THE FOLLOWING DAY--PRIDE--THRIVING TRADE--TYLWYTH TEG--ABOUT ELLIS
WYN--SLEEPING BARD--THE INCALCULABLE GOOD--FEARFUL AGONY--THE TALE
Peter and his wife did not proceed on any expedition during the following
day. The former strolled gloomily about the fields, and the latter
passed many hours in the farmhouse. Towards evening, without saying a
word to either, I departed with my vehicle, and finding my way to a small
town at some distance, I laid in a store of various articles, with which
I returned. It was night, and my two friends were seated beneath the
oak; they had just completed their frugal supper. 'We waited for thee
some time,' said Winifred, 'but, finding that thou didst not come, we
began without thee; but sit down, I pray thee, there is still enough for
thee.' 'I will sit down,' said I, 'but I require no supper, for I have
eaten where I have been': nothing more particular occurred at the time.
Next morning the kind pair invited me to share their breakfast. 'I will
not share your breakfast,' said I. 'Wherefore not?' said Winifred
anxiously. 'Because,' said I, 'it is not proper that I be beholden to
you for meat and drink.' 'But we are beholden to other people,' said
Winifred. 'Yes,' said I, 'but you preach to them, and give them ghostly
advice, which considerably alters the matter; not that I would receive
anything from them, if I preached to them six times a day.' 'Thou art
not fond of receiving favours, then, young man,' said Winifred. 'I am
not,' said I. 'And of conferring favours?' 'Nothing affords me greater
pleasure,' said I, 'than to confer favours.' 'What a disposition,' said
Winifred, holding up her hands; 'and this is pride, genuine pride--that
feeling which the world agrees to call so noble. Oh, how mean a thing is
pride! never before did I see all the meanness of what is called pride!'
'But how wilt thou live, friend,' said Peter; 'dost thou not intend to
eat?' 'When I went out last night,' said I, 'I laid in a provision.'
'Thou hast laid in a provision!' said Peter, 'pray let us see it.
Really, friend,' said he, after I had produced it, 'thou must drive a
thriving trade; here are provisions enough to last three people for
several days. Here are butter and eggs, here is tea, here is sugar, and
there is a flitch. I hope thou wilt let us partake of some of thy fare.'
'I should be very happy if you would,' said I. 'Doubt not but we shall,'
said Peter; 'Winifred shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner.
In the meantime, sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense--we
will dine at thine.'
On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath the oak.
We fell into conversation; Peter was at first melancholy, but he soon
became more cheerful, fluent, and entertaining. I spoke but little; but
I observed that sometimes what I said surprised the good Methodist. We
had been silent some time. At length, lifting up my eyes to the broad
and leafy canopy of the trees, I said, having nothing better to remark,
'What a noble tree! I wonder if the fairies ever dance beneath it.'
'Fairies!' said Peter, 'fairies! how came you, young man, to know
anything about the fair family?'
'I am an Englishman,' said I, 'and of course know something about
fairies; England was once a famous place for them.'
'Was once, I grant you,' said Peter, 'but is so no longer. I have
travelled for years about England, and never heard them mentioned before;
the belief in them has died away, and even their name seems to be
forgotten. If you had said you were a Welshman, I should not have been
surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the Tylwyth Teg, or fair
family, and many believe in them.'
'And do you believe in them?' said I.
'I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of opinion
that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of pretty and
amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I see nothing
irrational in the supposition.'
'Do you believe in devils, then?'
'Do I believe in devils, young man?' said Peter, and his frame was shaken
as if by convulsions. 'If I do not believe in devils, why am I here at
the present moment?'
'You know best,' said I; 'but I don't believe that fairies are devils,
and I don't wish to hear them insulted. What learned men have said they
are devils?'
'Many have said it, young man, and amongst others, Master Ellis Wyn, in
that wonderful book of his, the _Bardd Cwsg_.'
'The _Bardd Cwsg_,' said I; 'what kind of book is that? I have never
heard of that book before.'
'Heard of it before; I suppose not; how should you have heard of it
before? By the bye, can you read?'
'Very tolerably,' said I; 'so there are fairies in this book. What do
you call it--the _Bardd Cwsg_?'
'Yes, the _Bardd Cwsg_. You pronounce Welsh very fairly; have you ever
been in Wales?'
'Never,' said I.
'Not been in Wales; then, of course, you don't understand Welsh; but we
were talking of the _Bardd Cwsg_--yes, there are fairies in the _Bardd
Cwsg_,--the author of it, Master Ellis Wyn, was carried away in his sleep
by them over mountains and valleys, rivers and great waters, incurring
mighty perils at their hands, till he was rescued from them by an angel
of the Most High, who subsequently showed him many wonderful things.'
'I beg your pardon,' said I, 'but what were those wonderful things?'
'I see, young man,' said Peter, smiling, 'that you are not without
curiosity; but I can easily pardon any one for being curious about the
wonders contained in the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The angel showed him
the course of this world, its pomps and vanities, its cruelty and its
pride, its crimes and deceits. On another occasion, the angel showed him
Death in his nether palace, surrounded by his grisly ministers, and by
those who are continually falling victims to his power. And, on a third
occasion, the state of the condemned in their place of everlasting
torment.'
'But this was all in his sleep,' said I, 'was it not?'
'Yes,' said Peter, 'in his sleep; and on that account the book is called
_Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg_, or, _Visions of the Sleeping Bard_.'
'I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep,' said I. 'I prefer real
ones; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, the man had no visions
at all--they are probably of his own invention.'
'They are substantially true, young man,' said Peter; 'like the dreams of
Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous facts, Sin, Death, and Hell;
and like his they have done incalculable good, at least in my own
country, in the language of which they are written. Many a guilty
conscience has the _Bardd Cwsg_ aroused with its dreadful sights, its
strong sighs, its puffs of smoke from the pit, and its showers of sparks
from the mouth of the yet lower gulf of Unknown--were it not for the
_Bardd Cwsg_ perhaps I might not be here.'
'I would sooner hear your own tale,' said I, 'than all the visions of the
_Bardd Cwsg_.'
Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face with his
hands. I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon him.
Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us. 'What is the
matter?' said she, looking at her husband, who still remained in the
posture I have described. He made no answer; whereupon, laying her hand
gently on his shoulder, she said, in the peculiar soft and tender tone
which I had heard her use on a former occasion, 'Take comfort, Peter;
what has happened now to afflict thee?' Peter removed his hand from his
face. 'The old pain, the old pain,' said he; 'I was talking with this
young man, and he would fain know what brought me here, he would fain
hear my tale, Winifred--my sin: O pechod Ysprydd Glan! O pechod Ysprydd
Glan!' and the poor man fell into a more fearful agony than before.
Tears trickled down Winifred's face, I saw them trickling by the
moonlight, as she gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted husband.
I arose from my seat. 'I am the cause of all this,' said I, 'by my folly
and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your kindness and
hospitality; I will depart from you and wander my way.' I was retiring,
but Peter sprang up and detained me. 'Go not,' said he, 'you were not in
fault; if there be any fault in the case it was mine; if I suffer, I am
but paying the penalty of my own iniquity'; he then paused, and appeared
to be considering: at length he said, 'Many things which thou hast seen
and heard connected with me require explanation; thou wishest to know my
tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not to-night; I am too much
shaken.'
Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the oak, Peter took
the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in tones broken and almost
inarticulate, commenced telling me his tale--the tale of the Pechod
Ysprydd Glan.