Pump Saint—Pleasant Residence—The Watery Coom—Philological Fact—Evening
Service—Meditation.
I entered the inn of the “Pump Saint.” It was a comfortable
old-fashioned place, with a very large kitchen and a rather small
parlour. The people were kind and attentive, and soon set before me in
the parlour a homely but savoury supper, and a foaming tankard of ale.
After supper I went into the kitchen, and sitting down with the good
folks in an immense chimney-corner, listened to them talking in their
Carmarthenshire dialect till it was time to go to rest, when I was
conducted to a large chamber where I found an excellent and clean bed
awaiting me, in which I enjoyed a refreshing sleep occasionally visited
by dreams in which some of the scenes of the preceding day again appeared
before me, but in an indistinct and misty manner.
Awaking in the very depth of the night I thought I heard the murmuring of
a river; I listened and soon found that I had not been deceived. “I
wonder whether that river is the Cothi,” said I, “the stream of the
immortal Lewis. I will suppose that it is”—and rendered quite happy by
the idea, I soon fell asleep again.
I arose about eight and went out to look about me. The village consists
of little more than half-a-dozen houses. The name “Pump Saint” signifies
“Five Saints.” Why the place is called so I know not. Perhaps the name
originally belonged to some chapel which stood either where the village
now stands or in the neighbourhood. The inn is a good specimen of an
ancient Welsh hostelry. Its gable is to the road and its front to a
little space on one side of the way. At a little distance up the road is
a blacksmith’s shop. The country around is interesting: on the
north-west is a fine wooded hill—to the south a valley through which
flows the Cothi, a fair river, the one whose murmur had come so
pleasingly upon my ear in the depth of night.
After breakfast I departed for Llandovery. Presently I came to a lodge
on the left-hand beside an ornamental gate at the bottom of an avenue
leading seemingly to a gentleman’s seat. On inquiring of a woman who sat
at the door of the lodge to whom the grounds belonged, she said to Mr.
Johnes, and that if I pleased I was welcome to see them. I went in and
advanced along the avenue, which consisted of very noble oaks; on the
right was a vale in which a beautiful brook was running north and south.
Beyond the vale to the east were fine wooded hills. I thought I had
never seen a more pleasing locality, though I saw it to great
disadvantage, the day being dull, and the season the latter fall.
Presently, on the avenue making a slight turn, I saw the house, a plain
but comfortable gentleman’s seat with wings. It looked to the south down
the dale. “With what satisfaction I could live in that house,” said I to
myself, “if backed by a couple of thousands a-year. With what gravity
could I sign a warrant in its library, and with what dreamy comfort
translate an ode of Lewis Glyn Cothi, my tankard of rich ale beside me.
I wonder whether the proprietor is fond of the old bard and keeps good
ale. Were I an Irishman instead of a Norfolk man I would go in and ask
him.”
Returning to the road I proceeded on my journey. I passed over Pont y
Rhanedd or the bridge of the Rhanedd, a small river flowing through a
dale, then by Clas Hywel, a lofty mountain which appeared to have three
heads. After walking for some miles I came to where the road divided
into two. By a sign-post I saw that both led to Llandovery, one by Porth
y Rhyd and the other by Llanwrda. The distance by the first was six
miles and a half, by the latter eight and a half. Feeling quite the
reverse of tired I chose the longest road, namely the one by Llanwrda,
along which I sped at a great rate.
In a little time I found myself in the heart of a romantic winding dell
overhung with trees of various kinds, which a tall man whom I met told me
was called Cwm Dwr Llanwrda, or the Watery Coom of Llanwrda; and well
might it be called the Watery Coom, for there were several bridges in it,
two within a few hundred yards of each other. The same man told me that
the war was going on very badly, that our soldiers were suffering much,
and that the snow was two feet deep at Sebastopol.
Passing through Llanwrda, a pretty village with a singular-looking
church, close to which stood an enormous yew, I entered a valley which I
learned was the valley of the Towey. I directed my course to the north,
having the river on my right, which runs towards the south in a spacious
bed which, however, except in times of flood, it scarcely half fills.
Beautiful hills were on either side, partly cultivated, partly covered
with wood, and here and there dotted with farm-houses and gentlemen’s
seats; green pastures which descended nearly to the river occupying in
general the lower parts. After journeying about four miles amid this
kind of scenery I came to a noble suspension bridge, and crossing it
found myself in about a quarter of an hour at Llandovery.
It was about half-past two when I arrived. I put up at the Castle Inn
and forthwith ordered dinner, which was served up between four and five.
During dinner I was waited upon by a strange old fellow who spoke Welsh
and English with equal fluency.
“What countryman are you?” said I.
“An Englishman,” he replied.
“From what part of England?”
“From Herefordshire.”
“Have you been long here?”
“O yes! upwards of twenty years.”
“How came you to learn Welsh?”
“O, I took to it and soon picked it up.”
“Can you read it?” said I.
“No, I can’t.”
“Can you read English?”
“Yes, I can; that is, a little.”
“Why didn’t you try to learn to read Welsh?”
“Well, I did; but I could make no hand of it. It’s one thing to speak
Welsh and another to read it.”
“I can read Welsh much better than I can speak it,” said I.
“Ah, you are a gentleman—gentlefolks always find it easier to learn to
read a foreign lingo than to speak it, but it’s quite the contrary with
we poor folks.”
“One of the most profound truths ever uttered connected with language,”
said I to myself. I asked him if there were many Church of England
people in Llandovery.
“A good many,” he replied.
“Do you belong to the Church?” said I.
“Yes, I do.”
“If this were Sunday I would go to church,” said I.
“O, if you wish to go to church you can go to-night. This is Wednesday,
and there will be service at half-past six. If you like I will come for
you.”
“Pray do,” said I; “I should like above all things to go.”
Dinner over I sat before the fire occasionally dozing, occasionally
sipping a glass of whiskey-and-water. A little after six the old fellow
made his appearance with a kind of Spanish hat on his head. We set out,
the night was very dark; we went down a long street seemingly in the
direction of the west. “How many churches are there in Llandovery?” said
I to my companion.
“Only one, but you are not going to Llandovery Church, but to that of
Llanfair, in which our clergyman does duty once or twice a week.”
“Is it far?” said I.
“O no; just out of the town, only a few steps farther.”
We seemed to pass over a bridge and began to ascend a rising ground.
Several people were going in the same direction.
“There,” said the old man, “follow with these, and a little farther up
you will come to the church, which stands on the right hand.”
He then left me. I went with the rest and soon came to the church. I
went in and was at once conducted by an old man who I believe was the
sexton to a large pew close against the southern wall. The inside of the
church was dimly lighted; it was long and narrow, and the walls were
painted with a yellow colour. The pulpit stood against the northern wall
near the altar, and almost opposite to the pew in which I sat. After a
little time the service commenced; it was in Welsh. When the litanies
were concluded the clergyman, who appeared to be a middle-aged man, and
who had rather a fine voice, began to preach. His sermon was from the
119th Psalm: “Am hynny hoffais dy gorchymynion yn mwy nag aur;”
“Therefore have I loved thy commandments more than gold.” The sermon,
which was extempore, was delivered with great earnestness, and I make no
doubt was a very excellent one, but owing to its being in South Welsh I
did not derive so much benefit from it as I otherwise might have done.
When it was over a great many got up and went away. Observing, however,
that not a few remained, I determined upon remaining too. When
everything was quiet the clergyman descending from the pulpit repaired to
the vestry, and having taken off his gown went into a pew, and standing
up began a discourse, from which I learned that there was to be a
sacrament on the ensuing Sabbath. He spoke with much fervency, enlarging
upon the high importance of the holy communion and exhorting people to
come to it in a fit state of mind. When he had finished a man in a
neighbouring pew got up and spoke about his own unworthiness, saying this
and that about himself, his sins of commission and omission, and dwelling
particularly on his uncharitableness and the malicious pleasure which he
took in the misfortunes of his neighbours. The clergyman listened
attentively, sometimes saying “Ah!” and the congregation also listened
attentively, a voice here and there frequently saying “Ah.” When the man
had concluded the clergyman again spoke, making observations on what he
had heard and hoping that the rest would be visited with the same
contrite spirit as their friend. Then there was a hymn and we went away.
The moon was shining on high and cast its silvery light on the tower, the
church, some fine trees which surrounded it, and the congregation going
home; a few of the better dressed were talking to each other in English,
but with an accent and pronunciation which rendered the discourse almost
unintelligible to my ears.
I found my way back to my inn and went to bed after musing awhile on the
concluding scene of which I had been witness in the church.