Departure from Llandovery—A Bitter Methodist—North and South—The
Caravan—Captain Bosvile—Deputy Ranger—A Scrimmage—The Heavenly
Gwynfa—Dangerous Position.
On the tenth I departed from Llandovery, which I have no hesitation in
saying is about the pleasantest little town in which I have halted in the
course of my wanderings. I intended to sleep at Gutter Vawr, a place
some twenty miles distant, just within Glamorganshire, to reach which it
would be necessary to pass over part of a range of wild hills, generally
called the Black Mountains. I started at about ten o’clock; the morning
was lowering, and there were occasional showers of rain and hail. I
passed by Rees Pritchard’s church, holding my hat in my hand as I did so,
not out of respect for the building, but from reverence for the memory of
the sainted man who of old from its pulpit called sinners to repentance,
and whose remains slumber in the churchyard unless washed away by some
frantic burst of the neighbouring Towey. Crossing a bridge over the Bran
just before it enters the greater stream, I proceeded along a road
running nearly south and having a range of fine hills on the east.
Presently violent gusts of wind came on, which tore the sear leaves by
thousands from the trees of which there were plenty by the roadsides.
After a little time, however, this elemental hurly-burly passed away, a
rainbow made its appearance and the day became comparatively fine.
Turning to the south-east under a hill covered with oaks, I left the vale
of the Towey behind me, and soon caught a glimpse of some very lofty
hills which I supposed to be the Black Mountains. It was a mere glimpse,
for scarcely had I descried them when mist settled down and totally
obscured them from my view.
In about an hour I reached Llangadog, a large village. The name
signifies the Church of Gadog. Gadog was a British saint of the fifth
century, who after labouring amongst his own countrymen for their
spiritual good for many years, crossed the sea to Brittany, where he
died. Scarcely had I entered Llangadog when a great shower of rain came
down. Seeing an ancient-looking hostelry I at once made for it. In a
large and comfortable kitchen I found a middle-aged woman seated by a
huge deal table near a blazing fire, with a couple of large books open
before her. Sitting down on a chair I told her in English to bring me a
pint of ale. She did so and again sat down to her books, which on
inquiry I found to be a Welsh Bible and Concordance. We soon got into
discourse about religion, but did not exactly agree, for she was a bitter
Methodist, as bitter as her beer, only half of which I could get down.
Leaving Llangadog I pushed forward. The day was now tolerably fine. In
two or three hours I came to a glen, the sides of which were beautifully
wooded. On my left was a river, which came roaring down from a range of
lofty mountains right before me to the southeast. The river, as I was
told by a lad, was the Sawdde or Southey, the lofty range the Black
Mountains. Passed a pretty village on my right standing something in the
shape of a semi-circle, and in about half-an-hour came to a bridge over a
river which I supposed to be the Sawdde which I had already seen, but
which I subsequently learned was an altogether different stream. It was
running from the south, a wild fierce flood amidst rocks and stones, the
waves all roaring and foaming.
After some time I reached another bridge near the foot of a very lofty
ascent. On my left to the east upon a bank was a small house, on one
side of which was a wheel turned round by a flush of water running in a
little artificial canal; close by it were two small cascades, the waters
of which and also those of the canal passed under the bridge in the
direction of the west. Seeing a decent-looking man engaged in sawing a
piece of wood by the roadside, I asked him in Welsh whether the house
with the wheel was a flour-mill.
“Nage,” said he, “it is a pandy, fulling mill.”
“Can you tell me the name of a river,” said I, “which I have left about a
mile behind me? Is it the Sawdde?”
“Nage,” said he. “It is the Lleidach.”
Then looking at me with great curiosity he asked me if I came from the
north country.
“Yes,” said I, “I certainly come from there.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said he, “for I have long wished to see a man
from the north country.”
“Did you never see one before?” said I.
“Never in my life,” he replied: “men from the north country seldom show
themselves in these parts.”
“Well,” said I; “I am not ashamed to say that I come from the north.”
“Ain’t you? Well, I don’t know that you have any particular reason to be
ashamed, for it is rather your misfortune than your fault; but the idea
of any one coming from the north—ho, ho!”
“Perhaps in the north,” said I, “they laugh at a man from the south.”
“Laugh at a man from the south! No, no; they can’t do that.”
“Why not?” said I; “why shouldn’t the north laugh at the south as well as
the south at the north?”
“Why shouldn’t it? why, you talk like a fool. How could the north laugh
at the south as long as the south remains the south and the north the
north? Laugh at the south! you talk like a fool, David, and if you go on
in that way I shall be angry with you. However, I’ll excuse you; you are
from the north, and what can one expect from the north but nonsense? Now
tell me, do you of the north eat and drink like other people? What do
you live upon?”
“Why, as for myself,” said I, “I generally live on the best I can get.”
“Let’s hear what you eat; bacon and eggs?”
“O yes! I eat bacon and eggs when I can get nothing better.”
“And what do you drink? Can you drink ale?”
“O yes,” said I; “I am very fond of ale when it’s good. Perhaps you will
stand a pint?”
“H’m,” said the man looking somewhat blank; “there is no ale in the Pandy
and there is no public-house near at hand, otherwise—. Where are you
going to-night?”
“To Gutter Vawr.”
“Well, then, you had better not loiter. Gutter Vawr is a long way off
over the mountain. It will be dark, I am afraid, long before you get to
Gutter Vawr. Good evening, David! I am glad to have seen you, for I
have long wished to see a man from the north country. Good evening! you
will find plenty of good ale at Gutter Vawr!”
I went on my way. The road led in a south-eastern direction gradually
upward to very lofty regions. After walking about half-an-hour I saw a
kind of wooden house on wheels drawn by two horses coming down the hill
towards me. A short black-looking fellow in brown top boots, corduroy
breeches, jockey coat and jockey cap sat on the box, holding the reins in
one hand and a long whip in the other. Beside him was a swarthy woman in
a wild flaunting dress. Behind the box out of the fore part of the
caravan peered two or three children’s black heads. A pretty little foal
about four months old came frisking and gambolling now before now beside
the horses, whilst a colt of some sixteen months followed more leisurely
behind. When the caravan was about ten yards distant I stopped, and,
raising my left hand with the little finger pointed aloft, I exclaimed:
“Shoon, Kaulomengro, shoon! In Dibbel’s nav, where may tu be jawing to?”
Stopping his caravan with considerable difficulty the small black man
glared at me for a moment like a wild cat, and then said in a voice
partly snappish, partly kind:
“Savo shan tu? Are you one of the Ingrines?”
“I am the chap what certain folks calls the Romany Rye.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered if I wasn’t thinking so and if I wasn’t penning
so to my juwa as we were welling down the chong.”
“It is a long time since we last met, Captain Bosvile, for I suppose I
may call you Captain now?”
“Yes! the old man has been dead and buried this many a year, and his
sticks and titles are now mine. Poor soul, I hope he is happy; indeed I
know he is, for he lies in Cockleshell churchyard, the place he was
always so fond of, and has his Sunday waistcoat on him with the fine gold
buttons, which he was always so proud of. Ah, you may well call it a
long time since we met—why, it can’t be less than thirty year.”
“Something about that—you were a boy then of about fifteen.”
“So I was, and you a tall young slip of about twenty; well, how did you
come to jin mande?”
“Why, I knew you by your fighting mug—there an’t such another mug in
England.”
“No more there an’t—my old father always used to say it was of no use
hitting it for it always broke his knuckles. Well, it was kind of you to
jin mande after so many years. The last time I think I saw you was near
Brummagem, when you were travelling about with Jasper Petulengro and—I
say, what’s become of the young woman you used to keep company with?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t? Well, she was a fine young woman and a vartuous. I remember
her knocking down and giving a black eye to my old mother, who was
wonderfully deep in Romany, for making a bit of a gillie about you and
she. What was the song? Lord, how my memory fails me. O, here it is:—
“Ando berkho Rye canó
Oteh pivò teh khavó.—
Tu lerasque ando berkho piranee
Teh corbatcha por pico.”
“Have you seen Jasper Petulengro lately?” said I.
“Yes, I have seen him, but it was at a very considerable distance.
Jasper Petulengro doesn’t come near the likes of we now. Lord! you can’t
think what grand folks he and his wife have become of late years, and all
along of a trumpery lil which some body has written about them. Why,
they are hand and glove with the Queen and Prince, and folks say that his
wife is going to be made dame of honour, and Jasper Justice of the Peace
and Deputy Ranger of Windsor Park.”
“Only think,” said I. “And now tell me, what brought you into Wales?”
“What brought me into Wales? I’ll tell you; my own fool’s head. I was
doing nicely in the Kaulo Gav and the neighbourhood, when I must needs
pack up and come into these parts with bag and baggage, wife and childer.
I thought that Wales was what it was some thirty years agone when our
foky used to say—for I was never here before—that there was something to
be done in it; but I was never more mistaken in my life. The country is
overrun with Hindity mescrey, woild Irish, with whom the Romany foky
stand no chance. The fellows underwork me at tinkering, and the women
outscream my wife at telling fortunes—moreover, they say the country is
theirs and not intended for niggers like we, and as they are generally in
vast numbers what can a poor little Roman family do but flee away before
them? a pretty journey I have made into Wales. Had I not contrived to
pass off a poggado bav engro—a broken-winded horse—at a fair, I at this
moment should be without a tringoruschee piece in my pocket. I am now
making the best of my way back to Brummagem, and if ever I come again to
this Hindity country may Calcraft nash me.”
“I wonder you didn’t try to serve some of the Irish out,” said I.
“I served one out, brother; and my wife and childer helped to wipe off a
little of the score. We had stopped on a nice green, near a village over
the hills in Glamorganshire, when up comes a Hindity family, and bids us
take ourselves off. Now it so happened that there was but one man and a
woman and some childer, so I laughed, and told them to drive us off.
Well, brother, without many words, there was a regular scrimmage. The
Hindity mush came at me, the Hindity mushi at my juwa, and the Hindity
chaves at my chai. It didn’t last long, brother. In less than three
minutes I had hit the Hindity mush, who was a plaguey big fellow, but
couldn’t fight, just under the point of the chin, and sent him to the
ground with all his senses gone. My juwa had almost scratched an eye out
of the Hindity mushi, and my chai had sent the Hindity childer scampering
over the green. ‘Who has got to quit now?’ said I to the Hindity mush
after he had got on his legs, looking like a man who has been cut down
after hanging just a minute and a half. ‘Who has got notice to quit now,
I wonder?’ Well, brother, he didn’t say anything, nor did any of them,
but after a little time they all took themselves off, with a cart they
had, to the south. Just as they got to the edge of the green, however,
they turned round and gave a yell which made all our blood cold. I knew
what it meant, and said, ‘This is no place for us.’ So we got everything
together and came away, and, though the horses were tired, never stopped
till we had got ten miles from the place; and well it was we acted as we
did, for, had we stayed, I have no doubt that a whole Hindity clan would
have been down upon us before morning and cut our throats.”
“Well,” said I, “farewell. I can’t stay any longer. As it is, I shall
be late at Gutter Vawr.”
“Farewell, brother!” said Captain Bosvile; and, giving a cry, he cracked
his whip and set his horses in motion.
“Won’t you give us sixpence to drink?” cried Mrs. Bosvile, with a rather,
shrill voice.
“Hold your tongue, you she-dog,” said Captain Bosvile. “Is that the way
in which you take leave of an old friend? Hold your tongue, and let the
Ingrine gentleman jaw on his way.”
I proceeded on my way as fast as I could, for the day was now closing in.
My progress, however, was not very great; for the road was steep, and was
continually becoming more so. In about half-an-hour I came to a little
village, consisting of three or four houses; one of them, at the door of
which several carts were standing, bore the sign of a tavern.
“What is the name of this place?” said I to a man who was breaking stones
on the road.
“Capel Gwynfa,” said he.
Rather surprised at the name, which signifies in English the Chapel of
the place of bliss, I asked the man why it was called so.
“I don’t know,” said the man.
“Was there ever a chapel here?” said I.
“I don’t know, sir; there is none now.”
“I dare say there was in the old time,” said I to myself, as I went on,
“in which some holy hermit prayed and told his beads, and occasionally
received benighted strangers. What a poetical word that Gwynfa, place of
bliss, is. Owen Pugh uses it in his translation of _Paradise Lost_ to
express Paradise, for he has rendered the words Paradise Lost by Coll
Gwynfa—the loss of the place of bliss. I wonder whether the old scholar
picked up the word here. Not unlikely. Strange fellow that Owen Pugh.
Wish I had seen him. No hope of seeing him now, except in the heavenly
Gwynfa. Wonder whether there is such a place. Tom Payne thinks there’s
not. Strange fellow that Tom Payne. Norfolk man. Wish I had never read
him.”
Presently I came to a little cottage with a toll-bar. Seeing a woman
standing at the door, I inquired of her the name of the gate.
“Cowslip Gate, sir.”
“Has it any Welsh name?”
“None that I know of, sir.”
This place was at a considerable altitude, and commanded an extensive
view to the south, west, and north. Heights upon heights rose behind it
to the east. From here the road ran to the south for a little way nearly
level, then turned abruptly to the east, and was more steep than ever.
After the turn, I had a huge chalk cliff towering over me on the right,
and a chalk precipice on my left. Night was now coming on fast, and,
rather to my uneasiness, masses of mist began to pour down the sides of
the mountain. I hurried on, the road making frequent turnings.
Presently the mist swept down upon me, and was so thick that I could only
see a few yards before me. I was now obliged to slacken my pace, and to
advance with some degree of caution. I moved on in this way for some
time, when suddenly I heard a noise, as if a number of carts were coming
rapidly down the hill. I stopped, and stood with my back close against
the high bank. The noise drew nearer, and in a minute I saw indistinctly
through the mist, horses, carts, and forms of men passing. In one or two
cases the wheels appeared to be within a few inches of my feet. I let
the train go by, and then cried out in English, “Am I right for Gutter
Vawr?”
“Hey?” said a voice, after a momentary interval.
“Am I right for Gutter Vawr?” I shouted yet louder.
“Yes, sure!” said a voice, probably the same.
Then instantly a much rougher voice cried, “Who the Devil are you?”
I made no answer, but went on, whilst the train continued its way
rumbling down the mountain. At length I gained the top, where the road
turned and led down a steep descent towards the south-west. It was now
quite night, and the mist was of the thickest kind. I could just see
that there was a frightful precipice on my left, so I kept to the right,
hugging the side of the hill. As I descended I heard every now and then
loud noises in the vale probably proceeding from stone quarries. I was
drenched to the skin, nay, through the skin, by the mist, which I verily
believe was more penetrating than that described by Ab Gwilym. When I
had proceeded about a mile I saw blazes down below, resembling those of
furnaces, and soon after came to the foot of the hill. It was here
pouring with rain, but I did not put up my umbrella as it was impossible
for me to be more drenched than I was. Crossing a bridge over a kind of
torrent, I found myself amongst some houses. I entered one of them from
which a blaze of light and a roar of voices proceeded, and, on inquiring
of an old woman who confronted me in the passage, I found that I had
reached my much needed haven of rest, the tavern of Gutter Vawr in the
county of Glamorgan.