ANGLESEY
The “Mother of Wales”--Agricola--Invades Môn--Mines--Caswallon
Long-hand--Drives out the Irish--Conquest by
Edwin--Aberffraw--Characteristics of Anglesey--Plas
Llanfair--Llandyssilio--Llansadwrn--Inscribed stone of
Sadwrn--Prophecy--Beaumaris--Bulkeley monuments--Penmon--Church of
S. Seiriol--Old gallows--Puffin Isle--Maelgwn Gwynedd--Gildas--Loss
of the _Rothesay Castle_--Tin Sylwy--English and Welsh
inscriptions--Monument of Iestyn--His story--The Three
Leaps--Amlwch--Llaneilian--John Jones--Llanbadrig--The witches of
Llanddona--Goronwy Owen--Lewis Morris.
ANGLESEY is called the “Mother of Wales,” apparently because of its
fertility and as supplying the mountain districts of the Principality
with corn.
It has not the rugged beauty of the greater portion of Wales--there
is, however, some bold coast scenery on the north and the west--but it
possesses one great charm, the magnificent prospects it affords of the
Snowdon chain and group and of the heights of Lleyn. Its Welsh name
is Môn, which was Latinised into Mona, and it did not acquire that of
Anglesey till this was given to it by King Egbert in 828. We first hear
of it in A.D. 78, when the Roman general Cn. Julius Agricola was sent
into Britain. He at once marched against the Ordovices, who occupied
Powys.
[Illustration: HOLYHEAD, AT RHOSCOLYN]
As represented by Tacitus, Agricola was a Roman of the purest type, a
man sincere, faithful, and affectionate in his domestic relations, and
gracious in his behaviour to all men. He was upright in his dealings,
a fine soldier, an able general, but inflexible in his dealings with
the enemies of Rome. The ancient Roman was filled with the conviction
that the gods had predestined the City on the Seven Hills to rule all
nations and languages, and that such as resisted were to be treated as
the enemies of the gods. No mercy was to be accorded to them. Much of
the same principle actuated the generals of the Republic and the Empire
as did the followers of the Prophet. With one it was Rome, with the
other Islam, or the sword.
The Ordovices had been most stubborn in their opposition, and most
difficult to restrain within bounds. In a short but decisive campaign
Agricola so severely chastised them that his biographer says that he
almost literally exterminated them. This is certainly an exaggeration,
but it implies the hewing to pieces of the chiefs and free men capable
of bearing the sword who fell into his hands. Cæsar had treated the
Cadurci, after their gallant stand at Uxellodunum, in the same way,
and again the Veneti of Armorica, without a shadow of compunction.
Whatsoever people opposed Rome was guilty of a capital crime, and must
be dealt with accordingly. Agricola now pushed on to the Menai Straits,
beyond which he could see the undulating land of Mona, the shore lined
with Britons in paint, and brandishing their weapons, whilst behind
them were ranged the Druids and bards inciting them to victory with
their incantations and songs.
We can determine with some confidence the spot where Agricola stood
contemplating the last stronghold of the Briton and its defenders. It
was at Dinorwic, where now plies a ferry.
He waited till the strong current of the tide had run to exhaustion and
left a long stretch of sand on the further side. The Britons seeing
that he was without ships feared nothing.
But they were speedily convinced of their mistake. Agricola’s
auxiliaries, probably natives of the low lands at the mouth of the
Rhine, had no fear of the water, plunged in, and gallantly swam across
the channel.
A massacre ensued; the island was subjugated, and Roman remains found
on it in several places testify that the conquerors of the world
planted troops there in camp to keep Mona in complete control. They
worked the copper mines near Amlwch.
[Illustration: SERIGI. A STATUE AT CAERGYBI]
As the Roman power failed in Britain, Mona became the stronghold of the
invading Gwyddyl or Irish; they held it, and erected on its commanding
heights their stone-walled fortresses, and it was not till the time of
Caswallon Long-hand, grandson of Cunedda, that they were dislodged.
He fought them in a series of battles, drove them from their strong
castles faced with immense slabs of granite, such as Tin Sylwy, swept
them together into Holy Island, then broke in on their last remaining
fortress. According to legend, Caswallon was obliged to fasten his
Britons together with horse-hobbles, to constrain them to fight by
taking away from them the chance of escape by running away. With his
own hand he slew Serigi, the Irish chief, near the entrance to the
camp, and those of the Gwyddyl who did not escape in their boats were
put to the sword. By an odd freak much like ours in glorifying De Wet
and Lucas Meyer, the Welsh agreed to consider their late enemy as a
martyr, and a chapel was erected where he fell, and he is figured, very
shock-headed and bearing the short sword wherewith he was killed, in a
niche of the doorway of the church which now stands in the midst of the
old Gwyddyl fortress.
Caswallon set up his residence on the hill above Llaneilian, where the
foundations may still be traced--a spot whence in the declining day the
mountains of Wicklow may be seen, the Isle of Man stands out to the
north, and in clear weather Helvellyn may be distinguished on the rim
of the blue sea.
Edwin, king of Northumbria, conquered both Mona and the Isle of Man in
625. The place of his landing is still pointed out at Lleiniog, near
Beaumaris, and a mound of the Anglo-Saxon type remains to show where
was his first camp. Here also Hugh the Fat, Earl of Chester, was killed
by the arrow of Magnus Barefoot. But of this more presently. Driven
from Deganwy, on the Conway, the kings of Gwynedd made their residence
at Aberffraw, in Mona. Of that palace there are but scanty traces.
There is something remarkable in the character of Anglesey. The bold
mountains of Wales come to an abrupt fall at the Menai Straits, and
thence the island stretches west in low undulation rising nowhere to
any considerable elevation, and scored across with depressions from
north to south, feeble and imperfect replicas of the Menai Straits. One
is the furrow occupied by the Malldraeth morass and sands, but this
does not cut completely across the island. The other is more thorough;
it severs Holy Island from the main body of Môn, but it is so narrow
that it has been bridged at Penybont and the railway crosses it on a
causeway at Valley.
Anglesey does not impress the visitor as being so fertile as has been
supposed. There are long stretches of morass and moor strewn with
pools. But perhaps Môn was first called the “Mother of Wales” because
to it, as to a mother’s lap, retreated the Cymry when beaten, wounded,
and sore before their oppressors. If so, it soon ceased to be their
place of refuge, but formed a _point d’appui_ for their enemies, whence
to strike at them from the rear.
Mona, as already said, does not present us with very striking scenery,
except on the coast, but it teems with interest in other ways. It
is dotted with monuments of the primeval inhabitants--cromlechs and
meini-hirion (the plural of maen-hir). It possesses very well preserved
camps of the Gwyddyl invaders. It was first the sanctuary and school of
the Druids, and after that, of their spiritual successors, the Saints.
The slope of Mona towards the east is well timbered and studded with
mansions, the park of Plas Newydd, the residence of the Marquess of
Anglesey, Plas Llanfair, and the palace of the Bishop of Bangor. This
prelate had his residence near the Cathedral, but this has been sold,
and a lordly mansion has been given to him on the Straits, where he can
turn his back on his Anglesey clergy, and say to the rest, “Between us
and you there is a great gulf fixed.” The beautiful suspension bridge
erected by Telford crosses the Straits at their sweetest spot. Here
the channel is broken by a little island occupied by the graveyard and
church of Llandyssilio. The church is of no architectural interest. It
was founded by Tyssilio, one of the sons of Brochwel Ysgythrog, prince
of Powys, when he ran away from Meifod to escape the blandishment of an
over-affectionate sister-in-law.
Llansadwrn Church, beautifully situated and carefully restored,
contains the tombstone of its patron saint. This is a small block,
now broken, that was found under the wall of the north transept, and
is now let into the side of the chancel. It bears the inscription:
_Hic Beatu(s) Saturninus Se(pultus I)acit. Et Sua Sa(ncta) Coniux.
P(ax)_. The knight was an Armorican prince, and the brother of S.
Illtyd, founder of Llantwit Major, in Glamorganshire. Sadwrn and his
wife Canna, who was his cousin, left Armorica, owing probably to some
family unpleasantness. After his death she married again, and became
the mother of Elian the Pilgrim, of whom we shall have something to say
presently. In the very interesting church of Beaumaris is a tomb the
sides of which are decorated with delicately carved figures of Anglesey
saints, and among these are two that may be taken to represent Sadwrn
and his wife. He is shown in armour, his sword sheathed, and holding a
pilgrim’s staff in his left hand, whilst giving a benediction with the
right.
When the tubular bridge for the railway was built it was considered
that a prophecy made by a Welsh bard had been fulfilled, wherein he
spoke of rising from his bed in Mona, of breakfasting in Chester,
of lunching in Ireland, and of returning to sup in Mona. But the
required speed to Ireland has not yet been attained. Another meaning or
interpretation has been put on the words of Robyn Ddu. He was living
at Holyhead when he wrote the lines in question, and there were two
boats by the quay, one from Chester and the other from Dublin, and
he breakfasted with the captain at his table in the first boat, took
his midday meal in the cabin of the second, and returned to his own
quarters to sup and sleep.
Beaumaris is a sleepy little place, only waking to life when the
bathing season sets in. The castle was erected by Edward I., and took
its name from its situation on the Fair Marsh. It is not a particularly
striking building, and is far gone in ruin.
The church, however, which is of the same period, and due to Edward
I., is worth a visit. The side aisles contain five two-light Decorated
windows. The chancel is Late Perpendicular, with a very poor east
window containing some fragments of stained glass. The arcade of the
church is Perpendicular. In the vestry are Bulkeley monuments, removed
at the Dissolution from Penmon. From Beaumaris a delightful excursion
may be made to Penmon, which was a great nursery of saints for Gwynedd.
It would be hard to find anywhere a sweeter or sunnier spot. The hills
fold around the little dell in which lies the church, shutting off the
gales from north and east and west, and open only to the south to let
in the sun.
Unhappily a marble quarry is close by, and is eating into one of the
arms that is wrapped lovingly about the old site, and will in time eat
its way through.
In the combe, among ancient walnut and chestnut trees and flowering
elder, are some relics of the monastery and its Norman priory church.
The foundation of the cloister may be traced. The church is cruciform,
and is aisleless. The south transept contains rich Norman arcades,
and the arch into this transept is of the same period and of equal
richness. A square font in the nave, covered with interlaced and key
work, is the base of an old Celtic cross. A Norman doorway on the south
side gives admission to the nave. This has knotwork and a monster
biting its tail in the tympanum. The chancel is three steps below the
level of the nave. A fine cross is in the south transept, taken out of
the ruins of the priory, where it had served as lintel to a mediæval
window.
S. Seiriol, the founder, is represented in stained glass of the
fifteenth century in a window of the south transept, and a bishop,
probably S. Elian, in one of the north transept. Near the church is the
holy well of the saint, gushing forth from under a rock, and filling
what was once the priory fishpond. The well is now in request mainly by
such as desire to know what is in store for them in their love affairs,
by dropping in pins and forming wishes.
About a mile distant, on a height where the rock comes to the surface,
are four holes--the sockets for a pair of gallows, as the Prior of
Penmon had seigneurial rights, and could hang misdoers.
Just off the coast is Ynys Seiriol, or Puffin Island, with the tower
and ruins of a church on it. Hither retreated the monks of the first
Celtic monastery to die and to be buried, and the soil is dense with
their bones. The rabbits turn them up when burrowing. Here, according
to tradition, Maelgwn, king of Gwynedd, was buried in 547. He was
son of Caswallon, who drove the Irish out of Anglesey. Maelgwn was
a remarkable man, tall and noble of countenance, and a masterful
prince. He incurred the wrath of the ecclesiastics because he had once
been a monk and had thrown aside the cowl. He was not particularly
scrupulous about the rights of sanctuary claimed by the saints, and he
was imperious in requisitioning meals of them when hunting in their
neighbourhood.
[Illustration: S. SEIRIOL. STAINED GLASS, PENMON]
He was, however, large-hearted and liberal, and when Caw, a prince of
Strathclyde, and his sons came helter-skelter into Gwynedd, flying from
the Picts, he generously received them and gave them lands in Anglesey.
Somewhat later, Gildas the historian, one of the sons of Caw, when
himself safe in Brittany, wrote his venomous letter on the _Destruction
of Britain_, and thus indecently and ungratefully attacked Maelgwn, the
protector of his family:--
“Thou island dragon, first in wickedness, exceeding others in power
and in malice, _liberal in giving_, but more prompt in sin, strong in
arms, but stronger in what destroys the soul, why dost thou wallow in
such a black pool of crimes? Why dost thou lade thy neck with such
loads of heavy crimes? Thy conversion once on a time brought as much
joy as now thy accursed reversion to thy disgusting vomit, like a sick
dog, has caused sorrow. Thy ears are not given to listen to sacred
hymns, but to the bawling of a rascally crew howling out lies and
frothing phlegm, bespattering everyone round about.”
Probably Maelgwn was not a good man, but the family of Gildas owed
every yard of land it possessed to his munificence. By a word only
does Gildas allude to their indebtedness to him; not an indication
appears of loving pity--all is scurrilous abuse of the most insulting
description. He was a sixth-century counterpart of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne’s
Captain Owen Kettle, a curious combination of narrow religiousness and
foulmouthedness. No wonder that in Brittany his symbol is a snarling
cur. And the meanness of the man is conspicuous throughout. So long as
his own skin was safe from the lash it deserved, he gave no thought to
his kinsmen living under the protection of Maelgwn and other princes
against whom he inveighed--with what unpleasant consequences to them we
shall see presently.
At Ruys, in the Morbihan, is a very beautiful marble statue of him, set
up by his tomb a few years ago. It represents a young monk with angelic
face, and a mouth in which butter would not melt. It is too funny for
words to look at that idealised portrait and read the _Destruction of
Britain_.
And now the bones of Maelgwn lie in Ynys Seiriol. In 1897 some
excavations were made on the island by Mr. Harold Hughes, who says:--
“On removing the debris of centuries”--near the ruined church--“with
the aid of pick and shovel we have succeeded in making a considerable
clearing immediately to the east of the structure. We discovered at
about four feet from the surface an ancient tomb. Beneath the rough
clay, worn slabs, and covered with shingle from the shore, lay within
a narrow inclosure, with feet to the east, the skeleton of a man.
Although portions of the skeleton had crumbled away, many fragments
remained, and these, after much difficulty, I pieced together.”
Was this, one may ask, the tomb of the famous Maelgwn Gwynedd?
From the island a reef runs into the sea, called the Causeway of
Seiriol, and it is supposed that it was constructed by the saint as
a means of communication with Penmaen Mawr. It disappears under the
Dutchman’s Bank, a sandy stretch that obstructs the entrance to the
Menai Straits. Hereon, in 1831, the _Rothesay Castle_ was cast, when a
hundred lives were lost. Miss Martineau, in her _History of the Thirty
Years’ Peace_, tells a striking story of this wreck:--
“Two men, strangers to each other, found themselves holding on to the
same plank, which, it soon appeared, would support only one. Each
desired the other to hold on, the one because his companion was old,
the other because his companion was young, and they quitted their
grasp at the same moment. By extraordinary accidents both were saved,
each without the knowledge of the other, and they met on the shore in
great surprise. Few greetings in the course of human life can be so
sweet and moving as must have been that of these two heroes.”
The country for some distance west of Penmon is commanded by Tin Sylwy
or Bwrdd Arthur as it is also called. It rises 500 feet above the
sea and is crowned by a fortification. The wall is of stone unset in
mortar, faced within and without with slabs set on end, and within the
area are faint traces of _cytiau_ or circular huts of stone, such as
are traditionally attributed to the Irish. Some excavations have been
made here, but not on an extensive scale, and Roman coins and Samian
ware have been found; but the extant walling assuredly belongs to
the Gwyddyl invasion and occupation. Below the camp, between it and
the church of Llanfihangel, is a holy well. In the graveyard may be
noticed a token of a change of feeling towards the Welsh tongue. To the
date 1860, or thereabouts, the inscriptions on the tombstones are in
English, after that date in Welsh.
There is nothing in the church of Llaniestyn but the very curious
carved slab with a full-length figure of the saint who founded the
church. One very similar and of the same period, the reign of Edward
III., is in Llanbabo Church. Iestyn was a son of Geraint, the heroic
king of Devon and Cornwall, who fell at Langport, in Somersetshire,
fighting against invaders, about the year 522. Iestyn was buried here.
He seems to have travelled, and it is probably of him that a pretty
story is told.
[Illustration: HOLY WELL, PENMON]
He had gone to Brittany, and had found a deserted habitation at
Plestin, of which he took possession. The hut had been constructed
by an Irish settler named Efflam, who had departed on a pilgrimage.
On his return Efflam found his cell in the occupation of a stranger.
The question arose as to which should have it. This they decided to
determine in the following manner. Both seated themselves in the cabin.
The day was overcast, but the clouds were breaking, and the sun was
nearing its setting. He on whom it first shone should retain the hovel.
Presently the clouds parted, and a golden ray shot in through the
little window and blazed on Efflam’s upturned face. Then Iestyn rose,
bowed, and withdrew, and ended his days in Mona. It is by an artist’s
licence that on the monument Iestyn is represented wearing a crown. He
was, indeed, a king’s son, but he never bore the royal circlet.
The somewhat similar monument is at Llanbabo, in the north-west of
the island. Pabo, after long and stubborn fighting against the Picts
in North Britain, was driven to take refuge in Wales, and was kindly
received by the prince of Powys. He bears the title of “The Pillar of
Britain.”
On the north coast is Pentraeth, at the head of Red Wharf Bay, and here
may be seen the Three Leaps, by which hangs a tale.
Einion, son of Gwalchmai, was lord of Trefeilir. Now there was a
young lady named Angharad, daughter of Ednyfed Fychan, who was so
beautiful, and was an heiress of so much, that she had many suitors.
As she professed herself unable to decide among such an _embarras de
richesses_ of nice young men, her father proposed that she should
marry the youth who could jump the furthest. She agreed. When the
suitors came to try their powers, Einion surpassed the rest, for with
a hop, skip, and a jump he covered fifty feet. The hop, skip, and jump
are marked by three stones, which remain to this day in the dingle of
Plas Gwyn. So Einion became the husband of Angharad.
His happiness was of short duration, for he was summoned by Owen
Gwynedd to assist in driving the Flemings out of South Wales, who had
been settled there by Henry I. This was in 1137. Einion was away for a
good many years, constantly engaged in fighting, and when he did return
to Trefeilir he found that on that day his wife had given her hand to
another suitor, supposing that Einion was dead. Einion remained without
and sent a servant within to summon her to come forth, and then,
striking his harp, he sang a lay of reproach that has been preserved.
Then he entered the house and ejected the gentleman who had presumed to
invade his premises.
The Parys Mountain rises to the height of 420 feet, and is pretty
completely honeycombed with mines, as it is an almost solid lump of
copper. It has been worked continually since the times of the Romans,
and had probably been quarried at in the Bronze Age before that.
The little town of Amlwch is dominated by this mountain. It consists of
two parts, the town proper and the port, and a considerable manufacture
of chemical manures is carried on in it. Altogether Amlwch is in itself
not a particularly attractive place. It has many spots of interest
about it, and from it can be reached Bull Bay, where there are good
sands, and the place is growing in favour. To the east the adjoining
parish is Llaneilian, that possesses a quaint and interesting church,
which, however, has suffered cruelly from unintelligent “restoration.”
Like the majority of Welsh village churches, it has no side aisles; it
is a cross church, with battlements and a western tower, covered from
top to bottom in a panoply of slates. At the “restoration” the old oak
seats were cast forth to make room for deal benches in preference, and
the fine rood-screen with its loft had all the dainty tracery stripped
from its panels and openings and destroyed, so that now it is a mere
skeleton.
There is a curious little chapel at the south-east end of the church,
differently orientated, and with a covered passage to it from the
chancel.
This chapel has a well-preserved and good carved oak roof, which the
present rector has saved from destruction by damp. Here is the base of
the shrine of S. Elian. It is of wood, and the panels were formerly
carved, but the tracery is gone. Into this people crawled, and if they
succeeded in turning themselves about within, believed that they would
get cured of any disease they might have, or, according to another
version, would have their lives extended by five years.
A painting of S. Elian by an Italian artist of the seventeenth
century is kept in the church, but it is devoid of merit and is in
bad preservation. There is also a pair of wooden _gefail gwn_, or
dog-tongs, bearing the date 1748.
Above Llaneilian rises the hill on which was Caswallon’s _llys_, or
court. The story goes that Caswallon promised to Elian as much land
as a stag he was hunting could run round in the day, and the deer’s
spring, a leap over a rent in the rocks, is shown to this day, but it
is not any longer in the parish of the saint.
[Illustration: BASE OF SHRINE, LLANEILIAN]
A late rector of Llaneilian, John Jones, who died in 1870, and had
been curate of the parish for twenty years and after that rector for
thirty-three, kept his harper and also a pack of hounds.
To the west of Amlwch, in a bold situation, is Llanbadrig. The church
was founded, not by the Apostle of the Irish, but by a namesake who
lived later and was a member of S. Cybi’s monastery at Holyhead.
According to legend, when he was on his way back from Iona, where he
had visited S. Columba, his frail boat was wrecked on Ynys Badrig, or
the Middle Mouse, an islet off the coast. Patrick succeeded in making
his way to the land, drank of a fountain near the shore, and scrambled
up the rock, in which the marks of his feet are still to be seen, to
where is the church which he planted on the edge of the precipice in
commemoration of his providential escape.
Within the church is a very rude cross that may well date from the
time of S. Patrick. The niche at the east end of the chancel that now
contains a representation of “Salvator Mundi” has twisted serpents on
the pedestal, and formerly contained a figure of the patron saint, who
was confounded with the Apostle of Ireland.
The parish of Llanddona is in evil repute, as a nest of witches. The
story goes that a boat came ashore in Red Wharf Bay without rudder or
oars, containing women and men in a condition of great destitution.
They were Irish. Now it was a common custom in Ireland to punish
malefactors by putting them in a wicker-work coracle, covered by a
single hide, without allowing them oars or rudder. So when S. Patrick
converted Maughold, the robber, he bade him drift oarless on the sea,
his feet chained together. He was swept by the winds and waves to the
Isle of Man, and eventually became bishop there. Now when the good
people of Llanddona saw this boat come ashore thus unprovided with
the necessary apparatus for its guidance, they concluded that those
on board were criminals, and would have nothing to do with them. They
would have sent them adrift again had not a spring of clear water burst
forth on the sands where the coracle had come ashore. The spring still
flows. This was decisive as a token that Heaven accepted the punishment
of the crew, and desired them to rest where they had landed.
[Illustration: CROSS AT LLANBADRIG]
So these strangers remained, and were suffered to build cottages, but
for generations they continued apart from the Welsh inhabitants, and
they maintained their evil propensities. The men lived by smuggling,
and the women supported themselves by the exercise of witchcraft. It
was not possible to overcome the smugglers in a fray, for they carried
about with them a black fly tied in a knot of their kerchief, and the
moment that the knot was undone the fly flew at the eyes of their
opponents and blinded them. The women, old and young, were dreaded for
the power they possessed of cursing those who refused them whatsoever
they asked--a fowl, a loaf of bread, eggs, part of a pig. If this were
denied them, they would imprecate the most awful curses, of which here
is one:--
“May he wander for ages
And find at each step a stile,
And at every stile find a fall,
And at every fall a broken bone;
Not the largest, nor the least bone,
But the chief neck bone, each time.”
If the Llanddona witches attended a market, and bid for anything,
no one ventured to bid against them. But are not most Welsh girls
witches?--witches, however, that win and do not revolt like those of
Llanddona.
On the further side of Red Wharf Bay, where, by the way, there is an
hotel, and where lodgings may be had, is Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf.
There are three parishes of the name of Llanfair in the island.
Llanfair means the Llan or Church of S. Mary, the _M_ in combination
becoming _f_, as Llanfihangel signifies the Church of Mi[chael] the
Angel.
This Llanfair Mathafarn was the birthplace of Goronwy Owen, the poet.
He was born in 1722 of extremely poor parents, went to Oxford through
help of Edward Wynne, of Bodewryd. Subsequently Mr. Wynne despatched
him to Jesus College, Oxford, and maintained him there. From an early
age he gave indications of poetic genius, and he proved himself to be a
ripe scholar in the classic tongues.
He was ordained in 1745, and his great ambition was to obtain a Welsh
curacy and settle down in it. Lewis Morris did his best for him, but
all he could get was a temporary appointment to his native parish
Llanfair, where the curacy chanced to be vacant. But he had been there
only three weeks when he received notice from the Bishop of Bangor that
he must turn out to make way for a young clergyman of large independent
fortune; so Goronwy was obliged to depart. He sought curacies in Wales,
but could get no bishop to touch him with the ends of his fingers,
as he had no connections and no fortune. That he was deeply pious,
earnest, a scholar, an eloquent Welsh preacher, and a poet of singular
merit counted as nothing. Unhappily, though Goronwy was a genius, he
was given to drink, and could never remain long anywhere. At length
he obtained a curacy at Oswestry, and there he married. From Oswestry
he was removed to Donnington, in Shropshire, where his rector was a
Scotchman and an absentee, but being a Douglas, rich and with the means
of pushing himself, having neglected his duties as parish priest, he
managed to get himself nominated and consecrated Bishop of Salisbury.
Lewis Morris did his best to save the poet from his unfortunate vice,
but failed.
At Donnington poor Goronwy Owen not only acted as curate to the great
absentee rector, but also as master of the grammar school, and received
twenty-six pounds as his stipend. Thence he shifted, first into
Cheshire and then to Northolt, near London. In 1756 he was living in a
garret in town vainly soliciting employment in his sacred calling, and
undergoing with his family the utmost privations. His Welsh accent in
English stood in his way, and his brilliant Welsh qualifications were
not wanted in Wales. But, indeed, poor Goronwy, with all his gifts, was
not the man to do much spiritual work.
At length Lewis Morris obtained for Goronwy Owen the mastership of a
Government school at Williamsburg, in Virginia. Thither he went, and
there he died about the year 1770.
As Lewis Morris has been mentioned in connection with poor Goronwy
Owen, a few words must be devoted to him.
“Lewis Morris,” says George Borrow, “was born at a place called Trev
y Beirdd, in Anglesey, in the year 1700. Anglesey, or Mona, has given
birth to many illustrious men, but few, upon the whole, entitled to
more honourable mention than himself. From a humble situation in life,
for he served an apprenticeship to a cooper at Holyhead, he raised
himself by his industry and talents to affluence and distinction,
became a landed proprietor in the county of Cardigan, and inspector
of the royal domains and mines in Wales. Perhaps a man more generally
accomplished never existed; he was a first-rate mechanic, an expert
navigator, a great musician, both in theory and practice, and a poet
of singular excellence. Of him it was said, and with truth, that he
could build a ship and sail it, frame a harp and make it speak, write
an ode and set it to music. Though self-taught, he was confessedly the
best Welsh scholar of his age, and was well versed in those cognate
dialects of the Welsh--the Cornish, Armoric, Highland Gaelic, and
Irish.... It was he who first told his countrymen that there was a
youth in Anglesey whose genius, if properly encouraged, promised fair
to rival that of Milton; one of the most eloquent letters ever written
is one by him, in which he discants upon the beauties of certain poems
of Goronwy Owen, the latent genius of whose boyhood he had observed,
whom he had clothed, educated, and assisted up to the period when he
was ordained a minister of the Church, and whom he finally rescued
from a state bordering on starvation in London, procuring for him an
honourable appointment in the New World.”
Lewis Morris made a collection of Welsh MSS., consisting of about
eighty volumes, which are now in the British Museum. He died in 1765
and was buried at Llanbadarn Vawr, in Cardiganshire.