Living with the Tylwyth Teg--The Tale of Elidurus--Shui Rhys
and the Fairies--St. Dogmell's Parish,
Pembrokeshire--Dancing with the Ellyllon--The Legend of Rhys
and Llewellyn--Death from joining in the Fairy Reel--Legend
of the Bush of Heaven--The Forest of the Magic Yew--The Tale
of Twm and Iago--Taffy ap Sion, a Legend of Pencader--The
Traditions of Pant Shon Shenkin--Tudur of Llangollen; the
Legend of Nant yr Ellyllon--Polly Williams and the Trefethin
Elves--The Fairies of Frennifawr--Curiosity Tales--The Fiend
Master--Iago ap Dewi--The Original of Rip van Winkle.
I.
Closely akin to the subject of changelings is that of adults or
well-grown children being led away to live with the Tylwyth Teg. In
this field the Welsh traditions are innumerable, and deal not only
with the last century or two, but distinctly with the middle ages.
Famed among British goblins are those fairies which are immortalised
in the Tale of Elidurus. This tale was written in Latin by Giraldus
Cambrensis (as he called himself, after the pedantic fashion of his
day), a Welshman, born at Pembroke Castle, and a hearty admirer of
everything Welsh, himself included. He was beyond doubt a man of
genius, and of profound learning. In 1188 he made a tour through
Wales, in the interest of the crusade then in contemplation, and
afterwards wrote his book--a fascinating picture of manners and
customs in Wales in the twelfth century.
The scene of the tale is that Vale of Neath, already named as a famous
centre of fairyland. Elidurus, when a youth of twelve years, 'in order
to avoid the severity of his preceptor,' ran away from school, 'and
concealed himself under the hollow bank of a river.' After he had
fasted in that situation for two days, 'two little men of pigmy
stature appeared to him,' and said, 'If you will go with us, we will
lead you into a country full of delights and sports.' Assenting,
Elidurus rose up and 'followed his guides through a path at first
subterraneous and dark, into a most beautiful country, but obscure and
not illuminated with the full light of the sun.' All the days in that
country 'were cloudy, and the nights extremely dark.' The boy was
brought before the king of the strange little people, and introduced
to him in the presence of his Court. Having examined Elidurus for a
long time, the king delivered him to his son, that prince being then a
boy. The men of this country, though of the smallest stature, were
very well proportioned, fair-complexioned, and wore long hair. 'They
had horses and greyhounds adapted to their size. They neither ate
flesh nor fish, but lived on milk-diet, made up into messes with
saffron. As often as they returned from our hemisphere, they
reprobated our ambition, infidelities, and inconstancies; and though
they had no form of public worship, were, it seems, strict lovers and
reverers of truth. The boy frequently returned to our hemisphere,
sometimes by the way he had gone, sometimes by others; at first in
company, and afterwards alone; and made himself known only to his
mother, to whom he described what he had seen. Being desired by her to
bring her a present of gold, with which that country abounded, he
stole, whilst at play with the king's son, a golden ball with which he
used to divert himself, and brought it in haste to his mother, but not
unpursued; for, as he entered the house of his father, he stumbled at
the threshold;' the ball fell, 'and two pigmies seizing it, departed,
showing the boy every mark of contempt and derision. Notwithstanding
every attempt for the space of a year, he never again could find the
track to the subterraneous passage.' He had made himself acquainted
with the language of his late hosts, 'which was very conformable to
the Greek idiom. When they asked for water, they said _Udor udorum_;
when they want salt, they say _Halgein udorum_.'[39]
FOOTNOTE:
[39] See Sir R. C. Hoare's Translation of Giraldus.
II.
Exactly similar to this medieval legend in spirit, although differing
widely in detail, is the modern story of Shui Rhys, told to me by a
peasant in Cardiganshire. Shui was a beautiful girl of seventeen, tall
and fair, with a skin like ivory, hair black and curling, and eyes of
dark velvet. She was but a poor farmer's daughter, notwithstanding her
beauty, and among her duties was that of driving up the cows for the
milking. Over this work she used to loiter sadly, to pick flowers by
the way, or chase the butterflies, or amuse herself in any agreeable
manner that fortune offered. For her loitering she was often chided;
indeed, people said Shui's mother was far too sharp with the girl, and
that it was for no good the mother had so bitter a tongue. After all
the girl meant no harm, they said. But when one night Shui never came
home till bed-time, leaving the cows to care for themselves, dame Rhys
took the girl to task as she never had done before. 'Ysgwaetheroedd,
mami,' said Shui, 'I couldn't help it; it was the Tylwyth Teg.' The
dame was aghast at this, but she could not answer it--for well she
knew the Tylwyth Teg were often seen in the woods of Cardigan. Shui
was at first shy about talking of the fairies, but finally confessed
they were little men in green coats, who danced around her and made
music on their tiny harps; and they talked to her in language too
beautiful to be repeated; indeed she couldn't understand the words,
though she knew well enough what the fairies meant. Many a time after
that Shui was late; but now nobody chided her, for fear of offending
the fairies. At last one night Shui did not come home at all. In alarm
the woods were searched; there was no sign of her; and never was she
seen in Cardigan again. Her mother watched in the fields on the
Teir-nos Ysprydion, or three nights of the year when goblins are sure
to be abroad; but Shui never returned. Once indeed there came back to
the neighbourhood a wild rumour that Shui Rhys had been seen in a
great city in a foreign land--Paris, perhaps, or London, who knows?
but this tale was in no way injurious to the sad belief that the
fairies had carried her off; they might take her to those well-known
centres of idle and sinful pleasure, as well as to any other place.
[Illustration: SHUI RHYS AND THE TYLWYTH TEG.]
III.
An old man who died in St. Dogmell's parish, Pembrokeshire, a short
time since (viz., in 1860), nearly a hundred years old, used to say
that that whole neighbourhood was considered 'fou.' It was a common
experience for men to be led astray there all night, and after
marvellous adventures and untellable trampings, which seemed as if
they would be endless, to find when day broke that they were close to
their own homes. In one case, a man who was led astray chanced to have
with him a number of hoop-rods, and as he wandered about under the
influence of the deluding phantom, he was clever enough to drop the
rods one by one, so that next day he might trace his journeyings. When
daylight came, and the search for the hoop-rods was entered on, it was
found they were scattered over miles upon miles of country. Another
time, a St. Dogmell's fisherman was returning home from a wedding at
Moelgrove, and it being very dark, the fairies led him astray, but
after a few hours he had the good luck (which Sir John Franklin might
have envied him) to 'discover the North Pole,' and by this beacon he
was able to steer his staggering barque to the safe port of his own
threshold. It is even gravely stated that a severe and dignified
clerical person, no longer in the frisky time of life, but advanced in
years, was one night forced to join in the magic dance of St.
Dogmell's, and keep it up till nearly daybreak. Specific details in
this instance are wanting; but it was no doubt the Ellyllon who led
all these folk astray, and put a cap of oblivion on their heads, which
prevented them from ever telling their adventures clearly.
IV.
Dancing and music play a highly important part in stories of this
class. The Welsh fairies are most often dancing together when seen.
They seek to entice mortals to dance with them, and when anyone is
drawn to do so, it is more than probable he will not return to his
friends for a long time. Edmund William Rees, of Aberystruth, was thus
drawn away by the fairies, and came back at the year's end, looking
very bad. But he could not give a very clear account of what he had
been about, only said he had been dancing. This was a common thing in
these cases. Either they were not able to, or they dared not, talk
about their experiences.
Two farm servants named Rhys and Llewellyn were one evening at
twilight returning home from their work, when Rhys cried out that he
heard the fairy music. Llewellyn could hear nothing, but Rhys said it
was a tune to which he had danced a hundred times, and would again,
and at once. 'Go on,' says he, 'and I'll soon catch you up again.'
Llewellyn objected, but Rhys stopped to hear no more; he bounded away
and left Llewellyn to go home alone, which he did, believing Rhys had
merely gone off on a spree, and would come home drunk before morning.
But the morning came, and no Rhys. In vain search was made, still no
Rhys. Time passed on; days grew into months; and at last suspicion
fell on Llewellyn, that he had murdered Rhys. He was put in prison. A
farmer learned in fairy-lore, suspecting how it was, proposed that he
and a company of neighbours should go with poor Llewellyn to the spot
where he had last seen Rhys. Agreed. Arrived at the spot, 'Hush,'
cried Llewellyn, 'I hear music! I hear the sweet music of the harps!'
They all listened, but could hear nothing. 'Put your foot on mine,
David,' says Llewellyn to one of the company; his own foot was on the
outward edge of a fairy ring as he spoke. David put his foot on
Llewellyn's, and so did they all, one after another; and then they
heard the sound of many harps, and saw within a circle about twenty
feet across, great numbers of little people dancing round and round.
And there was Rhys, dancing away like a madman! As he came whirling
by, Llewellyn caught him by his smock-frock and pulled him out of the
circle. 'Where are the horses? where are the horses?' cried Rhys in an
excited manner. 'Horses, indeed!' sneered Llewellyn, in great disgust;
'wfft! go home. Horses!' But Rhys was for dancing longer, declaring he
had not been there five minutes. 'You've been there,' says Llewellyn,
'long enough to come near getting me hanged, anyhow.' They got him
home finally, but he was never the same man again, and soon after he
died.
V.
In the great majority of these stories the hero dies immediately after
his release from the thraldom of the fairies--in some cases with a
suddenness and a completeness of obliteration as appalling as
dramatic. The following story, well known in Carmarthenshire, presents
this detail with much force: There was a certain farmer who, while
going early one morning to fetch his horses from the pasture, heard
harps playing. Looking carefully about for the source of this music,
he presently saw a company of Tylwyth Teg footing it merrily in a
corelw. Resolving to join their dance and cultivate their
acquaintance, the farmer stepped into the fairy ring. Never had man
his resolution more thoroughly carried out, for having once begun the
reel he was not allowed to finish it till years had elapsed. Even then
he might not have been released, had it not chanced that a man one day
passed by the lonely spot, so close to the ring that he saw the farmer
dancing. 'Duw catto ni!' cried the man, 'God save us! but this is a
merry one. Hai, holo! man, what, in Heaven's name, makes you so
lively?' This question, in which the name of Heaven was uttered, broke
the spell which rested on the farmer, who spoke like one in a dream:
'O dyn!' cried he, 'what's become of the horses?' Then he stepped from
the fairy circle and instantly crumbled away and mingled his dust with
the earth.
A similar tale is told in Carnarvon, but with the fairy dance omitted
and a pious character substituted, which helps to indicate the
antiquity of this class of legend, by showing that it was one of the
monkish adoptions of an earlier story. Near Clynog, in Carnarvonshire,
there is a place called Llwyn y Nef, (the Bush of Heaven,) which thus
received its name: In Clynog lived a monk of most devout life, who
longed to be taken to heaven. One evening, whilst walking without the
monastery by the riverside, he sat down under a green tree and fell
into a deep reverie, which ended in sleep; and he slept for thousands
of years. At last he heard a voice calling unto him, 'Sleeper, awake
and be up.' He awoke. All was strange to him except the old monastery,
which still looked down upon the river. He went to the monastery, and
was made much of. He asked for a bed to rest himself on and got it.
Next morning when the brethren sought him, they found nothing in the
bed but a handful of ashes.[40]
So in the monkish tale of the five saints, who sleep in the cave of
Caio, reappears the legend of Arthur's sleeping warriors under
Craig-y-Ddinas.
FOOTNOTE:
[40] 'Cymru Fu,' 188.
VI.
[Illustration: PLUCKED FROM THE FAIRY CIRCLE.]
A tradition is current in Mathavarn, in the parish of Llanwrin, and
the Cantref of Cyfeillioc, concerning a certain wood called Ffridd yr
Ywen, (the Forest of the Yew,) that it is so called on account of a
magical yew-tree which grows exactly in the middle of the forest.
Under that tree there is a fairy circle called The Dancing Place of
the Goblin. There are several fairy circles in the Forest of the Yew,
but the one under the yew-tree in the middle has this legend connected
with it: Many years ago, two farm-servants, whose names were Twm and
Iago, went out one day to work in the Forest of the Yew. Early in the
afternoon the country became covered with so dense a mist that the
youths thought the sun was setting, and they prepared to go home; but
when they came to the yew-tree in the middle of the forest, suddenly
they found all light around them. They now thought it too early to go
home, and concluded to lie down under the yew-tree and have a nap.
By-and-by Twm awoke, to find his companion gone. He was much surprised
at this, but concluded Iago had gone to the village on an errand of
which they had been speaking before they fell asleep. So Twm went
home, and to all inquiries concerning Iago, he answered, 'Gone to the
cobbler's in the village.' But Iago was still absent next morning, and
now Twm was cross-questioned severely as to what had become of his
fellow-servant. Then he confessed that they had fallen asleep under
the yew where the fairy circle was, and from that moment he had seen
nothing more of Iago. They searched the whole forest over, and the
whole country round, for many days, and finally Twm went to a gwr
cyfarwydd (or conjuror), a common trade in those days, says the
legend. The conjuror gave him this advice: 'Go to the same place where
you and the lad slept. Go there exactly a year after the boy was lost.
Let it be on the same day of the year and at the same time of the day;
but take care that you do not step inside the fairy ring. Stand on the
border of the green circle you saw there, and the boy will come out
with many of the goblins to dance. When you see him so near to you
that you may take hold of him, snatch him out of the ring as quickly
as you can.' These instructions were obeyed. Iago appeared, dancing in
the ring with the Tylwyth Teg, and was promptly plucked forth. 'Duw!
Duw!' cried Tom, 'how wan and pale you look! And don't you feel hungry
too?' 'No,' said the boy, 'and if I did, have I not here in my wallet
the remains of my dinner that I had before I fell asleep?' But when he
looked in his wallet, the food was not there. 'Well, it must be time
to go home,' he said, with a sigh; for he did not know that a year had
passed by. His look was like a skeleton, and as soon as he had tasted
food, he mouldered away.
VII.
Taffy ap Sion, the shoemaker's son, living near Pencader,
Carmarthenshire, was a lad who many years ago entered the fairy circle
on the mountain hard by there, and having danced a few minutes, as he
supposed, chanced to step out. He was then astonished to find that the
scene which had been so familiar was now quite strange to him. Here
were roads and houses he had never seen, and in place of his father's
humble cottage there now stood a fine stone farm-house. About him were
lovely cultivated fields instead of the barren mountain he was
accustomed to. 'Ah,' thought he, 'this is some fairy trick to deceive
my eyes. It is not ten minutes since I stepped into that circle, and
now when I step out they have built my father a new house! Well, I only
hope it is real; anyhow, I'll go and see.' So he started off by a path
he knew instinctively, and suddenly struck against a very solid hedge.
He rubbed his eyes, felt the hedge with his fingers, scratched his
head, felt the hedge again, ran a thorn into his fingers and cried out,
'Wbwb! this is no fairy hedge anyhow, nor, from the age of the thorns,
was it grown in a few minutes' time.' So he climbed over it and walked
on. 'Here was I born,' said he, as he entered the farmyard, staring
wildly about him, 'and not a thing here do I know!' His mystification
was complete when there came bounding towards him a huge dog, barking
furiously. 'What dog is this? Get out, you ugly brute! Don't you know
I'm master here?--at least, when mother's from home, for father don't
count.' But the dog only barked the harder. 'Surely,' muttered Taffy to
himself, 'I have lost my road and am wandering through some unknown
neighbourhood; but no, yonder is the Careg Hir!' and he stood staring
at the well-known erect stone thus called, which still stands on the
mountain south of Pencader, and is supposed to have been placed there
in ancient times to commemorate a victory. As Taffy stood thus looking
at the Long Stone, he heard footsteps behind him, and turning, beheld
the occupant of the farm-house, who had come out to see why his dog was
barking. Poor Taffy was so ragged and wan that the farmer's Welsh heart
was at once stirred to sympathy. 'Who are you, poor man?' he asked. To
which Taffy answered, 'I know who I was, but I do not know who I _am
now_. I was the son of a shoemaker who lived in this place, this
morning; for that rock, though it is changed a little, I know too
well.' 'Poor fellow,' said the farmer, 'you have lost your senses. This
house was built by my great-grandfather, repaired by my grandfather;
and that part there, which seems newly built, was done about three
years ago at my expense. You must be deranged, or have missed the road;
but come in and refresh yourself with some victuals, and rest.' Taffy
was half persuaded that he had overslept himself and lost his road, but
looking back he saw the rock before mentioned, and exclaimed, 'It is
but an hour since I was on yonder rock robbing a hawk's nest.' 'Where
have you been since?' Taffy related his adventure. 'Ah,' quoth the
farmer, 'I see how it is--you have been with the fairies. Pray, who was
your father?' 'Sion Evan y Crydd o Glanrhyd,' was the answer. 'I never
heard of such a man,' said the farmer, shaking his head, 'nor of such a
place as Glanrhyd, either: but no matter, after you have taken a little
food we will step down to Catti Shon, at Pencader, who will probably be
able to tell us something.' With this he beckoned Taffy to follow him,
and walked on; but hearing behind him the sound of footsteps growing
weaker and weaker, he turned round, when to his horror he beheld the
poor fellow crumble in an instant to about a thimbleful of black ashes.
The farmer, though much terrified at this sight, preserved his calmness
sufficiently to go at once and see old Catti, the aged crone he had
referred to, who lived at Pencader, near by. He found her crouching
over a fire of faggots, trying to warm her old bones. 'And how do you
do the day, Catti Shon?' asked the farmer. 'Ah,' said old Catti, 'I'm
wonderful well, farmer, considering how old I am.' 'Yes, yes, you're
very old. Now, since you are so old, let me ask you--do you remember
anything about Sion y Crydd o Glanrhyd? Was there ever such a man, do
you know?' 'Sion Glanrhyd? O! I have some faint recollection of hearing
my grandfather, old Evan Shenkin, Penferdir, relate that Sion's son was
lost one morning, and they never heard of him afterwards, so that it
was said he was taken by the fairies. His father's cot stood somewhere
near your house.' 'Were there many fairies about at that time?' asked
the farmer. 'O yes; they were often seen on yonder hill, and I was told
they were lately seen in Pant Shon Shenkin, eating flummery out of
egg-shells, which they had stolen from a farm hard by.' 'Dir anwyl fi!'
cried the farmer; 'dear me! I recollect now--I saw them myself!'
Pant Shon[41] Shenkin, it must be here remarked, was a famous place
for the Carmarthenshire fairies. The traditions thereabout respecting
them are numerous. Among the strangest is, that a woman once actually
caught a fairy on the mountain near Pant Shon Shenkin, and that it
remained long in her custody, retaining still the same height and
size, but at last made its escape.
Another curious tradition relates that early one Easter Monday, when
the parishioners of Pencarreg and Caio were met to play at football,
they saw a numerous company of Tylwyth Teg dancing. Being so many in
number, the young men were not intimidated at all, but proceeded in a
body towards the puny tribe, who, perceiving them, removed to another
place. The young men followed, whereupon the little folks suddenly
appeared dancing at the first place. Seeing this, the men divided and
surrounded them, when they immediately became invisible, and were
never more seen there.
FOOTNOTE:
[41] Sion and Shon are the same word, just as are our Smith and Smyth.
Where there are so few personal names as in Wales, while I would not
myself change a single letter in order to render the actors in a tale
more distinct, it is perhaps as well to encourage any eccentricities
of spelling which we are so lucky as to find on the spot.
VIII.
Ignorance of what transpired in the fairy circle is not an invariable
feature of legends like those we have been observing. In the story of
Tudur of Llangollen, preserved by several old Welsh writers, the
hero's experiences are given with much liveliness of detail. The scene
of this tale is a hollow near Llangollen, on the mountain side
half-way up to the ruins of Dinas Bran Castle, which hollow is to this
day called Nant yr Ellyllon. It obtained its name, according to
tradition, in this wise: A young man, called Tudur ap Einion Gloff,
used in old times to pasture his master's sheep in that hollow. One
summer's night, when Tudur was preparing to return to the lowlands
with his woolly charge, there suddenly appeared, perched upon a stone
near him, 'a little man in moss breeches with a fiddle under his arm.
He was the tiniest wee specimen of humanity imaginable. His coat was
made of birch leaves, and he wore upon his head a helmet which
consisted of a gorse flower, while his feet were encased in pumps made
of beetle's wings. He ran his fingers over his instrument, and the
music made Tudur's hair stand on end. "Nos da'ch', nos da'ch'," said
the little man, which means "Good-night, good-night to you," in
English. "Ac i chwithau," replied Tudur; which again, in English,
means "The same to you." Then continued the little man, "You are fond
of dancing, Tudur; and if you but tarry awhile you shall behold some
of the best dancers in Wales, and I am the musician." Quoth Tudur,
"Then where is your harp? A Welshman even cannot dance without a
harp." "Oh," said the little man, "I can discourse better dance music
upon my fiddle." "Is it a fiddle you call that stringed wooden spoon
in your hand?" asked Tudur, for he had never seen such an instrument
before. And now Tudur beheld through the dusk hundreds of pretty
little sprites converging towards the spot where they stood, from all
parts of the mountain. Some were dressed in white, and some in blue,
and some in pink, and some carried glow-worms in their hands for
torches. And so lightly did they tread that not a blade nor a flower
was crushed beneath their weight, and every one made a curtsey or a
bow to Tudur as they passed, and Tudur doffed his cap and moved to
them in return. Presently the little minstrel drew his bow across the
strings of his instrument, and the music produced was so enchanting
that Tudur stood transfixed to the spot.' At the sound of the sweet
melody, the Tylwyth Teg ranged themselves in groups, and began to
dance. Now of all the dancing Tudur had ever seen, none was to be
compared to that he saw at this moment going on. He could not help
keeping time with his hands and feet to the merry music, but he dared
not join in the dance, 'for he thought within himself that to dance on
a mountain at night in strange company, to perhaps the devil's fiddle,
might not be the most direct route to heaven.' But at last he found
there was no resisting this bewitching strain, joined to the sight of
the capering Ellyllon. '"Now for it, then," screamed Tudur, as he
pitched his cap into the air under the excitement of delight. "Play
away, old devil; brimstone and water, if you like!" No sooner were the
words uttered than everything underwent a change. The gorse-blossom
cap vanished from the minstrel's head, and a pair of goat's horns
branched out instead. His face turned as black as soot; a long tail
grew out of his leafy coat, while cloven feet replaced the beetle-wing
pumps. Tudur's heart was heavy, but his heels were light. Horror was
in his bosom, but the impetus of motion was in his feet. The fairies
changed into a variety of forms. Some became goats, and some became
dogs, some assumed the shape of foxes, and others that of cats. It was
the strangest crew that ever surrounded a human being. The dance
became at last so furious that Tudur could not distinctly make out the
forms of the dancers. They reeled around him with such rapidity that
they almost resembled a wheel of fire. Still Tudur danced on. He could
not stop, the devil's fiddle was too much for him, as the figure with
the goat's horns kept pouring it out with unceasing vigour, and Tudur
kept reeling around in spite of himself. Next day Tudur's master
ascended the mountain in search of the lost shepherd and his sheep. He
found the sheep all right at the foot of the Fron, but fancy his
astonishment when, ascending higher, he saw Tudur spinning like mad in
the middle of the basin now known as Nant yr Ellyllon.' Some pious
words of the master broke the charm, and restored Tudur to his home in
Llangollen, where he told his adventures with great gusto for many
years afterwards.[42]
FOOTNOTE:
[42] Rev. T. R. Lloyd (Estyn), in 'The Principality.'
IX.
Polly Williams, a good dame who was born in Trefethin parish, and
lived at the Ship Inn, at Pontypool, Monmouthshire, was wont to relate
that, when a child, she danced with the Tylwyth Teg. The first time
was one day while coming home from school. She saw the fairies
dancing in a pleasant, dry place, under a crab-tree, and, thinking
they were children like herself, went to them, when they induced her
to dance with them. She brought them into an empty barn and they
danced there together. After that, during three or four years, she
often met and danced with them, when going to or coming from school.
She never could hear the sound of their feet, and having come to know
that they were fairies, took off her ffollachau (clogs), so that she,
too, might make no noise, fearful that the clattering of her
clog-shodden feet was displeasing to them. They were all dressed in
blue and green aprons, and, though they were so small, she could see
by their mature faces that they were no children. Once when she came
home barefoot, after dancing with the fairies, she was chided for
going to school in that condition; but she held her tongue about the
fairies, for fear of trouble, and never told of them till after she
grew up. She gave over going with them to dance, however, after three
or four years, and this displeased them. They tried to coax her back
to them, and, as she would not come, hurt her by dislocating 'one of
her walking members,'[43] which, as a euphemism for legs, surpasses
anything charged against American prudery.
FOOTNOTE:
[43] Jones, 'Apparitions.'
X.
Contrasting strongly with this matter-of-fact account of a modern
witness is the glowing description of fairy life contained in the
legend of the Fairies of Frennifawr. About ten miles south of Cardigan
is the Pembrokeshire mountain called Frennifawr, which is the scene of
this tale: A shepherd's lad was tending his sheep on the small
mountains called Frennifach one fine morning in June. Looking to the
top of Frennifawr to note what way the fog hung--for if the fog on
that mountain hangs on the Pembrokeshire side, there will be fair
weather, if on the Cardigan side, storm--he saw the Tylwyth Teg, in
appearance like tiny soldiers, dancing in a ring. He set out for the
scene of revelry, and soon drew near the ring where, in a gay company
of males and females, they were footing it to the music of the harp.
Never had he seen such handsome people, nor any so enchantingly
cheerful. They beckoned him with laughing faces to join them as they
leaned backward almost falling, whirling round and round with joined
hands. Those who were dancing never swerved from the perfect circle;
but some were clambering over the old cromlech, and others chasing
each other with surprising swiftness and the greatest glee. Still
others rode about on small white horses of the most beautiful form;
these riders were little ladies, and their dresses were indescribably
elegant, surpassing the sun in radiance, and varied in colour, some
being of bright whiteness, others the most vivid scarlet. The males
wore red tripled caps, and the ladies a light fantastic headdress
which waved in the wind. All this was in silence, for the shepherd
could not hear the harps, though he saw them. But now he drew nearer
to the circle, and finally ventured to put his foot in the magic ring.
The instant he did this, his ears were charmed with strains of the
most melodious music he had ever heard. Moved with the transports this
seductive harmony produced in him, he stepped fully into the ring. He
was no sooner in than he found himself in a palace glittering with
gold and pearls. Every form of beauty surrounded him, and every
variety of pleasure was offered him. He was made free to range
whither he would, and his every movement was waited on by young women
of the most matchless loveliness. And no tongue can tell the joys of
feasting that were his! Instead of the tatws-a-llaeth (potatoes and
buttermilk) to which he had hitherto been accustomed, here were birds
and meats of every choice description, served on plates of silver.
Instead of home-brewed cwrw, the only bacchic beverage he had ever
tasted in real life, here were red and yellow wines of wondrous
enjoyableness, brought in golden goblets richly inlaid with gems. The
waiters were the most beautiful virgins, and everything was in
abundance. There was but one restriction on his freedom: he must not
drink, on any consideration, from a certain well in the garden, in
which swam fishes of every colour, including the colour of gold. Each
day new joys were provided for his amusement, new scenes of beauty
were unfolded to him, new faces presented themselves, more lovely if
possible than those he had before encountered. Everything was done to
charm him; but one day all his happiness fled in an instant.
Possessing every joy that mortal could desire, he wanted the one thing
forbidden--like Eve in the garden, like Fatima in the castle;
curiosity undid him. He plunged his hand into the well: the fishes all
disappeared instantly. He put the water to his mouth: a confused
shriek ran through the garden. He drank: the palace and all vanished
from his sight, and he stood shivering in the night air, alone on the
mountain, in the very place where he had first entered the ring.[44]
[Illustration: THE FATAL DRAUGHT.]
FOOTNOTE:
[44] 'Cambrian Superstitions,' 148. (This is a small collection of
Welsh stories printed at Tipton in 1831, and now rare; its author was
W. Howells, a lad of nineteen, and his work was drawn out by a small
prize offered by Archdeacon Beynon through a Carmarthen newspaper in
1830. Its English requires rehandling, but its material is of value.)
XI.
Comment on the resemblances borne by these tales to the more famous
legends of other lands, is perhaps unnecessary; they will occur to
every reader who is at all familiar with the subject of folk-lore. To
those who are not, it is sufficient to say that these resemblances
exist, and afford still further testimony to the common origin of such
tales in a remote past. The legend last given embodies the curiosity
feature which is familiar through the story of Bluebeard, but has its
root in the story of Psyche. She was forbidden to look upon her
husband Eros, the god of love; she disobeyed the injunction, and the
beautiful palace in which she had dwelt with him vanished in an
instant, leaving her alone in a desolate spot. Ages older than the
Psyche story, however, is the legend embodying the original Aryan
myth. The drop of oil which falls upon the shoulder of the sleeping
prince and wakes him, revealing Psyche's curiosity and destroying her
happiness, is paralleled among the Welsh by the magic ointment in the
legend of the Fiend Master. This legend, it may be premised, is also
familiar to both France and Germany, where its details differ but
little from those here given: A respectable young Welshwoman of the
working class, who lived with her parents, went one day to a hiring
fair. Here she 'was addressed by a very noble-looking gentleman all in
black, who asked her if she would be a nursemaid, and undertake the
management of his children. She replied that she had no objection;
when he promised her immense wages, and said he would take her home
behind him, but that she must, before they started, consent to be
blindfolded. This done, she mounted behind him on a coal-black steed,
and away they rode at a great rate. At length they dismounted, when
her new master took her by the hand and led her on, still blindfolded,
for a considerable distance. The handkerchief was then removed, when
she beheld more grandeur than she had ever seen before; a beautiful
palace lighted up by more lights than she could count, and a number of
little children as beautiful as angels; also many noble-looking ladies
and gentlemen. The children her master put under her charge, and gave
her a box containing ointment, which she was to put on their eyes. At
the same time he gave her strict orders always to wash her hands
immediately after using the ointment, and be particularly careful
never to let a bit of it touch her own eyes. These injunctions she
strictly followed, and was for some time very happy; yet she sometimes
thought it odd that they should always live by candle-light; and she
wondered, too, that grand and beautiful as the palace was, such fine
ladies and gentlemen as were there should never wish to leave it. But
so it was; no one ever went out but her master. One morning, while
putting the ointment on the eyes of the children, her own eye itched,
and forgetting the orders of her master she touched one corner of it
with her finger which was covered with ointment. Immediately, with the
vision of that corner of her eye, she saw herself surrounded by
fearful flames; the ladies and gentlemen looked like devils, and the
children appeared like the most hideous imps of hell. Though with the
other parts of her eyes she beheld all grand and beautiful as before,
she could not help feeling much frightened at all this; but having
great presence of mind she let no one see her alarm. However, she took
the first opportunity of asking her master's leave to go and see her
friends. He said he would take her, but she must again consent to be
blindfolded. Accordingly a handkerchief was put over her eyes; she was
again mounted behind her master, and was soon put down in the
neighbourhood of her own house. It will be believed that she remained
quietly there, and took good care not to return to her place; but very
many years afterwards, being at a fair, she saw a man stealing
something from a stall, and with one corner of her eye beheld her old
master pushing his elbow. Unthinkingly she said, "How are you master?
how are the children?" He said, "How did you see me?" She answered,
"With the corner of my left eye." From that moment she was blind of
her left eye, and lived many years with only her right.'[45] An older
legend preserving this mythical detail is the story of Taliesin. Gwion
Bach's eyes are opened by a drop from Caridwen's caldron falling upon
his finger, which he puts in his mouth.
FOOTNOTE:
[45] 'Camb. Sup.,' 349.
XII.
A Carmarthenshire tradition names among those who lived for a period
among the Tylwyth Teg no less a person than the translator into Welsh
of Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress.' He was called Iago ap Dewi, and
lived in the parish of Llanllawddog, Carmarthenshire, in a cottage
situated in the wood of Llangwyly. He was absent from the
neighbourhood for a long period, and the universal belief among the
peasantry was that Iago 'got out of bed one night to gaze on the
starry sky, as he was accustomed (astrology being one of his favourite
studies), and whilst thus occupied the fairies (who were accustomed to
resort in a neighbouring wood), passing by, carried him away, and he
dwelt with them seven years. Upon his return he was questioned by many
as to where he had been, but always avoided giving them a reply.'
XIII.
The wide field of interest opened up in tales of this class is a
fascinating one to the students of fairy mythology. The whole world
seems to be the scene of such tales, and collectors of folk-lore in
many lands have laid claim to the discovery of 'the original' on
which the story of Rip van Winkle is based. It is an honour to
American genius, to which I cannot forbear a passing allusion, that of
all these legends, none has achieved so wide a fame as that which
Washington Irving has given to our literature, and Joseph Jefferson to
our stage. It is more than probable that Irving drew his inspiration
from Grimm, and that the Catskills are indebted to the Hartz Mountains
of Germany for their romantic fame. But the legends are endless in
which occur this unsuspected lapse of time among supernatural beings,
and the wandering back to the old home to find all changed. In Greece,
it is Epimenides, the poet, who, while searching for a lost sheep,
wanders into a cave where he slumbers forty-seven years. The Gaelic
and Teutonic legends are well known. But our wonder at the vitality of
this myth is greatest when we find it in both China and Japan. In the
Japanese account a young man fishing in his boat on the ocean is
invited by the goddess of the sea to her home beneath the waves. After
three days he desires to see his old mother and father. On parting she
gives him a golden casket and a key, but begs him never to open it. At
the village where he lived he finds that all is changed, and he can
get no trace of his parents until an aged woman recollects having
heard of their names. He finds their graves a hundred years old.
Thinking that three days could not have made such a change, and that
he was under a spell, he opens the casket. A white vapour rises, and
under its influence the young man falls to the ground. His hair turns
grey, his form loses its youth, and in a few moments he dies of old
age. The Chinese legend relates how two friends wandering amongst the
ravines of their native mountains in search of herbs for medicinal
purposes, come to a fairy bridge where two maidens of more than
earthly beauty are on guard. They invite them to the fairy land which
lies on the other side of the bridge, and the invitation being
accepted, they become enamoured of the maidens, and pass what to them
seems a short though blissful period of existence with the fairy folk.
At length they desire to revisit their earthly homes and are allowed
to return, when they find that seven generations have lived and died
during their apparently short absence, they themselves having become
centenarians.[46] In China, as elsewhere, the legend takes divers
forms.
FOOTNOTE:
[46] Dennys, 'Folk-Lore of China,' 98.