Llan Silin Church—Tomb of Huw Morris—Barbara and Richard—Welsh Country
Clergyman—The Swearing Lad—Anglo-Saxon Devils.
Having discussed my ale I asked the landlord if he would show me the
grave of Huw Morris. “With pleasure, sir,” said he; “pray follow me.”
He led me to the churchyard, in which several enormous yew trees were
standing, probably of an antiquity which reached as far back as the days
of Henry the Eighth, when the yew bow was still the favourite weapon of
the men of Britain. The church fronts the south, the portico being in
that direction. The body of the sacred edifice is ancient, but the
steeple which bears a gilded cock on its top is modern. The innkeeper
led me directly up to the southern wall, then pointing to a broad
discoloured slab, which lay on the ground just outside the wall, about
midway between the portico and the oriel end, he said:
“Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir.” Forthwith taking off my
hat I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering the cold
remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees, proceeded to
examine it attentively. It is covered over with letters three parts
defaced. All I could make out of the inscription was the date of the
poet’s death, 1709. “A great genius, a very great genius, sir,” said the
inn-keeper, after I had got on my feet and put on my hat.
“He was indeed,” said I; “are you acquainted with his poetry?”
“Oh yes,” said the innkeeper, and then repeated the four lines composed
by the poet shortly before his death, which I had heard the intoxicated
stonemason repeat in the public-house of the Pandy, the day I went to
visit the poet’s residence with John Jones.
“Do you know any more of Huw’s poetry?” said I.
“No,” said the innkeeper. “Those lines, however, I have known ever since
I was a child and repeated them, more particularly of late since age has
come upon me and I have felt that I cannot last long.”
It is very odd how few of the verses of great poets are in people’s
mouths. Not more than a dozen of Shakespear’s lines are in people’s
mouths: of those of Pope not more than half that number. Of Addison’s
poetry two or three lines may be in people’s mouths, though I never heard
one quoted, the only line which I ever heard quoted as Addison’s not
being his but Garth’s:
“’Tis best repenting in a coach and six.”
Whilst of the verses of Huw Morris I never knew any one but myself, who
am not a Welshman, who could repeat a line beyond the four which I have
twice had occasion to mention, and which seem to be generally known in
North if not in South Wales.
From the flagstone I proceeded to the portico and gazed upon it
intensely. It presented nothing very remarkable, but it had the greatest
interest for me, for I remembered how many times Huw Morris had walked
out of that porch at the head of the congregation, the clergyman yielding
his own place to the inspired bard. I would fain have entered the
church, but the landlord had not the key, and told me that he imagined
there would be some difficulty in procuring it. I was therefore obliged
to content myself with peeping through a window into the interior, which
had a solemn and venerable aspect.
“Within there,” said I to myself, “Huw Morris, the greatest songster of
the seventeenth century, knelt every Sunday during the latter thirty
years of his life, after walking from Pont y Meibion across the bleak and
savage Berwyn. Within there was married Barbara Wynn, the Rose of
Maelai, to Richard Middleton, the handsome cavalier of Maelor, and within
there she lies buried, even as the songster who lamented her untimely
death in immortal verse lies buried out here in the graveyard. What
interesting associations has this church for me, both outside and in, but
all connected with Huw; for what should I have known of Barbara, the
Rose, and gallant Richard but for the poem on their affectionate union
and untimely separation, the dialogue between the living and the dead,
composed by humble Huw, the farmer’s son of Ponty y Meibion?”
After gazing through the window till my eyes watered I turned to the
innkeeper, and inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr. Having received from him
the desired information I thanked him for his civility, and set out on my
return.
Before I could get clear of the town I suddenly encountered my friend
R---, the clever lawyer and magistrate’s clerk of Llangollen.
“I little expected to see you here,” said he.
“Nor I you,” I replied.
“I came in my official capacity,” said he; “the petty sessions have been
held here to-day.”
“I know they have,” I replied; “and that two poachers have been
convicted. I came here on my way to South Wales to see the grave of Huw
Morris, who, as you know, is buried in the churchyard.”
“Have you seen the clergyman?” said R---.
“No,” I replied.
“Then come with me,” said he; “I am now going to call upon him. I know
he will be rejoiced to make your acquaintance.”
He led me to the clergyman’s house, which stood at the south-west end of
the village within a garden fenced with an iron paling. We found the
clergyman in a nice comfortable parlour or study, the sides of which were
decorated with books. He was a sharp clever-looking man, of about the
middle age. On my being introduced to him he was very glad to see me, as
my friend R--- told me he would be. He seemed to know all about me, even
that I understood Welsh. We conversed on various subjects: on the power
of the Welsh language; its mutable letters; on Huw Morris, and likewise
on ale, with an excellent glass of which he regaled me. I was much
pleased with him, and thought him a capital specimen of the Welsh country
clergyman. His name was Walter Jones.
After staying about half-an-hour I took leave of the good kind man, who
wished me all kind of happiness, spiritual and temporal, and said that he
should always be happy to see me at Llan Silin. My friend R--- walked
with me a little way and then bade me farewell. It was now late in the
afternoon, the sky was grey and gloomy, and a kind of half wintry wind
was blowing. In the forenoon I had travelled along the eastern side of
the valley, which I will call that of Llan Rhyadr, directing my course to
the north, but I was now on the western side of the valley, journeying
towards the south. In about half-an-hour I found myself nearly parallel
with the high crag which I had seen from a distance in the morning. It
was now to the east of me. Its western front was very precipitous, but
on its northern side it was cultivated nearly to the summit. As I stood
looking at it from near the top of a gentle acclivity a boy with a team,
whom I had passed a little time before, came up. He was whipping his
horses, who were straining up the ascent, and was swearing at them most
frightfully in English. I addressed him in that language, inquiring the
name of the crag, but he answered Dim Saesneg, and then again fell to
cursing; his horses in English. I allowed him and his team to get to the
top of the ascent, and then overtaking him, I said in Welsh: “What do you
mean by saying you have no English? You were talking English just now to
your horses.”
“Yes,” said the lad, “I have English enough for my horses, and that is
all.”
“You seem to have plenty of Welsh,” said I; “why don’t you speak Welsh to
your horses?”
“It’s of no use speaking Welsh to them,” said the boy; “Welsh isn’t
strong enough.”
“Isn’t Myn Diawl tolerably strong?” said I.
“Not strong enough for horses,” said the boy “if I were to say Myn Diawl
to my horses, or even Cas András, they would laugh at me.”
“Do the other carters,” said I, “use the same English to their horses
which you do to yours?”
“Yes” said the boy, “they’ll all use the same English words; if they
didn’t the horses wouldn’t mind them.”
“What a triumph,” thought I, “for the English language that the Welsh
carters are obliged to have recourse to its oaths and execrations to make
their horses get on!”
I said nothing more to the boy on the subject of language, but again
asked him the name of the crag. “It is called Craig y Gorllewin,” said
he. I thanked him, and soon left him and his team far behind.
Notwithstanding what the boy said about the milk-and-water character of
native Welsh oaths, the Welsh have some very pungent execrations, quite
as efficacious, I should say, to make a horse get on as any in the
English swearing vocabulary. Some of their oaths are curious, being
connected with heathen times and Druidical mythology; for example that
Cas András, mentioned by the boy, which means hateful enemy or horrible
András. András or Andraste was the fury or Demigorgon of the Ancient
Cumry, to whom they built temples and offered sacrifices out of fear.
Curious that the same oath should be used by the Christian Cumry of the
present day, which was in vogue amongst their pagan ancestors some three
thousand years ago. However, the same thing is observable amongst us
Christian English: we say the Duse take you! even as our heathen Saxon
forefathers did, who worshipped a kind of Devil so called, and named a
day of the week after him, which name we still retain in our hebdomadal
calendar like those of several other Anglo-Saxon devils. We also say: Go
to old Nick! and Nick or Nikkur was a surname of Woden, and also the name
of a spirit which haunted fords and was in the habit of drowning
passengers.
Night came quickly upon me after I had passed the swearing lad. However,
I was fortunate enough to reach Llan Rhyadr, without having experienced
any damage or impediment from Diawl, András, Duse, or Nick.