Consequential Landlord—Cheek—Darfel Gatherel—Dafydd Nanmor—Sheep
Farms—Wholesome Advice—The Old Postman—The Plant de Bat—The Robber’s
Cavern.
My guide went to a side door, and opening it without ceremony, went in.
I followed, and found myself in a spacious and comfortable-looking
kitchen; a large fire blazed in a huge grate, on one side of which was a
settle; plenty of culinary utensils, both pewter and copper, hung around
on the walls, and several goodly rows of hams and sides of bacon were
suspended from the roof. There were several people present, some on the
settle, and others on chairs in the vicinity of the fire. As I advanced
a man arose from a chair and came towards me. He was about thirty-five
years of age, well and strongly made, with a fresh complexion, a hawk
nose and a keen grey eye. He wore top boots and breeches, a half-jockey
coat, and had a round cap made of the skin of some animal on his head.
“Servant, sir!” said he in rather a sharp tone, and surveying me with
something of a supercilious air.
“Your most obedient humble servant!” said I; “I presume you are the
landlord of this house.”
“Landlord!” said he, “landlord! It is true I receive guests sometimes
into my house, but I do so solely with the view of accommodating them; I
do not depend upon innkeeping for a livelihood. I hire the principal
part of the land in this neighbourhood.”
“If that be the case,” said I, “I had better continue my way to the
Devil’s Bridge; I am not at all tired, and I believe it is not very far
distant.”
“O, as you are here,” said the farmer-landlord, “I hope you will stay. I
should be very sorry if any gentleman should leave my house at night
after coming with an intention of staying, more especially in a night
like this. Martha!” said he, turning to a female between thirty and
forty, who I subsequently learned was the mistress—“prepare the parlour
instantly for this gentleman, and don’t fail to make up a good fire.”
Martha forthwith hurried away, attended by a much younger female.
“Till your room is prepared, sir,” said he, “perhaps you will have no
objection to sit down before our fire?”
“Not in the least,” said I; “nothing gives me greater pleasure than to
sit before a kitchen fire. First of all, however, I must settle with my
guide, and likewise see that he has something to eat and drink.”
“Shall I interpret for you?” said the landlord; “the lad has not a word
of English; I know him well.”
“I have not been under his guidance for the last three hours,” said I,
“without knowing that he cannot speak English; but I want no
interpreter.”
“You do not mean to say, sir,” said the landlord, with a surprised and
dissatisfied air, “that you understand Welsh?”
I made no answer, but turning to the guide, thanked him for his kindness,
and giving him some money, asked him if that was enough.
“More than enough, sir,” said the lad; “I did not expect half as much.
Farewell!”
He was then about to depart, but I prevented him, saying:
“You must not go till you have eaten and drunk. What will you have?”
“Merely a cup of ale, sir,” said the lad.
“That won’t do,” said I; “you shall have bread and cheese and as much ale
as you can drink. Pray,” said I to the landlord, “let this young man
have some bread and cheese and a large quart of ale.”
The landlord looked at me for a moment, then turning to the lad he said:
“What do you think of that, Shon? It is some time since you had a quart
of ale to your own cheek.”
“Cheek,” said I, “cheek! Is that a Welsh word? Surely it is an
importation from the English, and not a very genteel one.”
“O come, sir!” said the landlord, “we can dispense with your criticisms.
A pretty thing indeed for you, on the strength of knowing half-a-dozen
words of Welsh, to set up for a Welsh critic in the house of a person who
knows the ancient British language perfectly.”
“Dear me!” said I, “how fortunate I am! a person thoroughly versed in the
ancient British language is what I have long wished to see. Pray what is
the meaning of Darfel Gatherel?”
“O sir,” said the landlord, “you must answer that question yourself; I
don’t pretend to understand gibberish!”
“Darfel Gatherel,” said I, “is not gibberish; it was the name of the
great wooden image at Ty Dewi, or Saint David’s, in Pembrokeshire, to
which thousands of pilgrims in the days of popery used to repair for the
purpose of adoring it, and which at the time of the Reformation was sent
up to London as a curiosity, where it eventually served as firewood to
burn the monk Forrest upon, who was sentenced to the stake by Henry the
Eighth for denying his supremacy. What I want to know is, the meaning of
the name, which I could never get explained, but which you who know the
ancient British language perfectly can doubtless interpret.”
“O sir,” said the landlord, “when I said I knew the British language
perfectly, I perhaps went too far; there are of course some obsolete
terms in the British tongue, which I don’t understand. Dar, Dar—what is
it? Darmod Cotterel amongst the rest, but to a general knowledge of the
Welsh language I think I may lay some pretensions; were I not well
acquainted with it I should not have carried off the prize at various
eisteddfodau, as I have done. I am a poet, sir, a prydydd.”
“It is singular enough,” said I, “that the only two Welsh poets I have
seen have been innkeepers—one is yourself, the other a person I met in
Anglesey. I suppose the Muse is fond of cwrw da.”
“You would fain be pleasant, sir,” said the landlord; “but I beg leave to
inform you that I am not fond of pleasantries; and now as my wife and the
servant are returned, I will have the pleasure of conducting you to the
parlour.”
“Before I go,” said I, “I should like to see my guide provided with what
I ordered.” I stayed till the lad was accommodated with bread and cheese
and a foaming tankard of ale, and then bidding him farewell, I followed
the landlord into the parlour, where I found a fire kindled, which,
however, smoked exceedingly. I asked my host what I could have for
supper, and was told that he did not know, but that if I would leave the
matter to him he would send the best he could. As he was going away, I
said, “So you are a poet. Well, I am very glad to hear it, for I have
been fond of Welsh poetry from my boyhood. What kind of verse do you
employ in general? Did you ever write an awdl in the four-and-twenty
measures? What are the themes of your songs? The deeds of the ancient
heroes of South Wales, I suppose, and the hospitality of the great men of
the neighbourhood who receive you as an honoured guest at their tables.
I’ll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be you never sang
anything in praise of your landlord’s housekeeping equal to what Dafydd
Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago:
‘For Ryce if hundred thousands plough’d,
The lands around his fair abode;
Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed,
Still corn and wine great Ryce would need;
If all the earth had bread’s sweet savour,
And water all had cyder’s flavour,
Three roaring feasts in Ryce’s hall
Would swallow earth and ocean all.’
Hey?”
“Really, sir,” said the landlord, “I don’t know how to reply to you, for
the greater part of your discourse is utterly unintelligible to me.
Perhaps you are a better Welshman than myself; but however that may be, I
shall take the liberty of retiring in order to give orders about your
supper.”
In about half-an-hour the supper made its appearance in the shape of some
bacon and eggs; on tasting them I found them very good, and calling for
some ale I made a very tolerable supper. After the things had been
removed I drew near to the fire, but, as it still smoked, I soon betook
myself to the kitchen. My guide had taken his departure, but the others
whom I had left were still there. The landlord was talking in Welsh to a
man in a rough great-coat about sheep. Setting myself down near the fire
I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, and then observing that the
landlord and his friend had suddenly become silent, I said, “Pray go on
with your discourse! Don’t let me be any hindrance to you.”
“Yes, sir,” said the landlord snappishly, “go on with our discourse; for
your edification, I suppose?”
“Well,” said I, “suppose it is for my edification, surely you don’t
grudge a stranger a little edification which will cost you nothing?”
“I don’t know that, sir,” said the landlord; “I don’t know that. Really,
sir, the kitchen is not the place for a gentleman.”
“Yes, it is,” said I, “provided the parlour smokes. Come, come, I am
going to have a glass of whiskey-and-water; perhaps you will take one
with me.”
“Well, sir!” said the landlord in rather a softened tone, “I have no
objection to take a glass with you.”
Two glasses of whiskey-and-water were presently brought, and the landlord
and I drank to each other’s health.
“Is this a sheep district?” said I, after a pause of a minute or two.
“Yes, sir!” said the landlord; “it may to a certain extent be called a
sheep district.”
“I suppose the Southdown and Norfolk breeds would not do for these here
parts,” said I with a regular Norfolk whine.
“No, sir! I don’t think they would exactly,” said the landlord, staring
at me. “Do you know anything about sheep?”
“Plenty, plenty,” said I; “quite as much indeed as about Welsh words and
poetry.” Then in a yet more whining tone than before, I said, “Do you
think that a body with money in his pocket could hire a comfortable sheep
farm hereabouts?”
“O sir!” said the landlord in a furious tone, “you have come to look out
for a farm, I see, and to outbid us poor Welshmen; it is on that account
you have studied Welsh; but, sir, I would have you know—”
“Come,” said I, “don’t be afraid; I wouldn’t have all the farms in your
country, provided you would tie them in a string and offer them to me.
If I talked about a farm it was because I am in the habit of talking
about everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting
to be so, which comes much to the same thing. My real business in this
neighbourhood is to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery about it.”
“Very good, sir!” said the landlord; “I thought so at first. A great
many English go to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery near it, though
I really don’t know why, for there is nothing so very particular in
either. We have a bridge here too quite as good as the Devil’s Bridge;
and as for scenery, I’ll back the scenery about this house against
anything of the kind in the neighbourhood of the Devil’s Bridge. Yet
everybody goes to the Devil’s Bridge and nobody comes here.”
“You might easily bring everybody here,” said I, “if you would but employ
your talent. You should celebrate the wonders of your neighbourhood in
cowydds, and you would soon have plenty of visitors; but you don’t want
them, you know, and prefer to be without them.”
The landlord looked at me for a moment, then taking a sip of his
whiskey-and-water, he turned to the man with whom he had previously been
talking, and recommenced the discourse about sheep. I made no doubt,
however, that I was a restraint upon them; they frequently glanced at me,
and soon fell to whispering. At last both got up and left the room; the
landlord finishing his glass of whiskey-and-water before he went away.
“So you are going to the Devil’s Bridge, sir!” said an elderly man,
dressed in a grey coat with a broad-brimmed hat, who sat on the settle
smoking a pipe in company with another elderly man with a leather hat,
with whom I had heard him discourse, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in
English, the Welsh which he spoke being rather broken.
“Yes!” said I, “I am going to have a sight of the bridge and the
neighbouring scenery.”
“Well, sir, I don’t think you will be disappointed, for both are
wonderful.”
“Are you a Welshman?” said I.
“No, sir! I am not; I am an Englishman from Durham, which is the best
county in England.”
“So it is,” said I; “for some things, at any rate. For example, where do
you find such beef as in Durham?”
“Ah, where indeed, sir? I have always said that neither the Devonshire
nor the Lincolnshire beef is to be named in the same day with that of
Durham.”
“Well,” said I, “what business do you follow in these parts? I suppose
you farm?”
“No, sir! I do not; I am what they call a mining captain.”
“I suppose that gentleman,” said I, motioning to the man in the leather
hat, “is not from Durham?”
“No, sir, he is not; he is from the neighbourhood.”
“And does he follow mining?”
“No, sir, he does not; he carries about the letters.”
“Is your mine near this place?” said I.
“Not very, sir; it is nearer the Devil’s Bridge.”
“Why is the bridge called the Devil’s Bridge?” said I.
“Because, sir, ’tis said that the Devil built it in the old time, though
that I can hardly believe, for the Devil, do ye see, delights in nothing
but mischief, and it is not likely that such being the case he would have
built a thing which must have been of wonderful service to people by
enabling them to pass in safety over a dreadful gulf.”
“I have heard,” said the old postman with the leather hat, “that the
Devil had no hand in de work at all, but that it was built by a Mynach,
or monk, on which account de river over which de bridge is built is
called Afon y Mynach—dat is de Monk’s River.”
“Did you ever hear,” said I, “of three creatures who lived a long time
ago near the Devil’s Bridge called the Plant de Bat?”
“Ah, master!” said the old postman, “I do see that you have been in these
parts before; had you not you would not know of the Plant de Bat.”
“No,” said I, “I have never been here before; but I heard of them when I
was a boy from a Cumro who taught me Welsh, and had lived for some time
in these parts. Well, what do they say here about the Plant de Bat? for
he who mentioned them to me could give me no further information about
them than that they were horrid creatures who lived in a cave near the
Devil’s Bridge several hundred years ago.”
“Well, master,” said the old postman, thrusting his forefinger twice or
thrice into the bowl of his pipe, “I will tell you what they says here
about the Plant de Bat. In de old time two, three hundred year ago, a
man lived somewhere about here called Bat, or Bartholomew; this man had
three children, two boys and one girl, who, because their father’s name
was Bat, were generally called Plant de Bat, or Bat’s children. Very
wicked children they were from their cradle, giving their father and
mother much trouble and uneasiness; no good in any one of them, neither
in the boys nor the girl. Now the boys, once when they were rambling
idly about, lighted by chance upon a cave near the Devil’s Bridge. Very
strange cave it was, with just one little hole at top to go in by. So
the boys said to one another, ‘Nice cave this for thief to live in.
Suppose we come here when we are a little more big and turn thief
ourselves.’ Well, they waited till they were a little more big, and then
leaving their father’s house they came to de cave and turned thief, lying
snug there all day, and going out at night to rob upon the roads. Well,
there was soon much talk in the country about the robberies which were
being committed, and people often went out in search of de thieves, but
all in vain; and no wonder, for they were in a cave very hard to light
upon, having as I said before merely one little hole at top to go in by.
So Bat’s boys went on swimmingly for a long time, lying snug in cave by
day and going out at night to rob, letting no one know where they were
but their sister, who was as bad as themselves, and used to come to them
and bring them food, and stay with them for weeks, and sometimes go out
and rob with them. But as de pitcher which goes often to de well comes
home broke at last, so it happened with Bat’s children. After robbing
people upon the roads by night many a long year and never being found
out, they at last met one great gentleman upon the roads by night, and
not only robbed but killed him, leaving his body all cut and gashed near
to Devil’s Bridge. That job was the ruin of Plant de Bat, for the great
gentleman’s friends gathered together and hunted after his murderers with
dogs, and at length came to the cave, and going in found it stocked with
riches, and the Plant de Bat sitting upon the riches, not only the boys
but the girl also. So they took out the riches and the Plant de Bat, and
the riches they did give to churches and spyttys, and the Plant de Bat
they did execute, hanging the boys and burning the girl. That, master,
is what they says in dese parts about the Plant de Bat.”
“Thank you!” said I. “Is the cave yet to be seen?”
“O yes! it is yet to be seen, or part of it, for it is not now what it
was, having been partly flung open to hinder other thieves from nestling
in it. It is on the bank of the river Mynach, just before it joins the
Rheidol. Many gentlefolk in de summer go to see the Plant de Bat’s
cave.”
“Are you sure?” said I, “that Plant de Bat means Bat’s children?”
“I am not sure, master; I merely says what I have heard other people say.
I believe some says that it means the wicked children, or the Devil’s
children. And now, master, we may as well have done with them, for
should you question me through the whole night I could tell you nothing
more about the Plant de Bat.”
After a little farther discourse, chiefly about sheep and the weather, I
retired to the parlour, where the fire was now burning brightly; seating
myself before it, I remained for a considerable time staring at the
embers and thinking over the events of the day. At length I rang the
bell and begged to be shown to my chamber, where I soon sank to sleep,
lulled by the pattering of rain against the window and the sound of a
neighbouring cascade.