Lampeter—The Monk Austin—The Three Publicans—The Tombstone—Sudden
Change—Trampers—A Catholic—The Bridge of Twrch.
The country between Llan Ddewi and Lampeter presented nothing remarkable,
and I met on the road nothing worthy of being recorded. On arriving at
Lampeter I took a slight refreshment at the inn, and then went to see the
college which stands a little way to the north of the town. It was
founded by Bishop Burgess in the year 1820, for the education of youths
intended for the ministry of the Church of England. It is a neat
quadrate edifice with a courtyard in which stands a large stone basin.
From the courtyard you enter a spacious dining-hall, over the door of
which hangs a well-executed portrait of the good bishop. From the hall
you ascend by a handsome staircase to the library, a large and lightsome
room, well stored with books in various languages. The grand curiosity
is a manuscript Codex containing a Latin synopsis of Scripture which once
belonged to the monks of Bangor Is Coed. It bears marks of blood with
which it was sprinkled when the monks were massacred by the heathen
Saxons, at the instigation of Austin the Pope’s missionary in Britain.
The number of students seldom exceeds forty.
It might be about half-past two in the afternoon when I left Lampeter. I
passed over a bridge, taking the road to Llandovery which, however, I had
no intention of attempting to reach that night, as it was considerably
upwards of twenty miles distant. The road lay, seemingly, due east.
After walking very briskly for about an hour I came to a very small
hamlet consisting of not more than six or seven houses; of these three
seemed to be public-houses, as they bore large flaming signs. Seeing
three rather shabby-looking fellows standing chatting with their hands in
their pockets, I stopped and inquired in English the name of the place.
“Pen--- something,” said one of them, who had a red face and a large
carbuncle on his nose, which served to distinguish him from his
companions, who though they had both very rubicund faces had no
carbuncles.
“It seems rather a small place to maintain three public-houses,” said I;
“how do the publicans manage to live?”
“Oh, tolerably well, sir; we get bread and cheese and have a groat in our
pockets. No great reason to complain; have we, neighbours?”
“No! no great reason to complain,” said the other two.
“Dear me!” said I; “are you the publicans?”
“We are, sir,” said the man with the carbuncle on his nose, “and shall be
each of us glad to treat you to a pint in his own house in order to
welcome you to Shire Car—shan’t we, neighbours?”
“Yes, in truth we shall,” said the other two.
“By Shire Car,” said I, “I suppose you mean Shire Cardigan?”
“Shire Cardigan!” said the man; “no indeed; by Shire Car is meant
Carmarthenshire. Your honour has left beggarly Cardigan some way behind
you. Come, your honour, come and have a pint; this is my house,” said
he, pointing to one of the buildings.
“But,” said I, “I suppose if I drink at your expense you expect to drink
at mine?”
“Why, we can’t say that we shall have any objection, your honour; I think
we will arrange the matter in this way; we will go into my house, where
we will each of us treat your honour with a pint, and for each pint we
treat your honour with your honour shall treat us with one.”
“Do you mean each?” said I.
“Why, yes! your honour, for a pint amongst three would be rather a short
allowance.”
“Then it would come to this,” said I, “I should receive three pints from
you three, and you three would receive nine from me.”
“Just so, your honour, I see your honour is a ready reckoner.”
“I know how much three times three make,” said I. “Well, thank you,
kindly, but I must decline your offer; I am bound on a journey.”
“Where are you bound to, master?”
“To Llandovery, but if I can find an inn a few miles farther on I shall
stop there for the night.”
“Then you will put up at the ‘Pump Saint,’ master; well, you can have
your three pints here and your three pipes too, and yet get easily there
by seven. Come in, master, come in! If you take my advice you will
think of your pint and your pipe and let all the rest go to the devil.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I can’t accept your invitation, I must be off;”
and in spite of yet more pressing solicitations I went on.
I had not gone far when I came to a point where the road parted into two;
just at the point were a house and premises belonging apparently to a
stonemason, as a great many pieces of half-cut granite were standing
about, and not a few tombstones. I stopped and looked at one of the
latter. It was to the memory of somebody who died at the age of
sixty-six, and at the bottom bore the following bit of poetry:—
“Ti ddaear o ddaear ystyria mewn braw,
Mai daear i ddaear yn fuan a ddaw;
A ddaear mewn ddaear raid aros bob darn
Nes daear o ddaear gyfrodir i farn.”
“Thou earth from earth reflect with anxious mind
That earth to earth must quickly be consigned,
And earth in earth must lie entranced enthralled
Till earth from earth to judgment shall be called.”
“What conflicting opinions there are in this world,” said I, after I had
copied the quatrain and translated it. “The publican yonder tells me to
think of my pint and pipe and let everything else go to the devil, and
the tombstone here tells me to reflect with dread—a much finer expression
by-the-bye than reflect with anxious mind, as I have got it—that in a
very little time I must die, and lie in the ground till I am called to
judgment. Now, which is most right, the tombstone or the publican? Why,
I should say the tombstone decidedly. The publican is too sweeping when
he tells you to think of your pint and pipe and nothing else. A pint and
pipe are good things. I don’t smoke myself, but I daresay a pipe is a
good thing for them who like it, but there are certainly things worth
being thought of in this world besides a pint and pipe—hills and dales,
woods and rivers, for example—death and judgment too are worthy now and
then of very serious thought. So it won’t do to go with the publican the
whole hog. But with respect to the tombstone, it is quite safe and right
to go with it its whole length. It tells you to think of death and
judgment—and assuredly we ought to of them. It does not, however, tell
you to think of nothing but death and judgment and to eschew every
innocent pleasure within your reach. If it did it would be a tombstone
quite as sweeping in what it says as the publican, who tells you to think
of your pint and pipe and let everything else go to the devil. The
wisest course evidently is to blend the whole of the philosophy of the
tombstone with a portion of the philosophy of the publican and something
more, to enjoy one’s pint and pipe and other innocent pleasures, and to
think every now and then of death and judgment—that is what I intend to
do, and indeed is what I have done for the last thirty years.”
I went on—desolate hills rose in the east, the way I was going, but on
the south were beautiful hillocks adorned with trees and hedge-rows. I
was soon amongst the desolate hills, which then looked more desolate than
they did at a distance. They were of a wretched russet colour, and
exhibited no other signs of life and cultivation than here and there a
miserable field and vile-looking hovel; and if there was here nothing to
cheer the eye there was also nothing to cheer the ear. There were no
songs of birds, no voices of rills; the only sound I heard was the lowing
of a wretched bullock from a far-off slope.
I went on slowly and heavily; at length I got to the top of this wretched
range—then what a sudden change! Beautiful hills in the far east, a fair
valley below me, and groves and woods on each side of the road which led
down to it. The sight filled my veins with fresh life, and I descended
this side of the hill as merrily as I had come up the other side
despondingly. About half-way down the hill I came to a small village.
Seeing a public-house I went up to it, and inquired in English of some
people within the name of the village.
“Dolwen,” said a dark-faced young fellow of about four-and-twenty.
“And what is the name of the valley?” said I.
“Dolwen,” was the answer, “the valley is named after the village.”
“You mean that the village is named after the valley,” said I, “for
Dolwen means fair valley.”
“It may be so,” said the young fellow, “we don’t know much here.”
Then after a moment’s pause he said:
“Are you going much farther?”
“Only as far as the ‘Pump Saint.’”
“Have you any business there?” said he.
“No,” I replied, “I am travelling the country, and shall only put up
there for the night.”
“You had better stay here,” said the young fellow. “You will be better
accommodated here than at the ‘Pump Saint.’”
“Very likely,” said I; “but I have resolved to go there, and when I once
make a resolution I never alter it.”
Then bidding him good evening I departed. Had I formed no resolution at
all about stopping at the ‘Pump Saint,’ I certainly should not have
stayed in this house, which had all the appearance of a trampers’
hostelry, and though I am very fond of the conversation of trampers, who
are the only people from whom you can learn anything, I would much rather
have the benefit of it abroad than in their own lairs. A little farther
down I met a woman coming up the ascent. She was tolerably respectably
dressed, seemed about five-and-thirty, and was rather good-looking. She
walked somewhat slowly, which was probably more owing to a large bundle
which she bore in her hand than to her path being up-hill.
“Good evening,” said I, stopping.
“Good evening, your honour,” said she, stopping and brightly panting.
“Do you come from far?” said I.
“Not very far, your honour, but quite far enough for a poor feeble
woman.”
“Are you Welsh?” said I.
“Och no! your honour; I am Mary Bane from Dunmanway in the kingdom of
Ireland.”
“And what are you doing here?” said I.
“Och sure! I am travelling the country with soft goods.”
“Are you going far?” said I.
“Merely to the village a little farther up, your honour.”
“I am going farther,” said I, “I am thinking of passing the night at the
‘Pump Saint.’”
“Well, then, I would just advise your honour to do no such thing, but to
turn back with me to the village above, where there is an illigant inn
where your honour will be well accommodated.”
“Oh, I saw that as I came past,” said I; “I don’t think there is much
accommodation there.”
“Oh, your honour is clane mistaken; there is always an illigant fire and
an illigant bed too.”
“Is there only one bed?” said I.
“Oh, yes, there are two beds, one for the accommodation of the people of
the house and the other for that of the visitors.”
“And do the visitors sleep together then?” said I.
“Oh yes! unless they wish to be unsociable. Those who are not disposed
to be sociable sleeps in the chimney-corners.”
“Ah,” said I, “I see it is a very agreeable inn; however, I shall go on
to the ‘Pump Saint.’”
“I am sorry for it, your honour, for your honour’s sake; your honour
won’t be half so illigantly served at the ‘Pump Saint’ as there above.”
“Of what religion are you?” said I.
“Oh, I’m a Catholic, just like your honour, for if I am not clane
mistaken your honour is an Irishman.”
“Who is your spiritual director?” said I.
“Why, then, it is just Father Toban, your honour, whom of course your
honour knows.”
“Oh yes!” said I; “when you next see him present my respects to him.”
“What name shall I mention, your honour?”
“Shorsha Borroo,” said I.
“Oh, then I was right in taking your honour for an Irishman. None but a
raal Paddy bears that name. A credit to your honour is your name, for it
is a famous name, {17} and a credit to your name is your honour, for it
is a neat man without a bend you are. God bless your honour and good
night! and may you find dacent quarters in the ‘Pump Saint.’”
Leaving Mary Bane I proceeded on my way. The evening was rather fine but
twilight was coming rapidly on. I reached the bottom of the valley and
soon overtook a young man dressed something like a groom. We entered
into conversation. He spoke Welsh and a little English. His Welsh I had
great difficulty in understanding, as it was widely different from that
which I had been accustomed to. He asked me where I was going to; I
replied to the “Pump Saint,” and then enquired if he was in service.
“I am,” said he.
“With whom do you live?” said I.
“With Mr Johnes of Dol Cothi,” he answered.
Struck by the word Cothi, I asked if Dol Cothi was ever called Glyn
Cothi.
“Oh yes,” said he, “frequently.”
“How odd,” thought I to myself, “that I should have stumbled all of a
sudden upon the country of my old friend Lewis Glyn Cothi, the greatest
poet after Ab Gwilym of all Wales!”
“Is Cothi a river?” said I to my companion.
“It is,” said he.
Presently we came to a bridge over a small river.
“Is this river the Cothi?” said I.
“No,” said he, “this is the Twrch; the bridge is called Pont y Twrch.”
“The bridge of Twrch or the hog,” said I to myself; “there is a bridge of
the same name in the Scottish Highlands, not far from the pass of the
Trossachs. I wonder whether it has its name from the same cause as this,
namely, from passing over a river called the Twrch or Torck, which word
in Gaelic signifies boar or hog even as it does in Welsh.” It had now
become nearly dark. After proceeding some way farther I asked the groom
if we were far from the inn of the “Pump Saint.”
“Close by,” said he, and presently pointing to a large building on the
right-hand side he said: “This is the inn of the ‘Pump Saint,’ sir. Nos
Da’chi!”