The Dylluan—The Oldest Creatures.
Much rain fell about the middle of the month; in the intervals of the
showers I occasionally walked by the banks of the river, which speedily
became much swollen; it was quite terrible both to the sight and ear near
the “Robber’s Leap;” there were breakers above the higher stones at least
five feet high, and a roar around almost sufficient “to scare a hundred
men.” The pool of Catherine Lingo was strangely altered; it was no
longer the quiet pool which it was in summer, verifying the words of the
old Welsh poet that the deepest pool of the river is always the stillest
in the summer and of the softest sound, but a howling turbid gulf, in
which branches of trees, dead animals, and rubbish were whirling about in
the wildest confusion. The nights were generally less rainy than the
days, and sometimes by the pallid glimmer of the moon I would take a
stroll along some favourite path or road. One night, as I was wandering
slowly along the path leading through the groves of Pen y Coed, I was
startled by an unearthly cry—it was the shout of the dylluan, or owl, as
it flitted over the tops of the trees on its nocturnal business.
Oh, that cry of the dylluan! what a strange, wild cry it is; how unlike
any other sound in nature! a cry which no combination of letters can give
the slightest idea of. What resemblance does Shakespear’s
to-whit-to-whoo bear to the cry of the owl? none whatever; those who hear
it for the first time never know what it is, however accustomed to talk
of the cry of the owl and to-whit-to-whoo. A man might be wandering
through a wood with Shakespear’s owl-chorus in his mouth, but were he
then to hear for the first time the real shout of the owl, he would
assuredly stop short and wonder whence that unearthly cry could proceed.
Yet no doubt that strange cry is a fitting cry for the owl, the strangest
in its habits and look of all birds, the bird of whom by all nations the
strangest tales are told. Oh, what strange tales are told of the owl,
especially in connection with its long-lifedness; but of all the strange,
wild tales connected with the age of the owl, strangest of all is the old
Welsh tale. When I heard the owl’s cry in the groves of Pen y Coed, that
tale rushed into my mind. I had heard it from the singular groom, who
had taught me to gabble Welsh in my boyhood, and had subsequently read it
in an old tattered Welsh story-book, which by chance fell into my hands.
The reader will perhaps be obliged by my relating it.
“The eagle of the alder grove, after being long married, and having had
many children by his mate, lost her by death, and became a widower.
After some time he took it into his head to marry the owl of the Cowlyd
Coomb; but fearing he should have issue by her, and by that means sully
his lineage, he went first of all to the oldest creatures in the world,
in order to obtain information about her age. First he went to the stag
of Ferny-side brae, whom he found sitting by the old stump of an oak, and
inquired the age of the owl. The stag said: ‘I have seen this oak an
acorn which is now lying on the ground without either leaves or bark:
nothing in the world wore it up but my rubbing myself against it once a
day when I got up, so I have seen a vast number of years, but I assure
you that I have never seen the owl older or younger than she is to-day.
However, there is one older than myself, and that is the salmon-trout of
Glyn Llifon.’ To him went the eagle, and asked him the age of the owl,
and got for answer: ‘I have a year over my head for every gem on my skin,
and for every egg in my roe, yet have I always seen the owl look the
same; but there is one older than myself, and that is the ousel of
Cilgwry.’ Away went the eagle to Cilgwry, and found the ousel standing
upon a little rock, and asked him the age of the owl. Quoth the ousel:
‘You see that the rock below me is not larger than a man can carry in one
of his hands: I have seen it so large that it would have taken a hundred
oxen to drag it, and it has never been worn save by my drying my beak
upon it once every night, and by my striking the tip of my wing against
it in rising in the morning, yet never have I known the owl older or
younger than she is to-day. However, there is one older than I, and that
is the toad of Cors Fochnod; and unless he knows her age no one knows
it.’ To him went the eagle, and asked the age of the owl, and the toad
replied: ‘I have never eaten anything save what I have sucked from the
earth, and have never eaten half my fill in all the days of my life; but
do you see those two great hills beside the cross? I have seen the place
where they stand level ground, and nothing produced those heaps save what
I discharged from my body, who have ever eaten so very little—yet never
have I known the owl anything else but an old hag who cried Too-hoo-hoo,
and scared children with her voice, even as she does at present.’ So the
eagle of Gwernabwy, the stag of Ferny-side brae, the salmon-trout of Glyn
Llifon, the ousel of Cilgwry, the toad of Cors Fochnod, and the owl of
Coomb Cowlyd, are the oldest creatures in the world, the oldest of them
all being the owl.”