signifying Huw Morus Bard.
'Sit down in the chair, Gwr Boneddig,' said John Jones, 'you have taken
trouble enough to get to it.'
'Do, gentleman,' said the old lady; 'but first let me wipe it with my
apron, for it is very wet and dirty.'
'Let it be,' said I; then taking off my hat I stood uncovered before the
chair, and said in the best Welsh I could command, 'Shade of Huw Morus,
supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when
alive--a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this
place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever
ready to pay. He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the
most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that
he is a grey-haired man he is come to say in this place that they
frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture.'
I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw
Morus. All which I did in the presence of the stout old lady, the short,
buxom and bare-armed damsel, and of John Jones the Calvinistic weaver of
Llangollen, all of whom listened patiently and approvingly, though the
rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees and the
tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain
hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at
by the noble simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may
receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon.
* * * * *
For dinner we had salmon and leg of mutton; the salmon from the Dee, the
leg from the neighbouring Berwyn. The salmon was good enough, but I had
eaten better; and here it will not be amiss to say, that the best salmon
in the world is caught in the Suir, a river that flows past the beautiful
town of Clonmel in Ireland. As for the leg of mutton it was truly
wonderful; nothing so good had I ever tasted in the shape of a leg of
mutton. The leg of mutton of Wales beats the leg of mutton of any other
country, and I had never tasted a Welsh leg of mutton before. Certainly
I shall never forget that first Welsh leg of mutton which I tasted, rich
but delicate, replete with juices derived from the aromatic herbs of the
noble Berwyn, cooked to a turn, and weighing just four pounds.
* * * * *
Came to Tregeiriog, a small village, which takes its name from the brook;
Tregeiriog signifying the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog. Seeing a
bridge which crossed the rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a
little beyond the village, I turned aside to look at it. The proper
course of the Ceiriog is from south to north; where it is crossed by the
bridge, however, it runs from west to east, returning to its usual
course, a little way below the bridge. The bridge was small and
presented nothing remarkable in itself: I obtained, however, as I looked
over its parapet towards the west a view of a scene, not of wild
grandeur, but of something which I like better, which richly compensated
me for the slight trouble I had taken in stepping aside to visit the
little bridge. About a hundred yards distant was a small water mill,
built over the rivulet, the wheel going slowly, slowly round; large
quantities of pigs, the generality of them brindled, were either browsing
on the banks or lying close to the sides half immersed in the water; one
immense white hog, the monarch seemingly of the herd, was standing in the
middle of the current. Such was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a
scene of quiet rural life well suited to the brushes of two or three of
the old Dutch painters, or to those of men scarcely inferior to them in
their own style, Gainsborough, Morland, and Crome.
* * * * *
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.'
* * * * *
After the days of the great persecution in England against the Gypsies,
there can be little doubt that they lived a right merry and tranquil
life, wandering about and pitching their tents wherever inclination led
them: indeed, I can scarcely conceive any human condition more enviable
than Gypsy life must have been in England during the latter part of the
seventeenth, and the whole of the eighteenth century, which were likewise
the happy days for Englishmen in general; there was peace and plenty in
the land, a contented population, and everything went well. Yes, those
were brave times for the Rommany chals, to which the old people often
revert with a sigh: the poor Gypsies, say they, were then allowed to sove
abri (sleep abroad) where they listed, to heat their kettles at the foot
of the oaks, and no people grudged the poor persons one night's use of a
meadow to feed their cattle in.
Footnotes:
{147a} 'I, who am a smuggler.' The Spanish version, 'Yo que soy,' etc.,
is more familiar, and more harmonious.
{147b} 'When the king arrived.'