Welsh Farm-house—A Poet’s Grandson—Hospitality—Mountain Village—Madoc—The
Native Valley—Corpse Candles—The Midnight Call.
My curiosity having been rather excited with respect to the country
beyond the Berwyn, by what my friend, the intelligent flannel-worker, had
told me about it, I determined to go and see it. Accordingly on Friday
morning I set out. Having passed by Pengwern Hall I turned up a lane in
the direction of the south, with a brook on the right running amongst
hazels. I presently arrived at a small farm-house standing on the left
with a little yard before it. Seeing a woman at the door I asked her in
English if the road in which I was would take me across the mountain.
She said it would, and forthwith cried to a man working in a field, who
left his work and came towards us. “That is my husband,” said she; “he
has more English than I.”
The man came up and addressed me in very good English: he had a brisk,
intelligent look, and was about sixty. I repeated the question which I
had put to his wife, and he also said that by following the road I could
get across the mountain. We soon got into conversation. He told me that
the little farm in which he lived belonged to the person who had bought
Pengwern Hall. He said that he was a good kind of gentleman, but did not
like the Welsh. I asked him if the gentleman in question did not like
the Welsh why he came to live among them. He smiled, and I then said
that I liked the Welsh very much, and was particularly fond of their
language. He asked me whether I could read Welsh, and on my telling him
I could, he said that if I would walk in he would show me a Welsh book.
I went with him and his wife into a neat kind of kitchen, flagged with
stone, where were several young people, their children. I spoke some
Welsh to them which appeared to give them great satisfaction. The man
went to a shelf and taking down a book put it into my hand. It was a
Welsh book, and the title of it in English was _Evening Work of the
Welsh_. It contained the lives of illustrious Welshmen, commencing with
that of Cadwalader. I read a page of it aloud, while the family stood
round and wondered to hear a Saxon read their language. I entered into
discourse with the man about Welsh poetry, and repeated the famous
prophecy of Taliesin about the Coiling Serpent. I asked him if the Welsh
had any poets at the present day. “Plenty,” said he, “and good
ones—Wales can never be without a poet.” Then after a pause he said that
he was the grandson of a great poet.
“Do you bear his name?” said I.
“I do,” he replied.
“What may it be?”
“Hughes,” he answered.
“Two of the name of Hughes have been poets,” said I—“one was Huw Hughes,
generally termed the Bardd Coch, or red bard; he was an Anglesea man, and
the friend of Lewis Morris and Gronwy Owen—the other was Jonathan Hughes,
where he lived I know not.”
“He lived here, in this very house,” said the man; “Jonathan Hughes was
my grandfather!” and as he spoke his eyes flashed fire.
“Dear me!” said I; “I read some of his pieces thirty-two years ago when I
was a lad in England. I think I can repeat some of the lines.” I then
repeated a quartet which I chanced to remember.
“Ah!” said the man, “I see you know his poetry. Come into the next room
and I will show you his chair.” He led me into a sleeping-room on the
right hand, where in a corner he showed me an antique three-cornered
arm-chair. “That chair,” said he, “my grandsire won at Llangollen, at an
Eisteddfod of Bards. Various bards recited their poetry, but my
grandfather won the prize. Ah, he was a good poet. He also won a prize
of fifteen guineas at a meeting of bards in London.”
We returned to the kitchen, where I found the good woman of the house
waiting with a plate of bread-and-butter in one hand, and a glass of
buttermilk in the other—she pressed me to partake of both—I drank some of
the buttermilk, which was excellent, and after a little more discourse
shook the kind people by the hand and thanked them for their hospitality.
As I was about to depart the man said that I should find the lane farther
up very wet, and that I had better mount through a field at the back of
the house. He took me to a gate, which he opened, and then pointed out
the way which I must pursue. As I went away he said that both he and his
family should be always happy to see me at Ty yn y Pistyll, which words,
interpreted, are the house by the spout of water.
I went up the field with the lane on my right, down which ran a runnel of
water, from which doubtless the house derived its name. I soon came to
an unenclosed part of the mountain covered with gorse and whin, and still
proceeding upward reached a road, which I subsequently learned was the
main road from Llangollen over the hill. I was not long in gaining the
top, which was nearly level. Here I stood for some time looking about
me, having the vale of Llangollen to the north of me, and a deep valley
abounding with woods and rocks to the south.
Following the road to the south, which gradually descended, I soon came
to a place where a road diverged from the straight one to the left. As
the left-hand road appeared to lead down a romantic valley I followed it.
The scenery was beautiful—steep hills on each side. On the right was a
deep ravine, down which ran a brook; the hill beyond it was covered
towards the top with a wood, apparently of oak, between which and the
ravine were small green fields. Both sides of the ravine were fringed
with trees, chiefly ash. I descended the road which was zig-zag and
steep, and at last arrived at the bottom of the valley, where there was a
small hamlet. On the farther side of the valley to the east was a steep
hill on which were a few houses—at the foot of the hill was a brook
crossed by an antique bridge of a single arch. I directed my course to
the bridge, and after looking over the parapet, for a minute or two, upon
the water below, which was shallow and noisy, ascended a road which led
up the hill: a few scattered houses were on each side. I soon reached
the top of the hill, where were some more houses, those which I had seen
from the valley below. I was in a Welsh mountain village, which put me
much in mind of the villages which I had strolled through of old in
Castile and La Mancha; there were the same silence and desolation here as
yonder away—the houses were built of the same material, namely stone. I
should perhaps have fancied myself for a moment in a Castilian or
Manchegan mountain pueblicito, but for the abundance of trees which met
my eyes on every side.
In walking up this mountain village I saw no one, and heard no sound but
the echo of my steps amongst the houses. As I returned, however, I saw a
man standing at a door—he was a short figure, about fifty. He had an old
hat on his head, a stick in his hand, and was dressed in a duffel great
coat.
“Good day, friend,” said I; “what may be the name of this place?”
“Pont Fadog, sir, is its name, for want of a better.”
“That’s a fine name,” said I; “it signifies in English the bridge of
Madoc.”
“Just so, sir; I see you know Welsh.”
“And I see you know English,” said I.
“Very little, sir; I can read English much better than I can speak it.”
“So can I Welsh,” said I. “I suppose the village is named after the
bridge.”
“No doubt it is, sir.”
“And why was the bridge called the bridge of Madoc?” said I.
“Because one Madoc built it, sir.”
“Was he the son of Owain Gwynedd?” said I.
“Ah, I see you know all about Wales, sir. Yes, sir; he built it, or I
dare say he built it, Madawg ap Owain Gwynedd. I have read much about
him—he was a great sailor, sir, and was the first to discover Tir y
Gorllewin, or America. Not many years ago his tomb was discovered there
with an inscription in old Welsh—saying who he was, and how he loved the
sea. I have seen the lines which were found on the tomb.”
“So have I,” said I; “or at least those which were said to be found on a
tomb: they run thus in English:—
“‘Here, after sailing far, I, Madoc, lie,
Of Owain Gwynedd lawful progeny:
The verdant land had little charms for me;
From earliest youth I loved the dark-blue sea.’”
“Ah, sir,” said the man, “I see you know all about the son of Owain
Gwynedd. Well, sir, those lines, or something like them, were found upon
the tomb of Madoc in America.”
“That I doubt,” said I.
“Do you doubt, sir, that Madoc discovered America?”
“Not in the least,” said I; “but I doubt very much that his tomb was ever
discovered with the inscription which you allude to upon it.”
“But it was, sir, I do assure you, and the descendants of Madoc and his
people are still to be found in a part of America speaking the pure iaith
Cymraeg better Welsh than we of Wales do.”
“That I doubt,” said I. “However, the idea is a pretty one; therefore
cherish it. This is a beautiful country.”
“A very beautiful country, sir; there is none more beautiful in all
Wales.”
“What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?”
“The Ceiriog, sir.”
“The Ceiriog,” said I; “the Ceiriog!”
“Did you ever hear the name before, sir?”
“I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog,” said I; “the Nightingale of Ceiriog.”
“That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of Ceiriog.”
“Did he live hereabout?”
“O no, sir; he lived far away up towards the head of the valley, at a
place called Pont y Meibion.”
“Are you acquainted with his works?” said I.
“O yes, sir, at least with some of them. I have read the Marwnad on
Barbara Middleton; and likewise the piece on Oliver and his men. Ah, it
is a funny piece that—he did not like Oliver nor his men.”
“Of what profession are you?” said I; “are you a schoolmaster or
apothecary?”
“Neither, sir, neither; I am merely a poor shoemaker.”
“You know a great deal for a shoemaker,” said I.
“Ah, sir; there are many shoemakers in Wales who know much more than I.”
“But not in England,” said I. “Well, farewell.”
“Farewell, sir. When you have any boots to mend, or shoes, sir—I shall
be happy to serve you.”
“I do not live in these parts,” said I.
“No, sir; but you are coming to live here.”
“How do you know that?” said I.
“I know it very well, sir; you left these parts very young, and went far
away—to the East Indies, sir, where you made a large fortune in the
medical line, sir; you are now coming back to your own valley, where you
will buy a property, and settle down, and try to recover your language,
sir, and your health, sir; for you are not the person you pretend to be,
sir; I know you very well, and shall be happy to work for you.”
“Well,” said I, “if I ever settle down here, I shall be happy to employ
you. Farewell.”
I went back the way I had come, till I reached the little hamlet. Seeing
a small public-house, I entered it—a good-looking woman, who met me in
the passage, ushered me into a neat sanded kitchen, handed me a chair and
inquired my commands; I sat down, and told her to bring me some ale; she
brought it, and then seated herself by a bench close by the door.
“Rather a quiet place this,” said I. “I have seen but two faces since I
came over the hill, and yours is one.”
“Rather too quiet, sir,” said the good woman; “one would wish to have
more visitors.”
“I suppose,” said I, “people from Llangollen occasionally come to visit
you.”
“Sometimes, sir, for curiosity’s sake; but very rarely—the way is very
steep.”
“Do the Tylwyth Teg ever pay you visits?”
“The Tylwyth Teg, sir?”
“Yes; the fairies. Do they never come to have a dance on the green sward
in this neighbourhood?”
“Very rarely, sir; indeed, I do not know how long it is since they have
been seen.”
“You have never seen them?”
“I have not, sir; but I believe there are people living who have.”
“Are corpse candles ever seen on the bank of that river?”
“I have never heard of more than one being seen, sir, and that was at a
place where a tinker was drowned a few nights after—there came down a
flood, and the tinker in trying to cross by the usual ford was drowned.”
“And did the candle prognosticate, I mean foreshow his death?”
“It did, sir. When a person is to die, his candle is seen a few nights
before the time of his death.”
“Have you ever seen a corpse candle?”
“I have, sir; and as you seem to be a respectable gentleman, I will tell
you all about it. When I was a girl, I lived with my parents, a little
way from here. I had a cousin, a very good young man, who lived with his
parents in the neighbourhood of our house. He was an exemplary young
man, sir, and having a considerable gift of prayer, was intended for the
ministry; but he fell sick, and shortly became very ill indeed. One
evening when he was lying in this state, as I was returning home from
milking, I saw a candle proceeding from my cousin’s house. I stood still
and looked at it. It moved slowly forward for a little way, and then
mounted high in the air above the wood, which stood not far in front of
the house, and disappeared. Just three nights after that my cousin
died.”
“And you think that what you saw was his corpse candle?”
“I do, sir! what else should it be?”
“Are deaths prognosticated by any other means than corpse candles?”
“They are, sir; by the knockers, and by a supernatural voice heard at
night.”
“Have you ever heard the knockers, or the supernatural voice?”
“I have not, sir; but my father and mother, who are now dead, heard once
a supernatural voice, and knocking. My mother had a sister who was
married like herself, and expected to be confined. Day after day,
however, passed away, without her confinement taking place. My mother
expected every moment to be summoned to her assistance, and was so
anxious about her that she could not rest at night. One night, as she
lay in bed, by the side of her husband, between sleeping and waking, she
heard of a sudden, a horse coming stump, stump, up to the door. Then
there was a pause—she expected every moment to hear some one cry out, and
tell her to come to her sister, but she heard no farther sound, neither
voice nor stump of horse. She thought she had been deceived, so, without
awakening her husband, she tried to go to sleep, but sleep she could not.
The next night, at about the same time, she again heard a horse’s feet
coming stump, stump, up to the door. She now waked her husband and told
him to listen. He did so, and both heard the stumping. Presently, the
stumping ceased, and then there was a loud “Hey!” as if somebody wished
to wake them. “Hey!” said my father, and they both lay for a minute,
expecting to hear something more, but they heard nothing. My father then
sprang out of bed, and looked out of the window; it was bright moonlight,
but he saw nothing. The next night, as they lay in bed both asleep, they
were suddenly aroused by a loud and terrible knocking. Out sprang my
father from the bed, flung open the window, and looked out, but there was
no one at the door. The next morning, however, a messenger arrived with
the intelligence that my aunt had had a dreadful confinement with twins
in the night, and that both she and the babes were dead.”
“Thank you,” said I; and paying for my ale. I returned to Llangollen.