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Welsh Fairy Tales
By
WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS
1921
A PREFACE-LETTER TO MY GRANDFATHER
DEAR CAPTAIN JOHN GRIFFIS:
Although I never saw you, since you died in 1804, I am glad you were
one of those Welshmen who opposed the policy of King George III and
that you, after coming to America in 1783, were among the first sea
captains to carry the American flag around the world. That you knew
many of the Free Quakers and other patriots of the Revolution and that
they buried you among them, near Benjamin Franklin, is a matter of
pride to your descendants. That you were born in Wales and spoke
Welsh, as did also those three great prophets of spiritual liberty,
Roger Williams, William Penn, and Thomas Jefferson, is still further
ground for pride in one's ancestry. Now, in the perspective of history
we see that our Washington and his compeers and Wilkes, Barre, Burke
and the friends of America in Parliament were fighting the same battle
of Freedom. Though our debt to Wales for many things is great, we
count not least those inheritances from the world of imagination, for
which the Cymric Land was famous, even before the days of either
Anglo-Saxon or Norman.
W. E. G.
Saint David's and the day of the Daffodil, March 1, 1921.
CONTENTS
I. WELSH RABBIT AND HUNTED HARES
II. THE MIGHTY MONSTER AFANG
III. THE TWO CAT WITCHES
IV. HOW THE CYMRY LAND BECAME INHABITED
V. THE BOY THAT WAS NAMED TROUBLE
VI. THE GOLDEN HARP
VII. THE GREAT RED DRAGON OF WALES
VIII. THE TOUCH OF CLAY
IX. THE TOUCH OF IRON
X. THE MAIDEN OF THE GREEN FOREST
XI. THE TREASURE STONE OF THE FAIRIES
XII. GIANT TOM AND GIANT BLUBB
XIII. A BOY THAT VISITED FAIRYLAND
XIV. THE WELSHERY AND THE NORMANS
XV. THE WELSH FAIRIES HOLD A MEETING
XVI. KING ARTHUR'S CAVE
XVII. THE LADY OF THE LAKE
XVIII. THE KING'S FOOT HOLDER
XIX. POWELL, PRINCE OF DYFED
XX. POWELL AND HIS BRIDE
XXI. WHY THE BACK DOOR WAS FRONT
XXII. THE RED BANDITS OF MONTGOMERY
XXIII. THE FAIRY CONGRESS
XXIV. THE SWORD OF AVALON
I
WELSH RABBIT AND HUNTED HARES
Long, long ago, there was a good saint named David, who taught the
early Cymric or Welsh people better manners and many good things to
eat and ways of enjoying themselves.
Now the Welsh folks in speaking of their good teacher pronounced his
name Tafid and affectionately Taffy, and this came to be the usual
name for a person born in Wales. In our nurseries we all learned that
"Taffy was a Welshman," but it was their enemies who made a bad rhyme
about Taffy.
Wherever there were cows or goats, people could get milk. So they
always had what was necessary for a good meal, whether it were
breakfast, dinner or supper. Milk, cream, curds, whey and cheese
enriched the family table. Were not these enough?
But Saint David taught the people how to make a still more delicious
food out of cheese, and that this could be done without taking the
life of any creature.
Saint David showed the girls how to take cheese, slice and toast it
over the coals, or melt it in a skillet and pour it hot over toast or
biscuit. This gave the cheese a new and sweeter flavor. When spread on
bread, either plain, or browned over the fire, the result, in
combination, was a delicacy fit for a king, and equal to anything
known.
The fame of this new addition to the British bill of fare spread near
and far. The English people, who had always been fond of rabbit pie,
and still eat thousands of Molly Cotton Tails every day, named it
"Welsh Rabbit," and thought it one of the best things to eat. In fact,
there are many people, who do not easily see a joke, who misunderstand
the fun, or who suppose the name to be either slang, or vulgar, or a
mistake, and who call it "rarebit." It is like "Cape Cod turkey"
(codfish), or "Bombay ducks" (dried fish), or "Irish plums" (potatoes)
and such funny cookery with fancy names.
Now up to this time, the rabbits and hares had been so hunted with the
aid of dogs, that there was hardly a chance of any of them surviving
the cruel slaughter.
In the year 604, the Prince of Powys was out hunting. The dogs started
a hare, and pursued it into a dense thicket. When the hunter with the
horn came up, a strange sight met his eyes. There he saw a lovely
maiden. She was kneeling on the ground and devoutly praying. Though
surprised at this, the prince was anxious to secure his game. He
hissed on the hounds and ordered the horn to be blown, for the dogs to
charge on their prey, expecting them to bring him the game at once.
Instead of this, though they were trained dogs and would fight even a
wolf, they slunk away howling, and frightened, as if in pain, while
the horn stuck fast to the lips of the blower and he was silent.
Meanwhile, the hare nestled under the maiden's dress and seemed not in
the least disturbed.
Amazed at this, the prince turned to the fair lady and asked:
"Who are you?"
She answered, "My mother named me Monacella. I have fled from Ireland,
where my father wished to marry me to one of his chief men, whom I did
not love. Under God's guidance, I came to this secret desert place,
where I have lived for fifteen years, without seeing the face of man."
To this, the prince in admiration replied: "O most worthy Melangell
[which is the way the Welsh pronounce Monacella], because, on account
of thy merits, it has pleased God to shelter and save this little,
wild hare, I, on my part, herewith present thee with this land, to be
for the service of God and an asylum for all men and women, who seek
thy protection. So long as they do not pollute this sanctuary, let
none, not even prince or chieftain, drag them forth."
The beautiful saint passed the rest of her life in this place. At
night, she slept on the bare rock. Many were the wonders wrought for
those who with pure hearts sought her refuge. The little wild hares
were under her special protection, and they are still called
"Melangell's Lambs."
II
THE MIGHTY MONSTER AFANG
After the Cymric folk, that is, the people we call Welsh, had come up
from Cornwall into their new land, they began to cut down the trees,
to build towns, and to have fields and gardens. Soon they made the
landscape smile with pleasant homes, rich farms and playing children.
They trained vines and made flowers grow. The young folks made pets of
the wild animals' cubs, which their fathers and big brothers brought
home from hunting. Old men took rushes and reeds and wove them into
cages for song birds to live in.
While they were draining the swamps and bogs, they drove out the
monsters, that had made their lair in these wet places. These terrible
creatures liked to poison people with their bad breath, and even ate
up very little boys and girls, when they strayed away from home.
So all the face of the open country between the forests became very
pretty to look at. The whole of Cymric land, which then extended from
the northern Grampian Hills to Cornwall, and from the Irish Sea, past
their big fort, afterward called London, even to the edge of the
German Ocean, became a delightful place to live in.
The lowlands and the rivers, in which the tide rose and fell daily,
were especially attractive. This was chiefly because of the many
bright flowers growing there; while the yellow gorse and the pink
heather made the hills look as lovely as a young girl's face. Besides
this, the Cymric maidens were the prettiest ever, and the lads were
all brave and healthy; while both of these knew how to sing often and
well.
Now there was a great monster named the Afang, that lived in a big
bog, hidden among the high hills and inside of a dark, rough forest.
This ugly creature had an iron-clad back and a long tail that could
wrap itself around a mountain. It had four front legs, with big knees
that were bent up like a grasshopper's, but were covered with scales
like armor. These were as hard as steel, and bulged out at the thighs.
Along its back, was a ridge of horns, like spines, and higher than an
alligator's. Against such a tough hide, when the hunters shot their
darts and hurled their javelins, these weapons fell down to the
ground, like harmless pins.
On this monster's head, were big ears, half way between those of a
jackass and an elephant. Its eyes were as green as leeks, and were
round, but scalloped on the edges, like squashes, while they were as
big as pumpkins.
The Afang's face was much like a monkey's, or a gorilla's, with long
straggling gray hairs around its cheeks like those of a walrus. It
always looked as if a napkin, as big as a bath towel, would be
necessary to keep its mouth clean. Yet even then, it slobbered a good
deal, so that no nice fairy liked to be near the monster.
When the Afang growled, the bushes shook and the oak leaves trembled
on the branches, as if a strong wind was blowing.
But after its dinner, when it had swallowed down a man, or two calves,
or four sheep, or a fat heifer, or three goats, its body swelled up
like a balloon. Then it usually rolled over, lay along the ground, or
in the soft mud, and felt very stupid and sleepy, for a long while.
All around its lair, lay wagon loads of bones of the creatures, girls,
women, men, boys, cows, and occasionally a donkey, which it had
devoured.
But when the Afang was ravenously hungry and could not get these
animals and when fat girls and careless boys were scarce, it would
live on birds, beasts and fishes. Although it was very fond of cows
and sheep, yet the wool and hair of these animals stuck in its big
teeth, it often felt very miserable and its usually bad temper grew
worse.
Then, like a beaver, it would cut down a tree, sharpen it to a point
and pick its teeth until its mouth was clean. Yet it seemed all the
more hungry and eager for fresh human victims to eat, especially juicy
maidens; just as children like cake more than bread.
The Cymric men were not surprised at this, for they knew that girls
were very sweet and they almost worshiped women. So they learned to
guard their daughters and wives. They saw that to do such things as
eating up people was in the nature of the beast, which could never be
taught good manners.
But what made them mad beyond measure was the trick which the monster
often played upon them by breaking the river banks, and the dykes
which with great toil they had built to protect their crops. Then the
waters overflowed all their farms, ruined their gardens and spoiled
their cow houses and stables.
This sort of mischief the Afang liked to play, especially about the
time when the oat and barley crops were ripe and ready to be gathered
to make cakes and flummery; that is sour oat-jelly, or pap. So it
often happened that the children had to do without their cookies and
porridge during the winter. Sometimes the floods rose so high as to
wash away the houses and float the cradles. Even those with little
babies in them were often seen on the raging waters, and sent dancing
on the waves down the river, to the sea.
Once in a while, a mother cat and all her kittens were seen mewing for
help, or a lady dog howling piteously. Often it happened that both
puppies and kittens were drowned.
So, whether for men or mothers, pussies or puppies, the Cymric men
thought the time had come to stop this monster's mischief. It was bad
enough that people should be eaten up, but to have all their crops
ruined and animals drowned, so that they had to go hungry all winter,
with only a little fried fish, and no turnips, was too much for human
patience. There were too many weeping mothers and sorrowful fathers,
and squalling brats and animals whining for something to eat.
Besides, if all the oats were washed away, how could their wives make
flummery, without which, no Cymric man is ever happy? And where would
they get seed for another year's sowing? And if there were no cows,
how could the babies or kitties live, or any grown-up persons get
buttermilk?
Someone may ask, why did not some brave man shoot the Afang, with a
poisoned arrow, or drive a spear into him under the arms, where the
flesh was tender, or cut off his head with a sharp sword?
The trouble was just here. There were plenty of brave fellows, ready
to fight the monster, but nothing made of iron could pierce that hide
of his. This was like armor, or one of the steel battleships of our
day, and the Afang always spit out fire or poison breath down the
road, up which a man was coming, long before the brave fellow could
get near him. Nothing would do, but to go up into his lair, and drag
him out.
But what man or company of men was strong enough to do this, when a
dozen giants in a gang, with ropes as thick as a ship's hawser, could
hardly tackle the job?
Nevertheless, in what neither man nor giant could do, a pretty maiden
might succeed. True, she must be brave also, for how could she know,
but if hungry, the Afang might eat her up?
However, one valiant damsel, of great beauty, who had lots of
perfumery and plenty of pretty clothes, volunteered to bind the
monster in his lair. She said, "I'm not afraid." Her sweetheart was
named Gadern, and he was a young and strong hunter. He talked over the
matter with her and they two resolved to act together.
Gadern went all over the country, summoning the farmers to bring their
ox teams and log chains. Then he set the blacksmiths to work, forging
new and especially heavy ones, made of the best native iron, from the
mines, for which Wales is still famous.
Meanwhile, the lovely maiden arrayed herself in her prettiest clothes,
dressed her hair in the most enticing way, hanging a white blossom on
each side, over her ears, with one flower also at her neck.
When she had perfumed her garments, she sallied forth and up the lake
where the big bog and the waters were and where the monster hid
himself.
While the maiden was still quite a distance away, the terrible Afang,
scenting his visitor from afar, came rushing out of his lair. When
very near, he reared his head high in the air, expecting to pounce on
her, with his iron clad claws and at one swallow make a breakfast of
the girl.
But the odors of her perfumes were so sweet, that he forgot what he
had thought to do. Moreover, when he looked at her, he was so taken
with unusual beauty, that he flopped at once on his forefeet. Then he
behaved just like a lovelorn beau, when his best girl comes near. He
ties his necktie and pulls down his coat and brushes off the collar.
So the Afang began to spruce up. It was real fun to see how a monster
behaves when smitten with love for a pretty girl. He had no idea how
funny he was.
The girl was not at all afraid, but smoothed the monster's back,
stroked and played with its big moustaches and tickled its neck until
the Afang's throat actually gurgled with a laugh. Pretty soon he
guffawed, for he was so delighted.
When he did this, the people down in the valley thought it was
thunder, though the sky was clear and blue.
The maiden tickled his chin, and even put up his whiskers in curl
papers. Then she stroked his neck, so that his eyes closed. Soon she
had gently lulled him to slumber, by singing a cradle song, which her
mother had taught her. This she did so softly, and sweetly, that in a
few minutes, with its head in her lap, the monster was sound asleep
and even began to snore.
Then, quietly, from their hiding places in the bushes, Gadern and his
men crawled out. When near the dreaded Afang, they stood up and
sneaked forward, very softly on tip toe. They had wrapped the links of
the chain in grass and leaves, so that no clanking was heard. They
also held the oxen's yokes, so that nobody or anything could rattle,
or make any noise. Slowly but surely they passed the chain over its
body, in the middle, besides binding the brute securely between its
fore and hind legs.
All this time, the monster slept on, for the girl kept on crooning her
melody.
When the forty yoke of oxen were all harnessed together, the drovers
cracked all their whips at once, so that it sounded like a clap of
thunder and the whole team began to pull together.
Then the Afang woke up with a start.
The sudden jerk roused the monster to wrath, and its bellowing was
terrible. It rolled round and round, and dug its four sets of toes,
each with three claws, every one as big as a plowshare, into the
ground. It tried hard to crawl into its lair, or slip into the lake.
Finding that neither was possible, the Afang looked about, for some
big tree to wrap its tail around. But all his writhings or plungings
were of no use. The drovers plied their whips and the oxen kept on
with one long pull together and forward. They strained so hard, that
one of them dropped its eye out. This formed a pool, and to this day
they call it The Pool of the Ox's Eye. It never dries up or overflows,
though the water in it rises and falls, as regularly as the tides.
For miles over the mountains the sturdy oxen hauled the monster. The
pass over which they toiled and strained so hard is still named the
Pass of the Oxen's Slope. When going down hill, the work of dragging
the Afang was easier.
In a great hole in the ground, big enough to be a pond, they dumped
the carcass of the Afang, and soon a little lake was formed. This
uncanny bit of water is called "The Lake of the Green Well." It is
considered dangerous for man or beast to go too near it. Birds do not
like to fly over the surface, and when sheep tumble in, they sink to
the bottom at once.
If the bones of the Afang still lie at the bottom, they must have sunk
down very deep, for the monster had no more power to get out, or to
break the river banks. The farmers no longer cared anything about the
creature, and they hardly every think of the old story, except when a
sheep is lost.
As for Gadern and his brave and lovely sweetheart, they were married
and lived long and happily. Their descendants, in the thirty-seventh
generation, are proud of the grand exploit of their ancestors, while
all the farmers honor his memory and bless the name of the lovely girl
that put the monster asleep.
III
THE TWO CAT WITCHES
In old days, it was believed that the seventh son, in a family of
sons, was a conjurer by nature. That is, he could work wonders like
the fairies and excel the doctors in curing diseases.
If he were the seventh son of a seventh son, he was himself a wonder
of wonders. The story ran that he could even cure the "shingles,"
which is a very troublesome disease. It is called also by a Latin
name, which means a snake, because, as it gets worse, it coils itself
around the body.
Now the eagle can attack the serpent and conquer and kill this
poisonous creature. To secure such power, Hugh, the conjurer, ate the
flesh of eagles. When he wished to cure the serpent-disease, he
uttered words in the form of a charm which acted as a talisman and
cure. After wetting the red rash, which had broken out over the sick
person's body, he muttered:
"He-eagle, she-eagle, I send you over nine seas, and over nine
mountains, and over nine acres of moor and fen, where no dog shall
bark, no cow low, and no eagle shall higher rise."
After that, the patient was sure that he felt better.
There was always great rivalry between these conjurers and those who
made money from the Pilgrims at Holy Wells and visitors to the relic
shrines, but this fellow, named Hugh, and the monks, kept on mutually
good terms. They often ate dinner together, for Hugh was a great
traveler over the whole country and always had news to tell to the
holy brothers who lived in cells.
One night, as he was eating supper at an inn, four men came in and sat
down at the table with him. By his magical power, Hugh knew that they
were robbers and meant to kill him that night, in order to get his
money.
So, to divert their attention, Hugh made something like a horn to grow
up out of the table, and then laid a spell on the robbers, so that
they were kept gazing at the curious thing all night long, while he
went to bed and slept soundly.
When he rose in the morning, he paid his bill and went away, while the
robbers were still gazing at the horn. Only when the officers arrived
to take them to prison did they come to themselves.
Now at Bettws-y-Coed-that pretty place which has a name that sounds so
funny to us Americans and suggests a girl named Betty the Co-ed at
college--there was a hotel, named the "Inn of Three Kegs." The shop
sign hung out in front. It was a bunch of grapes gilded and set below
three small barrels.
This inn was kept by two respectable ladies, who were sisters.
Yet in that very hotel, several travelers, while they were asleep, had
been robbed of their money. They could not blame anyone nor tell how
the mischief was done. With the key in the keyhole, they had kept
their doors locked during the night. They were sure that no one had
entered the room. There were no signs of men's boots, or of anyone's
footsteps in the garden, while nothing was visible on the lock or
door, to show that either had been tampered with. Everything was in
order as when they went to bed.
Some people doubted their stories, but when they applied to Hugh the
conjurer, he believed them and volunteered to solve the mystery. His
motto was "Go anywhere and everywhere, but catch the thief."
When Hugh applied one night for lodging at the inn, nothing could be
more agreeable than the welcome, and fine manners of his two
hostesses.
At supper time, and during the evening, they all chatted together
merrily. Hugh, who was never at a loss for news or stories, told about
the various kinds of people and the many countries he had visited, in
imagination, just as if he had seen them all, though he had never set
foot outside of Wales.
When he was ready to go to bed, he said to the ladies:
"It is my custom to keep a light burning in my room, all night, but I
will not ask for candles, for I have enough to last me until sunrise."
So saying, he bade them good night.
Entering his room and locking the door, he undressed, but laid his
clothes near at hand. He drew his trusty sword out of its sheath and
laid it upon the bed beside him, where he could quickly grasp it. Then
he pretended to be asleep and even snored.
It was not long before, peeping between his eyelids, only half closed,
he saw two cats come stealthily down the chimney.
When in the room, the animals frisked about, and then gamboled and
romped in the most lively way. Then they chased each other around the
bed, as if they were trying to find out whether Hugh was asleep.
Meanwhile, the supposed sleeper kept perfectly motionless. Soon the
two cats came over to his clothes and one of them put her paw into the
pocket that contained his purse.
At this, with one sweep of his sword, Hugh struck at the cat's paw.
The beast howled frightfully, and both animals ran for the chimney and
disappeared. After that, everything was quiet until breakfast time.
At the table, only one of the sisters was present. Hugh politely
inquired after the other one. He was told that she was not well, for
which Hugh said he was very sorry.
After the meal, Hugh declared he must say good-by to both the sisters,
whose company he had so enjoyed the night before. In spite of the
other lady's many excuses, he was admitted to the sick lady's room.
After polite greetings and mutual compliments, Hugh offered his hand
to say "good-by." The sick lady smiled at once and put out her hand,
but it was her left one.
"Oh, no," said Hugh, with a laugh. "I never in all my life have taken
any one's left hand, and, beautiful as yours is, I won't break my
habit by beginning now and here."
Reluctantly, and as if in pain, the sick lady put out her hand. It was
bandaged.
The mystery was now cleared up. The two sisters were cats.
By the help of bad fairies they had changed their forms and were the
real robbers.
Hugh seized the hand of the other sister and made a little cut in it,
from which a few drops of blood flowed, but the spell was over.
"Henceforth," said Hugh, "you are both harmless, and I trust you will
both be honest women."
And they were. From that day they were like other women, and kept one
of the best of those inns--clean, tidy, comfortable and at modest
prices--for which Wales is, or was, noted.
Neither as cats with paws, nor landladies, with soaring bills, did
they ever rob travelers again.
IV
HOW THE CYMRY LAND BECAME INHABITED
In all Britain to-day, no wolf roams wild and the deer are all tame.
Yet in the early ages, when human beings had not yet come into the
land, the swamps and forests were full of very savage animals. There
were bears and wolves by the thousand besides lions and the woolly
rhinoceros, tigers, with terrible teeth like sabres.
Beavers built their dams over the little rivers, and the great horned
oxen were very common. Then the mountains were higher, and the woods
denser. Many of the animals lived in caves, and there were billions of
bees and a great many butterflies. In the bogs were ferns of giant
size, amid which terrible monsters hid that were always ready for a
fight or a frolic.
In so beautiful a land, it seemed a pity that there were no men and
women, no boys or girls, and no babies.
Yet the noble race of the Cymry, whom we call the Welsh, were already
in Europe and lived in the summer land in the South. A great
benefactor was born among them, who grew up to be a wonderfully wise
man and taught his people the use of bows and arrows. He made laws, by
which the different tribes stopped their continual fighting and
quarrels, and united for the common good of all. He persuaded them to
take family names. He invented the plow, and showed them how to use
it, making furrows, in which to plant grain.
When the people found that they could get things to eat right out of
the ground, from the seed they had planted, their children were wild
with joy.
No people ever loved babies more than these Cymry folk and it was they
who invented the cradle. This saved the hard-working mothers many a
burden, for each woman had, besides rearing the children, to work for
and wait on her husband.
He was the warrior and hunter, and she did most of the labor, in both
the house and the field. When there were many little brats to look
after, a cradle was a real help to her. In those days, "brat" was the
general name for little folks. There were good laws, about women
especially for their protection. Any rough or brutish fellow was fined
heavily, or publicly punished, for striking one of them.
By and by, this great benefactor encouraged his people to the brave
adventure, and led them, in crossing the sea to Britain. Men had not
yet learned to build boats, with prow or stern, with keels and masts,
or with sails, rudders, or oars, or much less to put engines in their
bowels, or iron chimneys for smoke stacks, by which we see the mighty
ships driven across the ocean without regard to wind or tide.
This great benefactor taught his people to make coracles, and on these
the whole tribe of thousands of Cymric folk crossed over into Britain,
landing in Cornwall. The old name of this shire meant the Horn of
Gallia, or Wallia, as the new land was later named. We think of
Cornwall as the big toe of the Mother Land. These first comers called
it a horn.
It was a funny sight to see these coracles, which they named after
their own round bodies. The men went down to the riverside or the sea
shore, and with their stone hatchets, they chopped down trees. They
cut the reeds and osiers, peeled the willow branches, and wove great
baskets shaped like bowls. In this work, the women helped the men.
The coracle was made strong by a wooden frame fixed inside round the
edge, and by two cross boards, which also served as seats. Then they
turned the wicker frame upside down and stretched the hides of animals
over the whole frame and bottom. With pitch, gum, or grease, they
covered up the cracks or seams. Then they shaped paddles out of wood.
When the coracle floated on the water, the whole family, daddy, mammy,
kiddies, and any old aunts or uncles, or granddaddies, got into it.
They waited for the wind to blow from the south over to the northern
land.
At first the coracle spun round and round, but by and by each daddy
could, by rowing or paddling, make the thing go straight ahead. So
finally all arrived in the land now called Great Britain.
Though sugar was not then known, or for a thousand years later, the
first thing they noticed was the enormous number of bees. When they
searched, they found the rock caves and hollow trees full of honey,
which had accumulated for generations. Every once in a while the
bears, that so like sweet things, found out the hiding place of the
bees, and ate up the honey. The children were very happy in sucking
the honey comb and the mothers made candles out of the beeswax. The
new comers named the country Honey Island.
The brave Cymry men had battles with the darker skinned people who
were already there. When any one, young or old, died, their friends
and relatives sat up all night guarding the body against wild beasts
or savage men. This grew to be a settled custom and such a meeting was
called a "wake." Everyone present did keep awake, and often in a very
lively way.
As the Cymry multiplied, they built many _don_, or towns. All
over the land to-day are names ending in _don_ like London, or
Croydon, showing where these villages were.
But while occupied in things for the body, their great ruler did not
neglect matters of the mind. He found that some of his people had good
voices and loved to sing. Others delighted in making poetry. So he
invented or improved the harp, and fixed the rules of verse and song.
Thus ages before writing was known, the Cymry preserved their history
and handed down what the wise ones taught.
Men might be born, live and die, come and go, like leaves on the
trees, which expand in the springtime and fall in the autumn; but
their songs, and poetry, and noble language never die. Even to-day,
the Cymry love the speech of their fathers almost as well as they love
their native land.
Yet things were not always lovely in Honey Land, or as sweet as sugar.
As the tribes scattered far apart to settle in this or that valley,
some had fish, but no salt, and others had plenty of salt, but no
fish. Some had all the venison and bear meat they wanted, but no
barley or oats. The hill men needed what the men on the seashore could
supply. From their sheep and oxen they got wool and leather, and from
the wild beasts fur to keep warm in winter. So many of them grew
expert in trade. Soon there were among them some very rich men who
were the chiefs of the tribes.
In time, hundreds of others learned how to traffic among the tribes
and swap, or barter their goods, for as yet there were no coins for
money, or bank bills. So they established markets or fairs, to which
the girls and boys liked to go and sell their eggs and chickens, for
when the wolves and foxes were killed off, sheep and geese multiplied.
But what hindered the peace of the land, were the feuds, or quarrels,
because the men of one tribe thought they were braver, or better
looking, than those in the other tribe. The women were very apt to
boast that they wore their clothes--which were made of fox and weasel
skins--more gracefully than those in the tribe next to them.
So there was much snarling and quarreling in Cymric Land. The people
were too much like naughty children, or when kiddies are not taught
good manners, to speak gently and to be kind one to the other.
One of the worst quarrels broke out, because in one tribe there were
too many maidens and not enough young men for husbands. This was bad
for the men, for it spoiled them. They had too many women to wait on
them and they grew to be very selfish.
In what might be the next tribe, the trouble was the other way. There
were too many boys, a surplus of men, and not nearly enough girls to
go round. When any young fellow, moping out his life alone and anxious
for a wife, went a-courting in the next tribe, or in their vale, or on
their hill top, he was usually driven off with stones. Then there was
a quarrel between the two tribes.
Any young girl, who sneaked out at night to meet her young man of
another clan, was, when caught, instantly and severely spanked. Then,
with her best clothes taken off, she had to stand tied to a post in
the market place a whole day. Her hair was pulled down in disorder,
and all the dogs were allowed to bark at her. The girls made fun of
the poor thing, while they all rubbed one forefinger over the other,
pointed at her and cried, "Fie, for shame!" while the boys called her
hard names.
If it were known that the young man who wanted a wife had visited a
girl in the other tribe, his spear and bow and arrows were taken away
from him till the moon was full. The other boys and the girls treated
him roughly and called him hard names, but he dare not defend himself
and had to suffer patiently. This was all because of the feud between
the two tribes.
This went on until the maidens in the valley, who were very many,
while yet lovely and attractive, became very lonely and miserable;
while the young men, all splendid hunters and warriors, multiplied in
the hill country. They were wretched in mind, because not one could
get a wife, for all the maidens in their own tribe were already
engaged, or had been mated.
One day news came to the young men on the hill top, that the valley
men were all off on a hunting expedition. At once, without waiting a
moment, the poor lonely bachelors plucked up courage. Then, armed with
ropes and straps, they marched in a body to the village in the valley
below. There, they seized each man a girl, not waiting for any maid to
comb her hair, or put on a new frock, or pack up her clothes, or carry
any thing out of her home, and made off with her, as fast as one pair
of legs could move with another pair on top.
At first, this looked like rough treatment--for a lovely girl, thus to
be strapped to a brawny big fellow; but after a while, the girls
thought it was great fun to be married and each one to have a man to
caress, and fondle, and scold, and look for, and boss around; for each
wife, inside of her own hut was quite able to rule her husband. Every
one of these new wives was delighted to find a man who cared so much
for her as to come after her, and risk his life to get her, and each
one admired her new, brave husband.
Yet the brides knew too well that their men folks, fathers and
brothers, uncles and cousins, would soon come back to attempt their
recapture.
And this was just what happened. When a runner brought, to the valley
men now far away, the news of the rape of their daughters, the hunters
at once ceased chasing the deer and marched quickly back to get the
girls and make them come home.
The hill men saw the band of hunters coming after their daughters.
They at once took their new wives into a natural rocky fortress, on
the top of a precipice, which overlooked the lake.
This stronghold had only one entrance, a sort of gateway of rocks, in
front of which was a long steep, narrow path. Here the hill men stood,
to resist the attack and hold their prizes.
It was a case of a very few defenders, assaulted by a multitude, and
the battle was long and bloody. The hill men scorned to surrender and
shot their arrows and hurled their javelins with desperate valor. They
battled all day from sunrise until the late afternoon, when shadows
began to lengthen. The stars, one by one came out and both parties,
after setting sentinels, lay down to rest.
In the morning, again, charge after charge was made. Sword beat
against shield and helmet, and clouds of arrows were shot by the
archers, who were well posted in favorable situations, on the rocks.
Long before noon, the field below was dotted and the narrow pass was
choked with dead bodies. In the afternoon, after a short rest and
refreshed with food, the valley men, though finding that only four of
the hill fighters were alive, stood off at a distance and with their
long bows and a shower of arrows left not one to breathe.
Now, thought the victors, we shall get our maidens back again. So,
taking their time to wash off the blood and dust, to bind up their
wounds, and to eat their supper, they thought it would be an easy job
to load up all the girls on their ox-carts and carry them home.
But the valley brides, thus suddenly made widows, were too true to
their brave husbands. So, when they had seen the last of their lovers
quiet in death, they stripped off all their ornaments and fur robes,
until all stood together, each clad in her own innocence, as pure in
their purpose as if they were a company of Druid priestesses.
Then, chanting their death song, they marched in procession to the
tall cliff, that rose sheer out of the water. One by one, each
uttering the name of her beloved, leaped into the waves.
Men at a distance, knowing nothing of the fight, and sailors and
fishermen far off on the water, thought that a flock of white birds
were swooping down from their eyrie, into the sea to get their food
from the fishes. But when none rose up above the waters, they
understood, and later heard the whole story of the valor of the men
and the devotion of the women.
The solemn silence of night soon brooded over the scene.
The men of the valley stayed only long enough to bury their own dead.
Then they marched home and their houses were filled with mourning. Yet
they admired the noble sacrifice of their daughters and were proud of
them. Afterwards they raised stone monuments on the field of
slaughter.
To-day, this water is called the Lake of the Maidens, and the great
stones seen near the beach are the memorials marking the place of the
slain in battle.
During many centuries, the ancient custom of capturing the bride, with
resistance from her male relatives, was vigorously kept up. In the
course of time, however, this was turned into a mimic play, with much
fun and merriment. Yet, the girls appear to like it, and some even
complain if it is not rough enough to seem almost real.
V
THE BOY THAT WAS NAMED TROUBLE
In one of the many "Co-eds," or places with this name, in ancient and
forest-covered Wales, there was a man who had one of the most
beautiful mares in all the world. Yet great misfortunes befell both
this Co-ed mare and her owner.
Every night, on the first of May, the mare gave birth to a pretty
little colt. Yet no one ever saw, or could ever tell what became of
any one, or all of the colts. Each and all, and one by one, they
disappeared. Nobody knew where they were, or went, or what had become
of them.
At last, the owner, who had no children, and loved little horses,
determined not to lose another. He girded on his sword, and with his
trusty spear, stood guard all night in the stable to catch the mortal
robber, as he supposed he must be.
When on this same night of May first, the mare foaled again, and the
colt stood up on its long legs, the man greatly admired the young
creature. It looked already, as if it could, with its own legs, run
away and escape from any wolf that should chase it, hoping to eat it
up.
But at this moment, a great noise was heard outside the stable. The
next moment a long arm, with a claw at the end of it, was poked
through the window-hole, to seize the colt.
Instantly the man drew his sword and with one blow, the claw part of
the arm was cut off, and it dropped inside, with the colt.
Hearing a great cry and tumult outside, the owner of the mare rushed
forth into the darkness. But though he heard howls of pain, he could
see nothing, so he returned.
There, at the door, he found a baby, with hair as yellow as gold,
smiling at him. Besides its swaddling clothes, it was wrapped up in
flame-colored satin.
As it was still night, the man took the infant to his bed and laid it
alongside of his wife, who was asleep.
Now this good woman loved children, though she had none of her own,
and so when she woke up in the morning, and saw what was beside her,
she was very happy. Then she resolved to pretend that it was her own.
So she told her women, that she had borne the child, and they called
him Gwri of the Golden Hair.
The boy baby grew up fast, and when only two years old, was as strong
as most children are at six.
Soon he was able to ride the colt that had been born on the May night,
and the two were as playmates together.
Now it chanced, the man had heard the tale of Queen Rhiannon, wife of
Powell, Prince of Dyfed. She had become the mother of a baby boy, but
it was stolen from her at night.
The six serving women, whose duty it was to attend to the Queen, and
guard her child, were lazy and had neglected their duty. They were
asleep when the baby was stolen away. To excuse themselves and be
saved from punishment, they invented a lying story. They declared that
Rhiannon had devoured the child, her own baby.
The wise men of the Court believed the story which the six wicked
women had told, and Rhiannon, the Queen, though innocent, was
condemned to do penance. She was to serve as a porter to carry
visitors and their baggage from out doors into the castle.
Every day, for many months, through the hours of daylight, she stood
in public disgrace in front of the castle of Narberth, at the stone
block, on which riders on horses dismounted from the saddle. When
anyone got off at the gate, she had to carry him or her on her back
into the hall.
As the boy grew up, his foster father scanned his features closely,
and it was not long before he made up his mind that Powell was his
father and Rhiannon was his mother.
One day, with the boy riding on his colt, and with two knights keeping
him company, the owner of the Co-ed mare came near the castle of
Narberth.
There they saw the beautiful Rhiannon sitting on the horse block at
the gate.
When they were about to dismount from their horses, the lovely woman
spoke to them thus:
"Chieftains, go no further thus. I will carry everyone of you on my
back, into the palace."
Seeing their looks of astonishment, she explained:
"This is my penance for the charge brought against me of slaying my
son and devouring him."
One and all the four refused to be carried and went into the castle on
their own feet. There Powell, the prince, welcomed them and made a
feast in their honor. It being night, Rhiannon sat beside him.
After dinner when the time for story telling had come, the chief guest
told the tale of his mare and the colt, and how he cut the clawed
hand, and then found the boy on the doorstep.
Then to the joy and surprise of all, the owner of the Co-ed mare,
putting the golden-haired boy before Rhiannon, cried out:
"Behold lady, here is thy son, and whoever they were who told the
story and lied about your devouring your own child, have done you a
grievous wrong."
Everyone at the table looked at the boy, and all recognized the lad at
once as the child of Powell and Rhiannon.
"Here ends my trouble (pryderi)," cried out Rhiannon.
Thereupon one of the chiefs said:
"Well hast thou named thy child 'Trouble,'" and henceforth Pryderi was
his name.
Soon it was made known, by the vision and word of the bards and seers,
that all the mischief had been wrought by wicked fairies, and that the
six serving women had been under their spell, when they lied about the
Queen. Powell, the castle-lord, was so happy that he offered the man
of Co-ed rich gifts of horses, jewels and dogs.
But this good man felt repaid in delivering a pure woman and loving
mother from undeserved shame and disgrace, by wisdom and honesty
according to common duty.
As for Pryderi, he was educated as a king's son ought to be, in all
gentle arts and was trained in all manly exercises.
After his father died, Pryderi became ruler of the realm. He married
Kieva the daughter of a powerful chieftain, who had a pedigree as long
as the bridle used to drive a ten-horse chariot. It reached back to
Prince Casnar of Britain.
Pryderi had many adventures, which are told in the Mabinogian, which
is the great storehouse of Welsh hero, wonder, and fairy tales.
VI
THE GOLDEN HARP
Morgan is one of the oldest names in Cymric land. It means one who
lives near the sea.
Every day, for centuries past, tens of thousands of Welsh folks have
looked out on the great blue plain of salt water.
It is just as true, also, that there are all sorts of Morgans. One of
these named Taffy, was like nearly all Welshmen, in that he was very
fond of singing.
The trouble in his case, however, was that no one but himself loved to
hear his voice, which was very disagreeable. Yet of the sounds which
he himself made with voice or instrument, he was an intense admirer.
Nobody could persuade him that his music was poor and his voice rough.
He always refused to improve.
Now in Wales, the bard, or poet, who makes up his poetry or song as he
goes along, is a very important person, and it is not well to offend
one of these gentlemen. In French, they call such a person by a very
long name--the improvisator.
These poets have sharp tongues and often say hard things about people
whom they do not like. If they used whetstones, or stropped their
tongues on leather, as men do their razors, to give them a keener
edge, their words could not cut more terribly.
Now, on one occasion, Morgan had offended one of these bards. It was
while the poetic gentleman was passing by Taffy's house. He heard the
jolly fellow inside singing, first at the top and then at the bottom
of the scale. He would drop his voice down on the low notes and then
again rise to the highest until it ended in a screech.
Someone on the street asked the poet how he liked the music which he
had heard inside.
"Music?" replied the bard with a sneer. "Is that what Morgan is
trying? Why! I thought it was first the lowing of an aged cow, and
then the yelping of a blind dog, unable to find its way. Do you call
that music?"
The truth was that when the soloist had so filled himself with strong
ale that his brain was fuddled, then it was hard to tell just what
kind of a noise he was making. It took a wise man to discover the
tune, if there was any.
One evening, when Morgan thought his singing unusually fine, and felt
sorry that no one heard him, he heard a knock.
[Illustration: THE MORE MORGAN PLAYED, THE MADDER THE DANCE]
Instead of going to the door to inquire, or welcome the visitor, he
yelled out "Come in!"
The door opened and there stood three tired looking strangers. They
appeared to be travelers. One of them said:
"Kind sir, we are weary and worn, and would be glad of a morsel of
bread. If you can give us a little food, we shall not trouble you
further."
"Is that all?" said Morgan. "See there the loaf and the cheese, with a
knife beside them. Take what you want, and fill your bags. No man
shall ever say that Taffy Morgan denied anyone food, when he had any
himself."
Whereupon the three travelers sat down and began to eat.
Meanwhile, without being invited to do so, their host began to sing
for them.
Now the three travelers were fairies in disguise. They were journeying
over the country, from cottage to cottage, visiting the people. They
came to reward all who gave them a welcome and were kind to them, but
to vex and play tricks upon those who were stingy, bad tempered, or of
sour disposition. Turning to Taffy before taking leave, one of them
said:
"You have been good to us and we are grateful. Now what can we do for
you? We have power to grant anything you may desire. Please tell us
what you would like most."
At this, Taffy looked hard in the faces of the three strangers, to see
if one of them was the bard who had likened his voice in its ups and
downs to a cow and a blind dog. Not seeing any familiar face, he
plucked up his courage, and said:
"If you are not making fun of me, I'll take from you a harp. And, if I
can have my wish in full, I want one that will play only lively tunes.
No sad music for me!"
Here Morgan stopped. Again he searched their faces, to see if they
were laughing at him and then proceeded.
"And something else, if I can have it; but it's really the same thing
I am asking for."
"Speak on, we are ready to do what you wish," answered the leader.
"I want a harp, which, no matter how badly I may play, will sound out
sweet and jolly music."
"Say no more," said the leader, who waved his hand. There was a flood
of light, and, to Morgan's amazement, there stood on the floor a
golden harp.
But where were the three travelers? They had disappeared in a flash.
Hardly able to believe his own eyes, it now dawned upon him that his
visitors were fairies.
He sat down, back of the harp, and made ready to sweep the strings. He
hardly knew whether or not he touched the instrument, but there rolled
out volumes of lively music, as if the harp itself were mad. The tune
was wild and such as would set the feet of young folks agoing, even in
church.
As Taffy's fingers seemed every moment to become more skillful, the
livelier the music increased, until the very dishes rattled on the
cupboard, as if they wanted to join in. Even the chair looked as if
about to dance.
Just then, Morgan's wife and some neighbors entered the house.
Immediately, the whole party, one and all, began dancing in the
jolliest way. For hours, they kept up the mad whirl. Yet all the
while, Taffy seemed happier and the women the merrier.