Wild Scenery—Awful Chasm—John Greaves—Durham County—Queen Philippa—The
Two Aldens—Welsh Wife—The Noblest Business—The Welsh and the Salve—The
Lad John.
A rainy and boisterous night was succeeded by a bright and beautiful
morning. I arose, and having ordered breakfast, went forth to see what
kind of country I had got into. I found myself amongst wild,
strange-looking hills, not, however, of any particular height. The
house, which seemed to front the east, stood on the side of a hill on a
wide platform abutting on a deep and awful chasm, at the bottom of which
chafed and foamed the Rheidol. This river enters the valley of Pont
Erwyd from the north-west, then makes a variety of snake-like turns, and
at last bears away to the south-east just below the inn. The banks are
sheer walls from sixty to a hundred feet high, and the bed of the river
has all the appearance of a volcanic rent. A brook running from the
south past the inn, tumbles into the chasm at an angle, and forms the
cascade whose sound had lulled me to sleep the preceding night.
After breakfasting, I paid my bill, and set out for the Devil’s Bridge
without seeing anything more of that remarkable personage in whom were
united landlord, farmer, poet, and mighty fine gentleman—the master of
the house. I soon reached the bottom of the valley, where are a few
houses, and the bridge from which the place takes its name, Pont Erwyd
signifying the Bridge of Erwyd. As I was looking over the bridge near
which are two or three small waterfalls, an elderly man in a grey coat,
followed by a young lad and dog, came down the road which I had myself
just descended.
“Good day, sir,” said he, stopping, when he came upon the bridge. “I
suppose you are bound my road?”
“Ah,” said I, recognising the old mining captain with whom I had talked
in the kitchen the night before, “is it you? I am glad to see you. Yes!
I am bound your way, provided you are going to the Devil’s Bridge.”
“Then, sir, we can go together, for I am bound to my mine, which lies
only a little way t’other side of the Devil’s Bridge.”
Crossing the bridge of Erwyd, we directed our course to the south-east.
“What young man is that?” said I, “who is following behind us?”
“The young man, sir, is my son John, and the dog with him is his dog
Joe.”
“And what may your name be, if I may take the liberty of asking?”
“Greaves, sir; John Greaves from the county of Durham.”
“Ah! a capital county that,” said I.
“You like the county, sir! God bless you! John!” said he in a loud
voice, turning to the lad, “why don’t you offer to carry the gentleman’s
knapsack?”
“Don’t let him trouble himself,” said I. “As I was just now saying, a
capital county is Durham county.”
“You really had better let the boy carry your bag, sir.”
“No!” said I; “I would rather carry it myself. I question upon the whole
whether there is a better county in England.”
“Is it long since your honour was in Durham county?”
“A good long time. A matter of forty years.”
“Forty years! why that’s the life of a man. That’s longer than I have
been out of the county myself. I suppose your honour can’t remember much
about the county.”
“O yes I can, I remember a good deal.”
“Please your honour tell me what you remember about the county. It would
do me good to hear it.”
“Well, I remember it was a very fine county in more respects than one.
One part of it was full of big hills and mountains, where there were
mines of coal and lead with mighty works with tall chimneys spouting out
black smoke, and engines roaring and big wheels going round, some turned
by steam, and others by what they called forces, that is brooks of water
dashing down steep channels. Another part was a more level country with
beautiful woods, happy-looking farmhouses, well-filled fields and rich
glorious meadows, in which stood stately with brown sides and short horns
the Durham ox.”
“O dear, O dear!” said my companion. “Ah, I see your honour knows
everything about Durham county. Forces! none but one who had been in
Durham county would have used that word. I haven’t heard it for
five-and-thirty years. Forces! there was a force close to my village. I
wonder if your honour has ever been in Durham city.”
“O yes! I have been there.”
“Does your honour remember anything about Durham city?”
“O yes! I remember a good deal about it.”
“Then, your honour, pray tell us what you remember about it—pray do!
perhaps it will do me good.”
“Well, then, I remember that it was a fine old city standing on a hill
with a river running under it, and that it had a fine old church, one of
the finest in the whole of Britain; likewise a fine old castle; and last,
not least, a capital old inn, where I got a capital dinner off roast
Durham beef, and a capital glass of ale, which I believe was the cause of
my being ever after fond of ale.”
“Dear me! Ah, I see your honour knows all about Durham city. And now
let me ask one question. How came your honour to Durham city and county?
I don’t think your honour is a Durham man, either of town or field.”
“I am not; but when I was a little boy I passed through Durham county
with my mother and brother to a place called Scotland.”
“Scotland! a queer country that, your honour!”
“So it is,” said I; “a queerer country I never saw in all my life.”
“And a queer set of people, your honour.”
“So they are,” said I; “a queerer set of people than the Scotch you would
scarcely see in a summer’s day.”
“The Durham folks, neither of town or field, have much reason to speak
well of the Scotch, your honour.”
“I dare say not,” said I; “very few people have.”
“And yet the Durham folks, your honour, generally contrived to give them
as good as they brought.”
“That they did,” said I; “a pretty licking the Durham folks once gave the
Scots under the walls of Durham city, after the scamps had been
plundering the country for three weeks—a precious licking they gave them,
slaying I don’t know how many thousands, and taking their king prisoner.”
“So they did, your honour, and under the command of a woman too.”
“Very true,” said I; “Queen Philippa.”
“Just so, your honour! the idea that your honour should know so much
about Durham, both field and town!”
“Well,” said I, “since I have told you so much about Durham, perhaps you
will now tell me something about yourself. How did you come here?”
“I had better begin from the beginning, your honour. I was born in
Durham county close beside the Great Force, which no doubt your honour
has seen. My father was a farmer and had a bit of a share in a mining
concern. I was brought up from my childhood both to farming and mining
work, but most to mining, because, do you see, I took most pleasure in
it, being the more noble business of the two. Shortly after I had come
to man’s estate my father died leaving me a decent little property,
whereupon I forsook farming altogether and gave myself up, body, soul and
capital, to mining, which at last I thoroughly understood in all its
branches. Well, your honour, about five-and-thirty years ago, that was
when I was about twenty-eight, a cry went through the north country that
a great deal of money might be made by opening Wales, that is, by mining
in Wales in the proper fashion, which means the north-country fashion,
for there is no other fashion of mining good for much—there had long been
mines in Wales, but they had always been worked in a poor, weak, languid
manner, very different from that of the north country. So a company was
formed, at the head of which were the Aldens, George and Thomas, for
opening Wales, and they purchased certain mines in these districts, which
they knew to be productive, and which might be made yet more so, and
settling down here called themselves the Rheidol United. Well, after
they had been here a little time they found themselves in want of a man
to superintend their concerns, above all in the smelting department. So
they thought of me, who was known to most of the mining gentry in the
north country, and they made a proposal to me through George Alden,
afterwards Sir George, to come here and superintend. I said no, at
first, for I didn’t like the idea of leaving Durham county to come to
such an outlandish place as Wales; howsomever, I at last allowed myself
to be overpersuaded by George Alden, afterwards Sir George, and here I
came with my wife and family, for I must tell your honour I had married a
respectable young woman of Durham county, by whom I had two little
ones—here I came and did my best for the service of the Rheidol United.
The company was terribly set to it for a long time, spending a mint of
money and getting very poor returns. To my certain knowledge the two
Aldens, George and Tom, spent between them thirty thousand pounds—the
company, however, persevered, chiefly at the instigation of the Aldens,
who were in the habit of saying ‘Never say die!’ and at last got the
better of all their difficulties and rolled in riches, and had the credit
of being the first company that ever opened Wales, which they richly
deserved, for I will uphold it that the Rheidol United, particularly the
Aldens, George and Thomas, were the first people who really opened Wales.
In their service I have been for five-and-thirty years, and dare say
shall continue so till I die. I have been tolerably comfortable, your
honour, though I have had my griefs, the bitterest of which was the death
of my wife, which happened about eight years after I came to this
country. I thought I should have gone wild at first, your honour!
Having, however, always plenty to do, I at last got the better of my
affliction. I continued single till my English family grew up and left
me, when feeling myself rather lonely I married a decent young
Welshwoman, by whom I had one son, the lad John, who is following behind
with his dog Joe. And now your honour knows the whole story of John
Greaves, miner from the county of Durham.”
“And a most entertaining and instructive history it is,” said I. “You
have not told me, however, how you contrived to pick up Welsh: I heard
you speaking it last night with the postman.”
“Why, through my Welsh wife, your honour! Without her I don’t think I
should ever have picked up the Welsh manner of discoursing—she is a good
kind of woman, my Welsh wife, though—”
“The loss of your Durham wife must have been a great grief to you,” said
I.
“It was the bitterest grief, your honour, as I said before, that I ever
had—my next worst I think was the death of a dear friend.”
“Who was that?” said I.
“Who was it, your honour? why, the Duke of Newcastle.”
“Dear me!” said I; “how came you to know him?”
“Why, your honour, he lived at a place not far from here, called Hafod,
and so—”
“Hafod!” said I; “I have often heard of Hafod and its library; but I
thought it belonged to an old Welsh family called Johnes.”
“Well, so it did, your honour! but the family died away, and the estate
was put up for sale, and purchased by the Duke, who built a fine house
upon it, which he made his chief place of residence—the old family house,
I must tell your honour, in which the library was had been destroyed by
fire: well, he hadn’t been long settled there before he found me out and
took wonderfully to me, discoursing with me and consulting me about his
farming and improvements. Many is the pleasant chat and discourse I have
had with his Grace for hours and hours together, for his Grace had not a
bit of pride, at least he never showed any to me, though, perhaps, the
reason of that was that we were both north-country people. Lord! I
would have laid down my life for his Grace and have done anything but one
which he once asked me to do: ‘Greaves,’ said the Duke to me one day, ‘I
wish you would give up mining and become my steward.’ ‘Sorry I can’t
oblige your Grace,’ said I; ‘but give up mining I cannot. I will at any
time give your Grace all the advice I can about farming and such like,
but give up mining I cannot: because why? I conceive mining to be the
noblest business in the ‘versal world.’ Whereupon his Grace laughed, and
said he dare say I was right, and never mentioned the subject again.”
“Was his Grace very fond of farming and improving?”
“O yes, your honour! like all the great gentry, especially the
north-country gentry, his Grace was wonderfully fond of farming and
improving—and a wonderful deal of good he did, reclaiming thousands of
acres of land which was before good for nothing, and building capital
farm-houses and offices for his tenants. His grand feat, however, was
bringing the Durham bull into this country, which formed a capital cross
with the Welsh cows. Pity that he wasn’t equally fortunate with the
north-country sheep.”
“Did he try to introduce them into Wales?”
“Yes; but they didn’t answer, as I knew they wouldn’t. Says I to the
Duke, ‘It won’t do, your Grace, to bring the north-country sheep here:
because why? the hills are too wet and cold for their constitutions;’ but
his Grace, who had sometimes a will of his own, persisted and brought the
north-country sheep to these parts, and it turned out as I said: the
sheep caught the disease and the wool parted and—”
“But,” said I, “you should have told him about the salve made of bran,
butter and oil; you should have done that.”
“Well, so I did, your honour; I told him about the salve, and the Duke
listened to me, and the salve was made by these very hands; but when it
was made, what do you think? the foolish Welsh wouldn’t put it on, saying
that it was against their laws and statties and religion to use it, and
talked about Devil’s salves and the Witch of Endor, and the sin against
the Holy Ghost, and such-like nonsense. So to prevent a regular
rebellion, the Duke gave up the salve and the poor sheep pined away and
died, till at last there was not one left.”
“Who holds the estate at present?” said I.
“Why, a great gentleman from Lancashire, your honour, who bought it when
the Duke died; but he doesn’t take the same pleasure in it which the Duke
did, nor spend so much money about it, the consequence being that
everything looks very different from what it looked in the Duke’s time.
The inn at the Devil’s Bridge and the grounds look very different from
what they looked in the Duke’s time, for you must know that the inn and
the grounds form part of the Hafod estate, and are hired from the
proprietor.”
By this time we had arrived at a small village, with a toll-bar and a
small church or chapel at some little distance from the road, which here
made a turn nearly full south. The road was very good, but the country
was wild and rugged; there was a deep vale on the right, at the bottom of
which rolled the Rheidol in its cleft, rising beyond which were steep,
naked hills.
“This village,” said my companion, “is called Ysbytty Cynfyn. Down on
the right, past the church, is a strange bridge across the Rheidol, which
runs there through a horrid kind of a place. The bridge is called Pont
yr Offeiriad, or the Parson’s Bridge, because in the old time the
clergyman passed over it every Sunday to do duty in the church here.”
“Why is this place called Ysbytty Cynfyn?” said I, “which means the
hospital of the first boundary; is there a hospital of the second
boundary near here?”
“I can’t say anything about boundaries, your honour; all I know is, that
there is another Spytty farther on beyond Hafod called Ysbytty Ystwyth,
or the ’Spytty upon the Ystwyth. But to return to the matter of the
Minister’s Bridge: I would counsel your honour to go and see that bridge
before you leave these parts. A vast number of gentry go to see it in
the summer time. It was the bridge which the landlord was mentioning
last night, though it scarcely belongs to his district, being quite as
near the Devil’s Bridge inn, as it is to his own, your honour.”
We went on discoursing for about half-a-mile farther, when, stopping by a
road which branched off to the hills on the left, my companion said, “I
must now wish your honour good day, being obliged to go a little way up
here to a mining work on a small bit of business; my son, however, and
his dog Joe will show your honour the way to the Devil’s Bridge, as they
are bound to a place a little way past it. I have now but one word to
say, which is, that should ever your honour please to visit me at my
mine, your honour shall receive every facility for inspecting the works,
and moreover have a bellyfull of drink and victuals from Jock Greaves,
miner from the county of Durham.”
I shook the honest fellow by the hand and went on in company with the lad
John and his dog as far as the Devil’s Bridge. John was a highly
intelligent lad, spoke Welsh and English fluently, could read, as he told
me, both languages, and had some acquaintance with the writings of Twm
o’r Nant, as he showed by repeating the following lines of the carter
poet, certainly not the worst which he ever wrote:—
“Twm o’r Nant mae cant a’m galw
Tomas Edwards yw fy enw.
Tom O Nant is a nickname I’ve got,
My name’s Thomas Edwards, I wot.”