Mallwydd and its Church—Sons of Shoemakers—Village Inn—Dottings.
The next day was the thirty-first of October, and was rather fine for the
season. As I did not intend to journey farther this day than
Machynlleth, a principal town in Montgomeryshire, distant only twelve
miles, I did not start from Mallwyd till just before noon.
Mallwyd is a small but pretty village. The church is a long edifice
standing on a slight elevation on the left of the road. Its pulpit is
illustrious from having for many years been occupied by one of the very
celebrated men of Wales, namely Doctor John Davies, author of the great
Welsh and Latin dictionary, an imperishable work. An immense yew tree
grows in the churchyard, and partly overshadows the road with its
branches. The parsonage stands about a hundred yards to the south near a
grove of firs. The village is overhung on the north by the mountains of
the Arran range, from which it is separated by the murmuring Dyfi. To
the south for many miles the country is not mountainous, but presents a
pleasant variety of hill and dale.
After leaving the village a little way behind me I turned round to take a
last view of the wonderful region from which I had emerged on the
previous evening. Forming the two sides of the pass down which comes
“the royal river” stood the Dinas mountain and Cefn Coch, the first on
the left, and the other on the right. Behind, forming the background of
the pass, appearing, though now some miles distant, almost in my close
proximity, stood Pen Dyn. This hill has various names, but the one which
I have noted here, and which signifies the head of a man, perhaps
describes it best. From where I looked at it on that last day of October
it was certainly like an enormous head, and put me in mind of the head of
Mambrino mentioned in the master work which commemorates the achievements
of the Manchegan knight. This mighty mountain is the birth-place of more
than one river. If the Gerres issues from its eastern side, from its
western springs the Maw that singularly picturesque stream, which enters
the ocean at the place which the Saxons corruptly call Barmouth and the
Cumry with great propriety Aber Maw or the disemboguement of the Maw.
Just as I was about to pursue my journey, two boys came up, bound in the
same direction as myself. One was a large boy, dressed in a waggoner’s
frock, the other was a little fellow, in a brown coat and yellowish
trowsers. As we walked along together, I entered into conversation with
them. They came from Dinas Mawddwy. The large boy told me that he was
the son of a man who carted mwyn, or lead ore, and the little fellow that
he was the son of a shoemaker. The latter was by far the cleverest, and
no wonder, for the sons of shoemakers are always clever, which assertion,
should anybody doubt, I beg him to attend the examinations at Cambridge,
at which he will find that in three cases out of four the senior
wranglers are the sons of shoemakers. From this little chap I got a
great deal of information about Pen Dyn, every part of which he appeared
to have traversed. He told me, amongst other things, that there was a
castle upon it. Like a true son of a shoemaker, however, he was an arch
rogue. Coming to a small house, with a garden attached to it, in which
there were apple-trees, he stopped, whilst I went on with the other boy,
and after a minute or two came running up with a couple of apples in his
hand. “Where did you get those apples?” said I; “I hope you did not
steal them.”
He made no reply, but bit one, then making a wry face, he flung it away,
and so he served the other. Presently afterwards, coming to a side lane,
the future senior wrangler—for a senior wrangler he is destined to be,
always provided he finds his way to Cambridge—darted down it like an
arrow, and disappeared.
I continued my way with the other lad, occasionally asking him questions
about the mines of Mawddwy. The information, however, which I obtained
from him was next to nothing, for he appeared to be as heavy as the stuff
which his father carted. At length we reached a village, forming a kind
of semicircle on a green, which looked something like a small English
common. To the east were beautiful green hills; to the west the valley,
with the river running through it, beyond which rose other green hills,
yet more beautiful than the eastern ones. I asked the lad the name of
the place, but I could not catch what he said, for his answer was merely
an indistinct mumble, and before I could question him again he left me,
without a word of salutation, and trudged away across the green.
Descending a hill, I came to a bridge, under which ran a beautiful river,
which came foaming down from a gulley between two of the eastern hills.
From a man whom I met I learned that the bridge was called Pont Coomb
Linau, and that the name of the village I had passed was Linau. The
river carries an important tribute to the Dyfi—at least it did when I saw
it, though perhaps in summer it is little more than a dry water-course.
Half-an-hour’s walking brought me from this place to a small town, or
large village, with a church at the entrance, and the usual yew-tree in
the churchyard. Seeing a kind of inn, I entered it, and was shown by a
lad-waiter into a large kitchen, in which were several people. I had
told him in Welsh that I wanted some ale, and as he opened the door he
cried with a loud voice, “Cumro!” as much as to say, Mind what you say
before this chap, for he understands Cumraeg—that word was enough. The
people, who were talking fast and eagerly as I made my appearance,
instantly became silent, and stared at me with most suspicious looks. I
sat down, and when my ale was brought I took a hearty draught, and
observing that the company were still watching me suspiciously, and
maintaining the same suspicious silence, I determined to comport myself
in a manner which should, to a certain extent, afford them ground for
suspicion. I therefore slowly and deliberately drew my note-book out of
my waistcoat pocket, unclasped it, took my pencil from the loops at the
side of the book, and forthwith began to dot down observations upon the
room and company, now looking to the left, now to the right, now aloft,
now alow, now skewing at an object, now leering at an individual, my eyes
half closed, and my mouth drawn considerably aside. Here follow some of
my dottings:—
“A very comfortable kitchen with a chimney-corner on the south
side—immense grate and brilliant fire—large kettle hanging over it by a
chain attached to a transverse iron bar—a settle on the left-hand side of
the fire—seven fine large men near the fire—two upon the settle, two upon
chairs, one in the chimney-corner smoking a pipe, and two standing
up—table near the settle with glasses, amongst which is that of myself,
who sit nearly in the middle of the room a little way on the right-hand
side of the fire.
“The floor is of slate; a fine brindled greyhound lies before it on the
hearth, and a shepherd’s dog wanders about, occasionally going to the
door and scratching as if anxious to get out. The company are dressed
mostly in the same fashion—brown coats, broad-brimmed hats, and yellowish
corduroy breeches with gaiters. One who looks like a labouring man has a
white smock and a white hat, patched trowsers, and highlows covered with
gravel—one has a blue coat.
“There is a clock on the right-hand side of the kitchen; a warming-pan
hangs close by it on the projecting side of the chimney-corner. On the
same side is a large rack containing many plates and dishes of
Staffordshire ware. Let me not forget a pair of fire-irons which hang on
the right-hand side of the chimney-corner!”
I made a great many more dottings, which I shall not insert here. During
the whole time I was dotting the most marvellous silence prevailed in the
room, broken only by the occasional scratching of the dog against the
inside of the door, the ticking of the clock, and the ruttling of the
smoker’s pipe in the chimney-corner. After I had dotted to my heart’s
content I closed my book, put the pencil into the loops, then the book
into my pocket, drank what remained of my ale, got up, and, after another
look at the apartment and its furniture and a leer at the company,
departed from the house without ceremony, having paid for the ale when I
received it. After walking some fifty yards down the street I turned
half round and beheld, as I knew I should, the whole company! at the door
staring after me. I leered sideways at them for about half a minute, but
they stood my leer stoutly. Suddenly I was inspired by a thought.
Turning round I confronted them, and pulling my note-book out of my
pocket, and seizing my pencil, I fell to dotting vigorously. That was
too much for them. As if struck by a panic, my quondam friends turned
round and bolted into the house; the rustic-looking man with the
smock-frock and gravelled highlows nearly falling down in his eagerness
to get in.
The name of the place where this adventure occurred was Cemmaes.