus terminated my last
day at Llangollen.



CHAPTER LXIV



Departure for South Wales - Tregeiriog - Pleasing Scene - Trying to
Read - Garmon and Lupus - The Cracked Voice - Effect of a
Compliment - Llan Rhyadr.


THE morning of the 21st of October was fine and cold; there was a
rime frost on the ground. At about eleven o'clock I started on my
journey for South Wales, intending that my first stage should be
Llan Rhyadr. My wife and daughter accompanied me as far as Plas
Newydd. As we passed through the town I shook hands with honest A-
, whom I saw standing at the door of a shop, with a kind of Spanish
hat on his head, and also with my venerable friend old Mr Jones,
whom I encountered close beside his own domicile. At the Plas
Newydd I took an affectionate farewell of my two loved ones, and
proceeded to ascend the Berwyn. Near the top I turned round to
take a final look at the spot where I had lately passed many a
happy hour. There lay Llangollen far below me, with its chimneys
placidly smoking, its pretty church rising in its centre, its blue
river dividing it into two nearly equal parts, and the mighty hill
of Brennus overhanging it from the north.

I sighed, and repeating Einion Du's verse


"Tangnefedd i Llangollen!"


turned away.

I went over the top of the hill and then began to descend its
southern side, obtaining a distant view of the plains of Shropshire
on the east. I soon reached the bottom of the hill, passed through
Llansanfraid, and threading the vale of the Ceiriog at length found
myself at Pont y Meibion in front of the house of Huw Morris, or
rather of that which is built on the site of the dwelling of the
poet. I stopped and remained before the house thinking of the
mighty Huw, till the door opened, and out came the dark-featured
man, the poet's descendant, whom I saw when visiting the place in
company with honest John Jones - he had now a spade in his hand and
was doubtless going to his labour. As I knew him to be of a rather
sullen unsocial disposition, I said nothing to him, but proceeded
on my way. As I advanced the valley widened, the hills on the west
receding to some distance from the river. Came to Tregeiriog a
small village, which takes its name from the brook; Tregeiriog
signifying the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog. Seeing a bridge
which crossed the rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a
little beyond the village, I turned aside to look at it. The
proper course of the Ceiriog is from south to north; where it is
crossed by the bridge, however, it runs from west to east,
returning to its usual course, a little way below the bridge. The
bridge was small and presented nothing remarkable in itself: I
obtained, however, as I looked over its parapet towards the west a
view of a scene, not of wild grandeur, but of something which I
like better, which richly compensated me for the slight trouble I
had taken in stepping aside to visit the little bridge. About a
hundred yards distant was a small water-mill, built over the
rivulet, the wheel going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of
pigs, the generality of them brindled, were either browsing on the
banks or lying close to the sides half immersed in the water; one
immense white hog, the monarch seemingly of the herd, was standing
in the middle of the current. Such was the scene which I saw from
the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life well suited to the brushes
of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or to those of men
scarcely inferior to them in their own style, Gainsborough,
Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour had been in a
highly excited state; I had been repeating verses of old Huw
Morris, brought to my recollection by the sight of his dwelling-
place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads. I
admired the vigour but disliked the principles which they
displayed; and admiration on the one hand and disapproval on the
other, bred a commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when
tide runs one way and wind blows another. The quiet scene from the
bridge, however, produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when I
resumed my journey I had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about
Roundheads and Cavaliers.

I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley
through which the Ceiriog or a river very similar to it flows. It
is half-way between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles
from each. I went to a small inn or public-house, sat down and
called for ale. A waggoner was seated at a large table with a
newspaper before him on which he was intently staring.

"What news?" said I in English.

"I wish I could tell you," said he in very broken English, "but I
cannot read."

"Then why are you looking at the paper?" said I.

"Because," said he, "by looking at the letters I hope in time to
make them out."

"You may look at them," said I, "for fifty years without being able
to make out one. You should go to an evening school."

"I am too old," said he, "to do so now; if I did the children would
laugh at me."

"Never mind their laughing at you," said I, "provided you learn to
read; let them laugh who win!"

"You give good advice, mester," said he, "I think I shall follow
it."

"Let me look at the paper," said I.

He handed it to me. It was a Welsh paper, and full of dismal
accounts from the seat of war.

"What news, mester?" said the waggoner.

"Nothing but bad," said I; "the Russians are beating us and the
French too."

"If the Rusiaid beat us," said the waggoner, "it is because the
Francod are with us. We should have gone alone."

"Perhaps you are right," said I; "at any rate we could not have
fared worse than we are faring now."

I presently paid for what I had had, inquired the way to Llan
Rhyadr, and departed.

The village of Llanarmon takes its name from its church, which is
dedicated to Garmon, an Armorican bishop, who with another called
Lupus came over into Britain in order to preach against the heresy
of Pelagius. He and his colleague resided for some time in
Flintshire, and whilst there enabled in a remarkable manner the
Britons to achieve a victory over those mysterious people the
Picts, who were ravaging the country far and wide. Hearing that
the enemy were advancing towards Mold, the two bishops gathered
together a number of the Britons, and placed them in ambush in a
dark valley through which it was necessary for the Picts to pass in
order to reach Mold, strictly enjoining them to remain quiet till
all their enemies should have entered the valley and then do
whatever they should see them, the two bishops, do. The Picts
arrived, and when they were about half-way through the valley the
two bishops stepped forward from a thicket and began crying aloud,
"Alleluia!" The Britons followed their example, and the wooded
valley resounded with cries of "Alleluia! Alleluia!" The shouts
and the unexpected appearance of thousands of men caused such
terror to the Picts that they took to flight in the greatest
confusion; hundreds were trampled to death by their companions, and
not a few were drowned in the river Alan (8) which runs through the
valley.

There are several churches dedicated to Garmon in Wales, but
whether there are any dedicated to Lupus I am unable to say. After
leaving Llanarmon I found myself amongst lumpy hills through which
the road led in the direction of the south. Arriving where several
roads met I followed one and became bewildered amidst hills and
ravines. At last I saw a small house close by a nant or dingle,
and turned towards it for the purpose of inquiring my way. On my
knocking at the door a woman made her appearance, of whom I asked
in Welsh whether I was in the road to Llan Rhyadr. She said that I
was out of it, but that if I went towards the south I should see a
path on my left which would bring me to it. I asked her how far it
was to Llan Rhyadr.

"Four long miles," she replied.

"And what is the name of the place where we are now?" said I.

"Cae Hir" (the long inclosure), said she.

"Are you alone in the house?" said I.

"Quite alone," said she; "but my husband and people will soon be
home from the field, for it is getting dusk."

"Have you any Saxon?" said I.

"Not a word," said she, "have I of the iaith dieithr, nor has my
husband, nor any one of my people."

I bade her farewell, and soon reached the road, which led south and
north. As I was bound for the south I strode forward briskly in
that direction. The road was between romantic hills; heard Welsh
songs proceeding from the hill fields on my right, and the murmur
of a brook rushing down a deep nant on my left. I went on till I
came to a collection of houses which an old woman, with a cracked
voice and a small tin milk-pail, whom I assisted in getting over a
stile into the road, told me was called Pen Strit - probably the
head of the street. She spoke English, and on my asking her how
she had learnt the English tongue, she told me that she had learnt
it of her mother who was an English woman. She said that I was two
miles from Llan Rhyadr, and that I must go straight forward. I did
so till I reached a place where the road branched into two, one
bearing somewhat to the left, and the other to the right. After
standing a minute in perplexity I took the right-hand road, but
soon guessed that I had taken the wrong one, as the road dwindled
into a mere footpath. Hearing some one walking on the other side
of the hedge I inquired in Welsh whether I was going right for Llan
Rhyadr, and was answered by a voice in English, apparently that of
a woman, that I was not, and that I must go back. I did so, and
presently a woman came through a gate to me.

"Are you the person," said I, "who just now answered me in English
after I had spoken in Welsh?"

"In truth I am," said she, with a half laugh.

"And how came you to answer me in English after I had spoken to you
in Welsh?"

"Because," said she, "it was easy enough to know by your voice that
you were an Englishman."

"You speak English remarkably well," said I.

"And so do you Welsh," said the woman; "I had no idea that it was
possible for any Englishman to speak Welsh half so well."

"I wonder," thought I to myself, "what you would have answered if I
had said that you speak English execrably." By her own account she
could read both Welsh and English. She walked by my side to the
turn, and then up the left-hand road, which she said was the way to
Llan Rhyadr. Coming to a cottage she bade me good-night and went
in. The road was horribly miry: presently, as I was staggering
through a slough, just after I had passed a little cottage, I heard
a cracked voice crying, "I suppose you lost your way?" I
recognised it as that of the old woman whom I had helped over the
stile. She was now standing behind a little gate which opened into
a garden before the cottage. The figure of a man was standing near
her. I told her that she was quite right in her supposition.

"Ah," said she, "you should have gone straight forward."

"If I had gone straight forward," said I, "I must have gone over a
hedge, at the corner of a field which separated two roads; instead
of bidding me go straight forward you should have told me to follow
the left-hand road."

"Well," said she, "be sure you keep straight forward now."

I asked her who the man was standing near her.

"It is my husband," said she.

"Has he much English?" said I.

"None at all," said she, "for his mother was not English, like
mine." I bade her good-night and went forward. Presently I came
to a meeting of roads, and to go straight forward it was necessary
to pass through a quagmire; remembering, however, the words of my
friend the beldame I went straight forward, though in so doing I
was sloughed up to the knees. In a little time I came to rapid
descent, and at the bottom of it to a bridge. It was now very
dark; only the corner of the moon was casting a faint light. After
crossing the bridge I had one or two ascents and descents. At last
I saw lights before me which proved to be those of Llan Rhyadr. I
soon found myself in a dirty little street, and, inquiring for the
inn, was kindly shown by a man to one which he said was the best,
and which was called the Wynstay Arms.



CHAPTER LXV



Inn at Llan Rhyadr - A low Englishman - Enquiries - The Cook - A
Precious Couple.


THE inn seemed very large, but did not look very cheerful. No
other guest than myself seemed to be in it, except in the kitchen,
where I heard a fellow talking English and occasionally yelling an
English song: the master and the mistress of the house were civil,
and lighted me a fire in what was called the Commercial Room, and
putting plenty of coals in the grate soon made the apartment warm
and comfortable. I ordered dinner or rather supper, which in about
half-an-hour was brought in by the woman. The supper whether good
or bad I despatched with the appetite of one who had walked twenty
miles over hill and dale.

Occasionally I heard a dreadful noise in the kitchen, and the woman
told me that the fellow there was making himself exceedingly
disagreeable, chiefly she believed because she had refused to let
him sleep in the house. She said that he was a low fellow that
went about the country with fish, and that he was the more ready to
insult her as the master of the house was now gone out. I asked if
he was an Englishman, "Yes," said she, "a low Englishman."

"Then he must be low indeed," said I. "A low Englishman is the
lowest of the low." After a little time I heard no more noise, and
was told that the fellow was gone away. I had a little whisky and
water, and then went to bed, sleeping in a tolerable chamber but
rather cold. There was much rain during the night and also wind;
windows rattled, and I occasionally heard the noise of falling
tiles.

I arose about eight. Notwithstanding the night had been so
tempestuous the morning was sunshiny and beautiful. Having ordered
breakfast I walked out in order to look at the town. Llan Rhyadr
is a small place, having nothing remarkable in it save an ancient
church and a strange little antique market-house, standing on
pillars. It is situated at the western end of an extensive valley
and at the entrance of a glen. A brook or rivulet runs through it,
which comes down the glen from the celebrated cataract, which is
about four miles distant to the west. Two lofty mountains form the
entrance of the glen, and tower above the town, one on the south
and the other on the north. Their names, if they have any, I did
not learn.

After strolling about the little place for about a quarter of an
hour, staring at the things and the people, and being stared at by
the latter, I returned to my inn, a structure built in the modern
Gothic style, and which stands nearly opposite to the churchyard.
Whilst breakfasting I asked the landlady, who was bustling about
the room, whether she had ever heard of Owen Glendower.

"In truth, sir, I have. He was a great gentleman who lived a long
time ago, and, and - "

"Gave the English a great deal of trouble," said I.

"Just so, sir; at least I daresay it is so, as you say it."

"And do you know where he lived?"

"I do not, sir; I suppose a great way off, somewhere in the south."

"Do you mean South Wales?"

"In truth, sir, I do."

"There you are mistaken," said I; "and also in supposing he lived a
great way off. He lived in North Wales, and not far from this
place."

"In truth, sir, you know more about him than I."

"Did you ever hear of a place called Sycharth?

"Sycharth! Sycharth! I never did, sir."

"It is the place where Glendower lived, and it is not far off. I
want to go there, but do not know the way."

"Sycharth! Sycharth!" said the landlady musingly: "I wonder if it
is the place we call Sychnant."

"Is there such a place?"

"Yes, sure; about six miles from here, near Langedwin."

"What kind of place is it?"

"In truth, sir, I do not know, for I was never there. My cook,
however, in the kitchen, knows all about it, for she comes from
there."

"Can I see her?"

"Yes, sure; I will go at once and fetch her."

She then left the room and presently returned with the cook, a
short, thick girl with blue staring eyes.

"Here she is, sir," said the landlady, "but she has no English."

"All the better," said I. "So you come from a place called
Sychnant?" said I to the cook in Welsh.

"In truth, sir, I do;" said the cook.

"Did you ever hear of a gwr boneddig called Owen Glendower?"

"Often, sir, often; he lived in our place."

"He lived in a place called Sycharth?" said I.

"Well, sir; and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as
Sychnant; nay, oftener."

"Is his house standing?"

"It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing."

"Is it a high hill?"

"It is not; it is a small, light hill."

"A light hill!" said I to myself. "Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower's
bard, said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.


"'There dwells the chief we all extol
In timber house on lightsome knoll.'


"Is there a little river near it," said I to the cook, "a ffrwd?"

"There is; it runs just under the hill."

"Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?"

"There is not; that is, now - but there was in the old time; a
factory of woollen stands now where the mill once stood."


"'A mill a rushing brook upon
And pigeon tower fram'd of stone.'


"So says Iolo Goch," said I to myself, "in his description of
Sycharth; I am on the right road."

I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged and was
told of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of
Denbighshire. After a few more questions I thanked her and told
her she might go. I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and
after telling the landlady that I should return at night, started
for Llangedwin and Sycharth.

A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in
which I was proceeding.

The valley was beautiful and dotted with various farm-houses, and
the land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the
soil of my own Norfolk, that county so deservedly celebrated for
its agriculture. The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and
towards the north the vale is crossed by three rugged elevations,
the middlemost of which, called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas,
terminates to the west in an exceedingly high and picturesque crag.

After an hour's walking I overtook two people, a man and a woman
laden with baskets which hung around them on every side. The man
was a young fellow of about eight-and-twenty, with a round face,
fair flaxen hair, and rings in his ears; the female was a blooming
buxom lass of about eighteen. After giving them the sele of the
day I asked them if they were English.

"Aye, aye, master," said the man; "we are English."

"Where do you come from?" said I.

"From Wrexham," said the man.

"I thought Wrexham was in Wales," said

"If it be," said the man, "the people are not Welsh; a man is not a
horse because he happens to be born in a stable."

"Is that young woman your wife?" said I.

"Yes;" said he, "after a fashion" - and then he leered at the lass,
and she leered at him.

"Do you attend any place of worship?" said I.

"A great many, master!"

"What place do you chiefly attend?" said I.

"The Chequers, master!"

"Do they preach the best sermons there?" said I.

"No, master! but they sell the best ale there."

"Do you worship ale?" said I.

"Yes, master, I worships ale."

"Anything else?" said I.

"Yes, master! I and my mort worships something besides good ale;
don't we, Sue?" and then he leered at the mort, who leered at him,
and both made odd motions backwards and forwards, causing the
baskets which hung round them to creak and rustle, and uttering
loud shouts of laughter, which roused the echoes of the
neighbouring hills.

"Genuine descendants, no doubt," said I to myself as I walked
briskly on, "of certain of the old heathen Saxons who followed Rag
into Wales and settled down about the house which he built.
Really, if these two are a fair specimen of the Wrexham population,
my friend the Scotch policeman was not much out when he said that
the people of Wrexham were the worst people in Wales."



CHAPTER LXVI



Sycharth - The Kindly Welcome - Happy Couple - Sycharth - Recalling
the Dead - Ode to Sycharth.


I WAS now at the northern extremity of the valley near a great
house past which the road led in the direction of the north-east.
Seeing a man employed in breaking stones I inquired the way to
Sychnant.

"You must turn to the left," said he, "before you come to yon great
house, follow the path which you will find behind it, and you will
soon be in Sychnant."

"And to whom does the great house belong?"

"To whom? why, to Sir Watkin."

"Does he reside there?"

"Not often. He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes
there to hunt."

"What is the place's name?"

"Llan Gedwin."

I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me. The path
led upward behind the great house round a hill thickly planted with
trees. Following it I at length found myself on a broad road on
the top extending east and west, and having on the north and south
beautiful wooded hills. I followed the road which presently began
to descend. On reaching level ground I overtook a man in a
waggoner's frock, of whom I inquired the way to Sycharth. He
pointed westward down the vale to what appeared to be a collection
of houses, near a singular-looking monticle, and said, "That is
Sycharth."

We walked together till we came to a road which branched off on the
right to a little bridge.

"That is your way," said he, and pointing to a large building
beyond the bridge, towering up above a number of cottages, he said,
"that is the factory of Sycharth;" he then left me, following the
high road, whilst I proceeded towards the bridge, which I crossed,
and coming to the cottages entered one on the right hand of a
remarkably neat appearance.

In a comfortable kitchen by a hearth on which blazed a cheerful
billet sat a man and woman. Both arose when I entered: the man
was tall, about fifty years of age, and athletically built; he was
dressed in a white coat, corduroy breeches, shoes, and grey worsted
stockings. The woman seemed many years older than the man; she was
tall also, and strongly built, and dressed in the ancient female
costume, namely, a kind of round, half Spanish hat, long blue
woollen kirtle or gown, a crimson petticoat, and white apron, and
broad, stout shoes with buckles.

"Welcome, stranger," said the man, after looking me a moment or two
full in the face.

"Croesaw, dyn dieithr - welcome, foreign man," said the woman,
surveying me with a look of great curiosity.

"Won't you sit down?" said the man, handing me a chair.

I sat down, and the man and woman resumed their seats.

"I suppose you come on business connected with the factory?" said
the man.

"No," said I, "my business is connected with Owen Glendower."

"With Owen Glendower?" said the man, staring.

"Yes," said I, "I came to see his place."

"You will not see much of his house now," said the man - "it is
down; only a few bricks remain."

"But I shall see the place where his house stood," said I, "which
is all I expected to see."

"Yes, you can see that."

"What does the dyn dieithr say?" said the woman in Welsh with an
inquiring look.

"That he is come to see the place of Owen Glendower."

"Ah!" said the woman with a smile.

"Is that good lady your wife?" said I.

"She is."

"She looks much older than yourself."

"And no wonder. She is twenty-one years older."

"How old are you?"

"Fifty-three."

"Dear me," said I, "what a difference in your ages. How came you
to marry?"

"She was a widow and I had lost my wife. We were lone in the
world, so we thought we would marry."

"Do you live happily together?"

"Very."

"Then you did quite right to marry. What is your name?"

"David Robert."

"And that of your wife?"

"Gwen Robert."

"Does she speak English?"

"She speaks some, but not much."

"Is the place where Owen lived far from here?"

"It is not. It is the round hill a little way above the factory."

"Is the path to it easy to find?"

"I will go with you," said the man. "I work at the factory, but I
need not go there for an hour at least."

He put on his hat and bidding me follow him went out. He led me
over a gush of water which passing under the factory turns the
wheel; thence over a field or two towards a house at the foot of
the mountain where he said the steward of Sir Watkin lived, of whom
it would be as well to apply for permission to ascend the hill, as
it was Sir Watkin's ground. The steward was not at home; his wife
was, however, and she, when we told her we wished to go to the top
of Owain Glendower's Hill, gave us permission with a smile. We
thanked her and proceeded to mount the hill or monticle once the
residence of the great Welsh chieftain, whom his own deeds and the
pen of Shakespear have rendered immortal.

Owen Glendower's hill or mount at Sycharth, unlike the one bearing
his name on the banks of the Dee, is not an artificial hill, but
the work of nature, save and except that to a certain extent it has
been modified by the hand of man. It is somewhat conical and
consists of two steps or gradations, where two fosses scooped out
of the hill go round it, one above the other, the lower one
embracing considerably the most space. Both these fosses are about
six feet deep, and at one time doubtless were bricked, as stout
large, red bricks are yet to be seen, here and there, in their
sides. The top of the mount is just twenty-five feet across. When
I visited it it was covered with grass, but had once been subjected
to the plough as various furrows indicated. The monticle stands
not far from the western extremity of the valley, nearly midway
between two hills which confront each other north and south, the
one to the south being the hill which I had descended, and the
other a beautiful wooded height which is called in the parlance of
the country Llwyn Sycharth or the grove of Sycharth, from which
comes the little gush of water which I had crossed, and which now
turns the wheel of the factory and once turned that of Owen
Glendower's mill, and filled his two moats, part of the water by
some mechanical means having been forced up the eminence. On the
top of this hill or monticle in a timber house dwelt the great
Welshman Owen Glendower, with his wife, a comely, kindly woman, and
his progeny, consisting of stout boys and blooming girls, and
there, though wonderfully cramped for want of room, he feasted
bards who requited his hospitality with alliterative odes very
difficult to compose, and which at the present day only a few book-
worms understand. There he dwelt for many years, the virtual if
not the nominal king of North Wales, occasionally no doubt looking
down with self-complaisance from the top of his fastness on the
parks and fish-ponds of which he had several; his mill, his pigeon
tower, his ploughed lands, and the cottages of a thousand
retainers, huddled round the lower part of the hill, or strewn
about the valley; and there he might have lived and died had not
events caused him to draw the sword and engage in a war, at the
termination of which Sycharth was a fire-scathed ruin, and himself
a broken-hearted old man in anchorite's weeds, living in a cave on
the estate of Sir John Scudamore, the great Herefordshire
proprietor, who married his daughter Elen, his only surviving
child.

After I had been a considerable time on the hill looking about me
and asking questions of my guide, I took out a piece of silver and
offered it to him, thanking him at the same time for the trouble he
had taken in showing me the place. He refused it, saying that I
was quite welcome.

I tried to force it upon him.

"I will not take it," said he; "but if you come to my house and
have a cup of coffee, you may give sixpence to my old woman."

"I will come," said I, "in a short time. In the meanwhile do you
go; I wish to be alone."

"What do you want to do?"

"To sit down and endeavour to recall Glendower, and the times that
are past."

The fine fellow looked puzzled; at last he said, "Very well,"
shrugged his shoulders, and descended the hill.

When he was gone I sat down on the brow of the hill, and with my
face turned to the east began slowly to chant a translation made by
myself in the days of my boyhood of an ode to Sycharth composed by
Iolo Goch when upwards of a hundred years old, shortly after his
arrival at that place, to which he had been invited by Owen
Glendower:-


Twice have I pledg'd my word to thee
To come thy noble face to see;
His promises let every man
Perform as far as e'er he can!
Full easy is the thing that's sweet,
And sweet this journey is and meet;
I've vowed to Owain's court to go,
And I'm resolved to keep my vow;
So thither straight I'll take my way
With blithesome heart, and there I'll stay,
Respect and honour, whilst I breathe,
To find his honour'd roof beneath.
My chief of long lin'd ancestry
Can harbour sons of poesy;
I've heard, for so the muse has told,
He's kind and gentle to the old;
Yes, to his castle I will hie;
There's none to match it 'neath the sky:
It is a baron's stately court,
Where bards for sumptuous fare resort;
There dwells the lord of Powis land,
Who granteth every just demand.
Its likeness now I'll limn you out:
'Tis water girdled wide about;
It shows a wide and stately door
Reached by a bridge the water o'er;
'Tis formed of buildings coupled fair,
Coupled is every couple there;
Within a quadrate structure tall
Muster the merry pleasures all.
Conjointly are the angles bound -
No flaw in all the place is found.
Structures in contact meet the eye
Upon the hillock's top on high;
Into each other fastened they
The form of a hard knot display.
There dwells the chief we all extol
In timber house on lightsome knoll;
Upon four wooden columns proud
Mounteth his mansion to the cloud;
Each column's thick and firmly bas'd,
And upon each a loft is plac'd;
In these four lofts, which coupled stand,
Repose at night the minstrel band;
Four lofts they were in pristine state,
But now partitioned form they eight.
Tiled is the roof, on each house-top
Rise smoke-ejecting chimneys up.
All of one form there are nine halls
Each with nine wardrobes in its walls
With linen white as well supplied
As fairest shops of fam'd Cheapside.
Behold that church with cross uprais'd
And with its windows neatly glaz'd;
All houses are in this comprest -
An orchard's near it of the best,
Also a park where void of fear
Feed antler'd herds of fallow deer.
A warren wide my chief can boast,
Of goodly steeds a countless host.
Meads where for hay the clover grows,
Corn-fields which hedges trim inclose,
A mill a rushing brook upon,
And pigeon tower fram'd of stone;
A fish-pond deep and dark to see,
To cast nets in when need there be,
Which never yet was known to lack
A plenteous store of perch and jack.
Of various plumage birds abound;
Herons and peacocks haunt around,
What luxury doth his hall adorn,
Showing of cost a sovereign scorn;
His ale from Shrewsbury town he brings;
His usquebaugh is drink for kings;
Bragget he keeps, bread white of look,
And, bless the mark! a bustling cook.
His mansion is the minstrels' home,
You'll find them there whene'er you come
Of all her sex his wife's the best;
The household through her care is blest
She's scion of a knightly tree,
She's dignified, she's kind and free.
His bairns approach me, pair by pair,
O what a nest of chieftains fair!
Here difficult it is to catch
A sight of either bolt or latch;
The porter's place here none will fill;
Her largess shall be lavish'd still,
And ne'er shall thirst or hunger rude
In Sycharth venture to intrude.
A noble leader, Cambria's knight,
The lake possesses, his by right,
And midst that azure water plac'd,
The castle, by each pleasure grac'd.


And when I had finished repeating these lines I said, "How much
more happy, innocent, and holy, I was in the days of my boyhood
when I translate Iolo's ode than I am at the present time!" Then
covering my face with my hands I wept like a child.



CHAPTER LXVII



Cup of Coffee - Gwen - Bluff old Fellow - A Rabble Rout - All from
Wrexham.


AFTER a while I arose from my seat and descending the hill returned
to the house of my honest friends, whom I found sitting by their
fire as I had first seen them.

"Well," said the man, "did you bring back Owen Glendower?"

"Not only him," said I, "but his house, family, and all relating to
him."

"By what means?" said the man.

"By means of a song made a long time ago, which describes Sycharth
as it was in his time, and his manner of living there."

Presently Gwen, who had been preparing coffee in expectation of my
return, poured out a cupful, which she presented to me, at the same
time handing me some white sugar in a basin.

I took the coffee, helped myself to some sugar, and returned her
thanks in her own language.

"Ah," said the man, in Welsh, "I see you are a Cumro. Gwen and I
have been wondering whether you were Welsh or English; but I see
you are one of ourselves."

"No," said I in the same language, "I am an Englishman, born in a
part of England the farthest of any from Wales. In fact, I am a
Carn Sais."

"And how came you to speak Welsh?" said the man.

"I took it into my head to learn it when I was a boy," said I.
"Englishmen sometimes do strange things."

"So I have heard," said the man, "but I never heard before of an
Englishman learning Welsh."

I proceeded to drink my coffee, and having finished it, and had a
little more discourse I got up, and having given Gwen a piece of
silver, which she received with a smile and a curtsey, I said I
must now be going,

"Won't you take another cup?" said Gwen, "you are welcome."

"No, thank you," said I, "I have had enough."

"Where are you going?" said the man in English.

"To Llan Rhyadr," said I, "from which I came this morning."

"Which way did you come?" said the man.

"By Llan Gedwin," I replied, "and over the hill. Is there another
way?"

"There is," said the man, "by Llan Silin."

"Llan Silin!" said I; "is not that the place where Huw Morris is
buried?"

"It is," said the man.

"I will return by Llan Silin," said I, "and in passing through pay
a visit to the tomb of the great poet. Is Llan Silin far off?"

"About half a mile," said the man. "Go over the bridge, turn to
the right, and you will be there presently."

I shook the honest couple by the hand and bade them farewell. The
man put on his hat and went with me a few yards from the door, and
then proceeded towards the factory. I passed over the bridge,
under which was a streamlet, which a little below the bridge
received the brook which once turned Owen Glendower's corn-mill. I
soon reached Llan Silin, a village or townlet, having some high
hills at a short distance to the westward, which form part of the
Berwyn.

I entered the kitchen of an old-fashioned public-house, and sitting
down by a table told the landlord, a red-nosed elderly man, who
came bowing up to me, to bring me a pint of ale. The landlord
bowed and departed. A bluff-looking old fellow, somewhat under the
middle size, sat just opposite to me at the table. He was dressed
in a white frieze coat, and had a small hat on his head set rather
consequentially on one side. Before him on the table stood a jug
of ale, between which and him lay a large crabstick. Three or four
other people stood or sat in different parts of the room.
Presently the landlord returned with the ale.

"I suppose you come on sessions business, sir?" said he, as he
placed it down before me.

"Are the sessions being held here to-day?" said I.

"They are," said the landlord, "and there is plenty of business;
two bad cases of poaching, Sir Watkin's keepers are up at court and
hope to convict."

"I am not come on sessions business," said I; "I am merely
strolling a little about to see the country."

"He is come from South Wales," said the old fellow in the frieze
coat, to the landlord, "in order to see what kind of country the
north is. Well at any rate he has seen a better country than his
own."

"How do you know that I come from South Wales?" said I.

"By your English," said the old fellow; "anybody may know you are
South Welsh by your English; it is so cursedly bad. But let's hear
you speak a little Welsh; then I shall be certain as to who you
are."

I did as he bade me, saying a few words in Welsh.

"There's Welsh," said the old fellow, "who but a South Welshman
would talk Welsh in that manner? It's nearly as bad as your
English."

I asked him if he had ever been in South Wales.

"Yes," said he; "and a bad country I found it; just like the
people."

"If you take me for a South Welshman," said I, "you ought to speak
civilly both of the South Welsh and their country."

"I am merely paying tit for tat," said the old fellow. "When I was
in South Wales your people laughed at my folks and country, so when
I meet one of them here I serve him out as I was served out there."

I made no reply to him, but addressing myself to the landlord
inquired whether Huw Morris was not buried in Llan Silin
churchyard. He replied in the affirmative.

"I should like to see his tomb," said I.

"Well, sir," said the landlord, "I shall be happy to show it to you
whenever you please."

Here again the old fellow put in his word.

"You never had a prydydd like Huw Morris in South Wales," said he;
"nor Twm o'r Nant either."

"South Wales has produced good poets," said I.

"No, it hasn't," said the old fellow; "it never produced one. If
it had, you wouldn't have needed to come here to see the grave of a
poet; you would have found one at home."

As he said these words he got up, took his stick, and seemed about
to depart. Just then in burst a rabble rout of game-keepers and
river-watchers who had come from the petty sessions, and were in
high glee, the two poachers whom the landlord had mentioned having
been convicted and heavily fined. Two or three of them were
particularly boisterous, running against some of the guests who
were sitting or standing in the kitchen, and pushing the landlord
about, crying at the same time that they would stand by Sir Watkin
to the last, and would never see him plundered. One of them, a
fellow of about thirty, in a hairy cap, black coat, dirty yellow
breeches, and dirty white top-boots, who was the most obstreperous
of them all, at last came up to the old chap who disliked South
Welshmen and tried to knock off his hat, swearing that he would
stand by Sir Watkin; he, however, met a Tartar. The enemy of the
South Welsh, like all crusty people, had lots of mettle, and with
the stick which he held in his hand forthwith aimed a blow at the
fellow's poll, which, had he not jumped back, would probably have
broken it.

"I will not be insulted by you, you vagabond," said the old chap,
"nor by Sir Watkin either; go and tell him so."

The fellow looked sheepish, and turning away proceeded to take
liberties with other people less dangerous to meddle with than old
crabstick. He, however, soon desisted, and sat down evidently
disconcerted.

"Were you ever worse treated in South Wales by the people there
than you have been here by your own countrymen?" said I to the old
fellow.

"My countrymen?" said he; "this scamp is no countryman of mine; nor
is one of the whole kit. They are all from Wrexham, a mixture of
broken housekeepers and fellows too stupid to learn a trade; a set
of scamps fit for nothing in the world but to swear bodily against
honest men. They say they will stand up for Sir Watkin, and so
they will, but only in a box in the Court to give false evidence.
They won't fight for him on the banks of the river. Countrymen of
mine, indeed! they are no countrymen of mine; they are from
Wrexham, where the people speak neither English nor Welsh, not even
South Welsh as you do."

Then giving a kind of flourish with his stick he departed.



CHAPTER LXVIII



Llan Silin Church - Tomb of Huw Morris - Barbara and Richard -
Welsh Country Clergyman - The Swearing Lad - Anglo-Saxon Devils.


HAVING discussed my ale I asked the landlord if he would show me
the grave of Huw Morris. "With pleasure, sir," said he; "pray
follow me." He led me to the churchyard, in which several enormous
yew trees were standing, probably of an antiquity which reached as
far back as the days of Henry the Eighth, when the yew bow was
still the favourite weapon of the men of Britain. The church
fronts the south, the portico being in that direction. The body of
the sacred edifice is ancient, but the steeple which bears a gilded
cock on its top is modern. The innkeeper led me directly up to the
southern wall, then pointing to a broad discoloured slab, which lay
on the ground just outside the wall, about midway between the
portico and the oriel end, he said:

"Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir." Forthwith taking off
my hat I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering
the cold remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees,
proceeded to examine it attentively. It is covered over with
letters three parts defaced. All I could make out of the
inscription was the date of the poet's death, 1709. "A great
genius, a very great genius, sir," said the inn-keeper, after I had
got on my feet and put on my hat.

"He was indeed," said I; "are you acquainted with his poetry?"

"Oh yes," said the innkeeper, and then repeated the four lines
composed by the poet shortly before his death, which I had heard
the intoxicated stonemason repeat in the public-house of the Pandy,
the day I went to visit the poet's residence with John Jones.

"Do you know any more of Huw's poetry?" said I.

"No," said the innkeeper. "Those lines, however, I have known ever
since I was a child and repeated them, more particularly of late
since age has come upon me and I have felt that I cannot last
long."

It is very odd how few of the verses of great poets are in people's
mouths. Not more than a dozen of Shakespear's lines are in
people's mouths: of those of Pope not more than half that number.
Of Addison's poetry two or three lines may be in people's mouths,
though I never heard one quoted, the only line which I ever heard
quoted as Addison's not being his but Garth's:


"'Tis best repenting in a coach and six.'


Whilst of the verses of Huw Morris I never knew any one but myself,
who am not a Welshman, who could repeat a line beyond the four
which I have twice had occasion to mention, and which seem to be
generally known in North if not in South Wales.

From the flagstone I proceeded to the portico and gazed upon it
intensely. It presented nothing very remarkable, but it had the
greatest interest for me, for I remembered how many times Huw
Morris had walked out of that porch at the head of the
congregation, the clergyman yielding his own place to the inspired
bard. I would fain have entered the church, but the landlord had
not the key, and told me that he imagined there would be some
difficulty in procuring it. I was therefore obliged to content
myself with peeping through a window into the interior, which had a
solemn and venerable aspect.

"Within there," said I to myself, "Huw Morris, the greatest
songster of the seventeenth century, knelt every Sunday during the
latter thirty years of his life, after walking from Pont y Meibion
across the bleak and savage Berwyn. Within there was married
Barbara Wynn, the Rose of Maelai, to Richard Middleton, the
handsome cavalier of Maelor, and within there she lies buried, even
as the songster who lamented her untimely death in immortal verse
lies buried out here in the graveyard. What interesting
associations has this church for me, both outside and in, but all
connected with Huw; for what should I have known of Barbara, the
Rose, and gallant Richard but for the poem on their affectionate
union and untimely separation, the dialogue between the living and
the dead, composed by humble Huw, the farmer's son of Ponty y
Meibion?"

After gazing through the window till my eyes watered I turned to
the innkeeper, and inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr. Having
received from him the desired information I thanked him for his
civility, and set out on my return.

Before I could get clear of the town I suddenly encountered my
friend R-, the clever lawyer and magistrate's clerk of Llangollen.

"I little expected to see you here," said he.

"Nor I you," I replied.

"I came in my official capacity," said he; "the petty sessions have
been held here to-day."

"I know they have," I replied; "and that two poachers have been
convicted. I came here on my way to South Wales to see the grave
of Huw Morris, who, as you know, is buried in the churchyard."