The Vicar and his Family—Evan Evans—Foaming Ale—Llam y
Lleidyr—Baptism—Joost Van Vondel—Over to Rome—The Miller’s Man—Welsh and
English.
We had received a call from the Vicar of Llangollen and his lady; we had
returned it, and they had done us the kindness to invite us to take tea
with them. On the appointed evening we went, myself, wife, and
Henrietta, and took tea with the vicar and his wife, their sons and
daughters, all delightful and amiable beings—the eldest son a fine
intelligent young man from Oxford, lately admitted into the Church, and
now assisting his father in his sacred office. A delightful residence
was the vicarage, situated amongst trees in the neighbourhood of the Dee.
A large open window in the room, in which our party sat, afforded us a
view of a green plat on the top of a bank running down to the Dee, part
of the river, the steep farther bank covered with umbrageous trees, and a
high mountain beyond, even that of Pen y Coed clad with wood. During tea
Mr. E. and I had a great deal of discourse. I found him to be a
first-rate Greek and Latin scholar, and also a proficient in the poetical
literature of his own country. In the course of discourse he repeated
some noble lines of Evan Evans, the unfortunate and eccentric Prydydd
Hir, or tall poet, the friend and correspondent of Gray, for whom he made
literal translations from the Welsh, which the great English genius
afterwards wrought into immortal verse.
“I have a great regard for poor Evan Evans,” said Mr. E., after he had
finished repeating the lines, “for two reasons: first, because he was an
illustrious genius, and second, because he was a South-Wallian like
myself.”
“And I,” I replied, “because he was a great poet, and like myself fond of
a glass of cwrw da.”
Some time after tea the younger Mr. E. and myself took a walk in an
eastern direction along a path cut in the bank, just above the stream.
After proceeding a little way amongst most romantic scenery I asked my
companion if he had ever heard of the pool of Catherine Lingo—the deep
pool, as the reader will please to remember, of which John Jones had
spoken.
“O yes,” said young Mr. E.: “my brothers and myself are in the habit of
bathing there almost every morning. We will go to it if you please.”
We proceeded, and soon came to the pool. The pool is a beautiful sheet
of water, seemingly about one hundred and fifty yards in length, by about
seventy in width. It is bounded on the east by a low ridge of rocks
forming a weir. The banks on both sides are high and precipitous, and
covered with trees, some of which shoot their arms for some way above the
face of the pool. This is said to be the deepest pool in the whole
course of the Dee, varying in depth from twenty to thirty feet. Enormous
pike, called in Welsh penhwiaid, or ducks’-heads, from the similarity
which the head of a pike bears to that of a duck, are said to be tenants
of this pool.
We returned to the vicarage and at about ten we all sat down to supper.
On the supper-table was a mighty pitcher full of foaming ale.
“There,” said my excellent host, as he poured me out a glass, “there is a
glass of cwrw, which Evan Evans himself might have drunk.”
One evening my wife, Henrietta, and myself, attended by John Jones, went
upon the Berwyn a little to the east of the Geraint or Barber’s Hill to
botanize. Here we found a fern which John Jones called Coed llus y Brân,
or the plant of the Crow’s berry. There was a hard kind of berry upon
it, of which he said the crows were exceedingly fond. We also discovered
two or three other strange plants, the Welsh names of which our guide
told us, and which were curious and descriptive enough. He took us home
by a romantic path which we had never before seen, and on our way pointed
out to us a small house in which he said he was born.
The day after, finding myself on the banks of the Dee in the upper part
of the valley, I determined to examine the Llam Lleidyr or Robber’s Leap,
which I had heard spoken of on a former occasion. A man passing near me
with a cart, I asked him where the Robber’s Leap was. I spoke in
English, and with a shake of his head he replied, “Dim Saesneg.” On my
putting the question to him in Welsh, however, his countenance brightened
up.
“Dyna Llam Lleidyr, sir!” said he, pointing to a very narrow part of the
stream a little way down.
“And did the thief take it from this side?” I demanded.
“Yes, sir, from this side,” replied the man.
I thanked him, and passing over the dry part of the river’s bed, came to
the Llam Lleidyr. The whole water of the Dee in the dry season gurgles
here through a passage not more than four feet across, which, however, is
evidently profoundly deep, as the water is as dark as pitch. If the
thief ever took the leap he must have taken it in the dry season, for in
the wet the Dee is a wide and roaring torrent. Yet even in the dry
season it is difficult to conceive how anybody could take this leap, for
on the other side is a rock rising high above the dark gurgling stream.
On observing the opposite side, however, narrowly, I perceived that there
was a small hole a little way up the rock, in which it seemed possible to
rest one’s foot for a moment. So I supposed that if the leap was ever
taken, the individual who took it darted the tip of his foot into the
hole, then springing up seized the top of the rock with his hands, and
scrambled up. From either side the leap must have been a highly
dangerous one—from the farther side the leaper would incur the almost
certain risk of breaking his legs on a ledge of hard rock, from this of
falling back into the deep, horrible stream, which would probably suck
him down in a moment.
From the Llam y Lleidyr I went to the canal and walked along it till I
came to the house of the old man who sold coals, and who had put me in
mind of Smollett’s Morgan; he was now standing in his little coal yard,
leaning over the pales. I had spoken to him on two or three occasions
subsequent to the one on which I made his acquaintance, and had been
every time more and more struck with the resemblance which his ways and
manners bore to those of Smollett’s character, on which account I shall
call him Morgan, though such was not his name. He now told me that he
expected that I should build a villa and settle down in the
neighbourhood, as I seemed so fond of it. After a little discourse,
induced either by my questions or from a desire to talk about himself, he
related to me his history, which though not one of the most wonderful I
shall repeat. He was born near Aberdarron, in Caernarvonshire, and in
order to make me understand the position of the place, and its bearing
with regard to some other places, he drew marks in the coal-dust on the
earth. His father was a Baptist minister, who when Morgan was about six
years of age went to live at Canol Lyn, a place at some little distance
from Port Heli. With his father he continued till he was old enough to
gain his own maintenance, when he went to serve a farmer in the
neighbourhood. Having saved some money, young Morgan departed to the
foundries at Cefn Mawr, at which he worked thirty years, with an interval
of four, which he had passed partly working in slate quarries, and partly
upon the canal. About four years before the present time he came to
where he now lived, where he commenced selling coals, at first on his own
account, and subsequently for some other person. He concluded his
narration by saying that he was now sixty-two years of age, was afflicted
with various disorders, and believed that he was breaking up.
Such was Morgan’s history; certainly not a very remarkable one. Yet
Morgan was a most remarkable individual, as I shall presently make
appear.
Rather affected at the bad account he gave me of his health, I asked him
if he felt easy in his mind. He replied perfectly so, and when I
inquired how he came to feel so comfortable, he said that his feeling so
was owing to his baptism into the faith of Christ Jesus. On my telling
him that I too had been baptized, he asked me if I had been dipped; and
on learning that I had not, but only been sprinkled, according to the
practice of my church, he gave me to understand that my baptism was not
worth three-halfpence. Feeling rather nettled at hearing the baptism of
my church so undervalued, I stood up for it, and we were soon in a
dispute, in which I got rather the worst, for though he spuffled and
sputtered in a most extraordinary manner, and spoke in a dialect which
was neither Welsh, English, nor Cheshire, but a mixture of all three, he
said two or three things rather difficult to be got over. Finding that
he had nearly silenced me, he observed that he did not deny that I had a
good deal of book learning, but that in matters of baptism I was as
ignorant as the rest of the people of the church were, and had always
been. He then said that many church people had entered into argument
with him on the subject of baptism, but that he had got the better of
them all; that Mr. P., the minister of the parish of L., in which we then
were, had frequently entered into argument with him, but quite
unsuccessfully, and had at last given up the matter as a bad job. He
added that a little time before, as Mr. P. was walking close to the canal
with his wife and daughter and a spaniel dog, Mr. P. suddenly took up the
dog and flung it in, giving it a good ducking, whereupon he, Morgan,
cried out: “Dyna y gwir vedydd! That is the right baptism, sir! I
thought I should bring you to it at last!” at which words Mr. P. laughed
heartily, but made no particular reply.
After a little time he began to talk about the great men who had risen up
amongst the Baptists, and mentioned two or three distinguished
individuals.
I said that he had not mentioned the greatest man who had been born
amongst the Baptists.
“What was his name?” said he.
“His name was Joost Van Vondel,” I replied.
“I never heard of him before,” said Morgan.
“Very probably,” said I; “he was born, bred, and died in Holland.”
“Has he been dead long?” said Morgan.
“About two hundred years,” said I.
“That’s a long time,” said Morgan, “and maybe is the reason that I never
heard of him. So he was a great man?”
“He was indeed,” said I. “He was not only the greatest man that ever
sprang up amongst the Baptists, but the greatest, and by far the
greatest, that Holland ever produced, though Holland has produced a great
many illustrious men.”
“O, I dare say he was a great man if he was a Baptist,” said Morgan.
“Well, it’s strange I never read of him. I thought I had read the lives
of all the eminent people who lived and died in our communion.”
“He did not die in the Baptist communion,” said I.
“Oh, he didn’t die in it,” said Morgan. “What, did he go over to the
Church of England? a pretty fellow!”
“He did not go over to the Church of England,” said I, “for the Church of
England does not exist in Holland; he went over to the Church of Rome.”
“Well, that’s not quite so bad,” said Morgan; “however, it’s bad enough.
I dare say he was a pretty blackguard.”
“No,” said I; “he was a pure, virtuous character, and perhaps the only
pure and virtuous character that ever went over to Rome. The only wonder
is that so good a man could ever have gone over to so detestable a
church; but he appears to have been deluded.”
“Deluded indeed!” said Morgan. “However, I suppose he went over for
advancement’s sake.”
“No,” said I; “he lost every prospect of advancement by going over to
Rome: nine-tenths of his countrymen were of the reformed religion, and he
endured much poverty and contempt by the step he took.”
“How did he support himself?” said Morgan.
“He obtained a livelihood,” said I, “by writing poems and plays, some of
which are wonderfully fine.”
“What,” said Morgan, “a writer of Interludes? One of Twm o’r Nant’s
gang! I thought he would turn out a pretty fellow.” I told him that the
person in question certainly did write Interludes, for example Noah, and
Joseph at Goshen, but that he was a highly respectable, nay venerable
character.
“If he was a writer of Interludes,” said Morgan, “he was a blackguard;
there never yet was a writer of Interludes, or a person who went about
playing them, that was not a scamp. He might be a clever man, I don’t
say he was not. Who was a cleverer man than Twm o’r Nant with his
Pleasure and Care, and Riches and Poverty, but where was there a greater
blackguard? Why, not in all Wales. And if you knew this other
fellow—what’s his name—Fondle’s history, you would find that he was not a
bit more respectable than Twm o’r Nant, and not half so clever. As for
his leaving the Baptists I don’t believe a word of it; he was turned out
of the connection, and then went about the country saying he left it. No
Baptist connection would ever have a writer of Interludes in it, not Twm
o’r Nant himself, unless he left his ales and Interludes and wanton
hussies, for the three things are sure to go together. You say he went
over to the Church of Rome; of course he did, if the Church of England
were not at hand to receive him, where should he go but to Rome? No
respectable church like the Methodist or the Independent would have
received him. There are only two churches in the world that will take in
anybody without asking questions, and will never turn them out however
bad they may behave; the one is the Church of Rome, and the other the
Church of Canterbury; and if you look into the matter you will find that
every rogue, rascal, and hanged person since the world began has belonged
to one or other of those communions.”
In the evening I took a walk with my wife and daughter past the Plas
Newydd. Coming to the little mill called the Melyn Bac, at the bottom of
the gorge, we went into the yard to observe the water-wheel. We found
that it was turned by a very little water, which was conveyed to it by
artificial means. Seeing the miller’s man, a short dusty figure,
standing in the yard, I entered into conversation with him, and found to
my great surprise that he had a considerable acquaintance with the
ancient language. On my repeating to him verses from Taliesin he
understood them, and to show me that he did translated some of the lines
into English. Two or three respectable-looking lads, probably the
miller’s sons, came out, and listened to us. One of them said we were
both good Welshmen. After a little time the man asked me if I had heard
of Huw Morris. I told him that I was well acquainted with his writings,
and inquired whether the place in which he had lived was not somewhere in
the neighbourhood. He said it was; and that it was over the mountains
not far from Llan Sanfraid. I asked whether it was not called Pont y
Meibion. He answered in the affirmative, and added that he had himself
been there, and had sat in Huw Morris’s stone chair, which was still to
be seen by the road’s side. I told him that I hoped to visit the place
in a few days. He replied that I should be quite right in doing so, and
that no one should come to these parts without visiting Pont y Meibion,
for that Huw Morris was one of the columns of the Cumry.
“What a difference,” said I to my wife, after we had departed, “between a
Welshman and an Englishman of the lower class. What would a Suffolk
miller’s swain have said if I had repeated to him verses out of Beowulf
or even Chaucer, and had asked him about the residence of Skelton?”