Kitabı oku: «Wild Wales: The People, Language, & Scenery», sayfa 43
Leaving Mary Bane I proceeded on my way. The evening was rather fine but twilight was coming rapidly on. I reached the bottom of the valley and soon overtook a young man dressed something like a groom. We entered into conversation. He spoke Welsh and a little English. His Welsh I had great difficulty in understanding, as it was widely different from that which I had been accustomed to. He asked me where I was going to; I replied to the “Pump Saint,” and then inquired if he was in service.
“I am,” said he.
“With whom do you live?” said I.
“With Mr. Johnes of Dol Cothi,” he answered.
Struck by the word Cothi, I asked if Dol Cothi was ever called Glyn Cothi.
“O yes,” said he, “frequently.”
“How odd,” thought I to myself, “that I should have stumbled all of a sudden upon the country of my old friend Lewis Glyn Cothi, the greatest poet after Ab Gwilym of all Wales!”
“Is Cothi a river?” said I to my companion.
“It is,” said he.
Presently we came to a bridge over a small river.
“Is this river the Cothi?” said I.
“No,” said he, “this is the Twrch; the bridge is called Pont y Twrch.”
“The bridge of Twrch or the hog,” said I to myself; “there is a bridge of the same name in the Scottish Highlands, not far from the pass of the Trossachs. I wonder whether it has its name from the same cause as this, namely, from passing over a river called the Twrch or Torck, which word in Gaelic signifies boar or hog even as it does in Welsh.” It had now become nearly dark. After proceeding some way farther I asked the groom if we were far from the inn of the “Pump Saint.”
“Close by,” said he, and presently pointing to a large building on the right-hand side he said: “This is the inn of the ‘Pump Saint,’ sir. Nos Da’chi!”
CHAPTER XCVI
Pump Saint – Pleasant Residence – The Watery Coom – Philological Fact – Evening Service – Meditation.
I entered the inn of the “Pump Saint.” It was a comfortable old-fashioned place, with a very large kitchen and a rather small parlour. The people were kind and attentive, and soon set before me in the parlour a homely but savoury supper, and a foaming tankard of ale. After supper I went into the kitchen, and sitting down with the good folks in an immense chimney-corner, listened to them talking in their Carmarthenshire dialect till it was time to go to rest, when I was conducted to a large chamber where I found an excellent and clean bed awaiting me, in which I enjoyed a refreshing sleep occasionally visited by dreams in which some of the scenes of the preceding day again appeared before me, but in an indistinct and misty manner.
Awaking in the very depth of the night I thought I heard the murmuring of a river; I listened and soon found that I had not been deceived. “I wonder whether that river is the Cothi,” said I, “the stream of the immortal Lewis. I will suppose that it is” – and rendered quite happy by the idea, I soon fell asleep again.
I arose about eight and went out to look about me. The village consists of little more than half-a-dozen houses. 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.”
Returning to the road I proceeded on my journey. I passed over Pont y Rhanedd or the bridge of the Rhanedd, a small river flowing through a dale, then by Clas Hywel, a lofty mountain which appeared to have three heads. After walking for some miles I came to where the road divided into two. By a sign-post I saw that both led to Llandovery, one by Porth y Rhyd and the other by Llanwrda. The distance by the first was six miles and a half, by the latter eight and a half. Feeling quite the reverse of tired I chose the longest road, namely the one by Llanwrda, along which I sped at a great rate.
In a little time I found myself in the heart of a romantic winding dell overhung with trees of various kinds, which a tall man whom I met told me was called Cwm Dwr Llanwrda, or the Watery Coom of Llanwrda; and well might it be called the Watery Coom, for there were several bridges in it, two within a few hundred yards of each other. The same man told me that the war was going on very badly, that our soldiers were suffering much, and that the snow was two feet deep at Sebastopol.
Passing through Llanwrda, a pretty village with a singular-looking church, close to which stood an enormous yew, I entered a valley which I learned was the valley of the Towey. I directed my course to the north, having the river on my right, which runs towards the south in a spacious bed which, however, except in times of flood, it scarcely half fills. Beautiful hills were on either side, partly cultivated, partly covered with wood, and here and there dotted with farm-houses and gentlemen’s seats; green pastures which descended nearly to the river occupying in general the lower parts. After journeying about four miles amid this kind of scenery I came to a noble suspension bridge, and crossing it found myself in about a quarter of an hour at Llandovery.
It was about half-past two when I arrived. I put up at the Castle Inn and forthwith ordered dinner, which was served up between four and five. During dinner I was waited upon by a strange old fellow who spoke Welsh and English with equal fluency.
“What countryman are you?” said I.
“An Englishman,” he replied.
“From what part of England?”
“From Herefordshire.”
“Have you been long here?”
“O yes! upwards of twenty years.”
“How came you to learn Welsh?”
“O, I took to it and soon picked it up.”
“Can you read it?” said I.
“No, I can’t.”
“Can you read English?”
“Yes, I can; that is, a little.”
“Why didn’t you try to learn to read Welsh?”
“Well, I did; but I could make no hand of it. It’s one thing to speak Welsh and another to read it.”
“I can read Welsh much better than I can speak it,” said I.
“Ah, you are a gentleman – gentlefolks always find it easier to learn to read a foreign lingo than to speak it, but it’s quite the contrary with we poor folks.”
“One of the most profound truths ever uttered connected with language,” said I to myself. I asked him if there were many Church of England people in Llandovery.
“A good many,” he replied.
“Do you belong to the Church?” said I.
“Yes, I do.”
“If this were Sunday I would go to church,” said I.
“O, if you wish to go to church you can go to-night. This is Wednesday, and there will be service at half-past six. If you like I will come for you.”
“Pray do,” said I; “I should like above all things to go.”
Dinner over I sat before the fire occasionally dozing, occasionally sipping a glass of whiskey-and-water. A little after six the old fellow made his appearance with a kind of Spanish hat on his head. We set out, the night was very dark; we went down a long street seemingly in the direction of the west. “How many churches are there in Llandovery?” said I to my companion.
“Only one, but you are not going to Llandovery Church, but to that of Llanfair, in which our clergyman does duty once or twice a week.”
“Is it far?” said I.
“O no; just out of the town, only a few steps farther.”
We seemed to pass over a bridge and began to ascend a rising ground. Several people were going in the same direction.
“There,” said the old man, “follow with these, and a little farther up you will come to the church, which stands on the right hand.”
He then left me. I went with the rest and soon came to the church. I went in and was at once conducted by an old man who I believe was the sexton to a large pew close against the southern wall. The inside of the church was dimly lighted; it was long and narrow, and the walls were painted with a yellow colour. The pulpit stood against the northern wall near the altar, and almost opposite to the pew in which I sat. After a little time the service commenced; it was in Welsh. When the litanies were concluded the clergyman, who appeared to be a middle-aged man, and who had rather a fine voice, began to preach. His sermon was from the 119th Psalm: “Am hynny hoffais dy gorchymynion yn mwy nag aur;” “Therefore have I loved thy commandments more than gold.” The sermon, which was extempore, was delivered with great earnestness, and I make no doubt was a very excellent one, but owing to its being in South Welsh I did not derive so much benefit from it as I otherwise might have done. When it was over a great many got up and went away. Observing, however, that not a few remained, I determined upon remaining too. When everything was quiet the clergyman descending from the pulpit repaired to the vestry, and having taken off his gown went into a pew, and standing up began a discourse, from which I learned that there was to be a sacrament on the ensuing Sabbath. He spoke with much fervency, enlarging upon the high importance of the holy communion and exhorting people to come to it in a fit state of mind. When he had finished a man in a neighbouring pew got up and spoke about his own unworthiness, saying this and that about himself, his sins of commission and omission, and dwelling particularly on his uncharitableness and the malicious pleasure which he took in the misfortunes of his neighbours. The clergyman listened attentively, sometimes saying “Ah!” and the congregation also listened attentively, a voice here and there frequently saying “Ah.” When the man had concluded the clergyman again spoke, making observations on what he had heard and hoping that the rest would be visited with the same contrite spirit as their friend. Then there was a hymn and we went away.
The moon was shining on high and cast its silvery light on the tower, the church, some fine trees which surrounded it, and the congregation going home; a few of the better dressed were talking to each other in English, but with an accent and pronunciation which rendered the discourse almost unintelligible to my ears.
I found my way back to my inn and went to bed after musing awhile on the concluding scene of which I had been witness in the church.
CHAPTER XCVII
Llandovery – Griffith ap Nicholas – Powerful Enemies – Last Words – Llandovery Church – Rees Pritchard – The Wiser Creature – “God’s Better than All” – The Old Vicarage.
The morning of the ninth was very beautiful, with a slight tendency to frost. I breakfasted, and having no intention of proceeding on my journey that day, I went to take a leisurely view of Llandovery and the neighbourhood.
Llandovery is a small but beautiful town, situated amidst fertile meadows. It is a water-girdled spot, whence its name Llandovery or Llanymdyfri, which signifies the church surrounded by water. On its west is the Towey, and on its east the river Bran or Brein, which descending from certain lofty mountains to the north-east runs into the Towey a little way below the town. The most striking object which Llandovery can show is its castle, from which the inn, which stands near to it, has its name. This castle, majestic though in ruins, stands on a green mound, the eastern side of which is washed by the Bran. Little with respect to its history is known. One thing, however, is certain, namely that it was one of the many strongholds, which at one time belonged to Griffith ap Nicholas, Lord of Dinevor, one of the most remarkable men which South Wales has ever produced, of whom a brief account here will not be out of place.
Griffith ap Nicholas flourished towards the concluding part of the reign of Henry the Sixth. He was a powerful chieftain of South Wales and possessed immense estates in the counties of Carmarthen and Cardigan. King Henry the Sixth, fully aware of his importance in his own country, bestowed upon him the commission of the peace, an honour at that time seldom vouchsafed to a Welshman, and the captaincy of Kilgarran, a strong royal castle situated on the southern bank of the Teivi a few miles above Cardigan. He had many castles of his own, in which he occasionally resided, but his chief residence was Dinevor, half way between Llandovery and Carmarthen, once a palace of the kings of South Wales, from whom Griffith traced lineal descent. He was a man very proud at heart, but with too much wisdom to exhibit many marks of pride, speaking generally with the utmost gentleness and suavity, and though very brave never addicted to dashing into danger for the mere sake of displaying his valour. He was a great master of the English tongue, and well acquainted with what learning it contained, but nevertheless was passionately attached to the language and literature of Wales, a proof of which he gave by holding a congress of bards and literati at Carmarthen, at which various pieces of eloquence and poetry were recited, and certain alterations introduced into the canons of Welsh versification. Though holding offices of trust and emolument under the Saxon, he in the depths of his soul detested the race and would have rejoiced to see it utterly extirpated from Britain. This hatred of his against the English was the cause of his doing that which cannot be justified on any principle of honour, giving shelter and encouragement to Welsh thieves who were in the habit of plundering and ravaging the English borders. Though at the head of a numerous and warlike clan which was strongly attached to him on various accounts, Griffith did not exactly occupy a bed of roses. He had amongst his neighbours four powerful enemies who envied him his large possessions, with whom he had continual disputes about property and privilege. Powerful enemies they may well be called, as they were no less personages than Humphrey Duke of Buckingham, Richard Duke of York, who began the contest for the crown with King Henry the Sixth, Jasper Earl of Pembroke, son of Owen Tudor, and half-brother of the king, and the Earl of Warwick. These accused him at court of being a comforter and harbourer of thieves, the result being that he was deprived not only of the commission of the peace but of the captaincy of Kilgarran which the Earl of Pembroke, through his influence with his half-brother, procured for himself. They moreover induced William Borley and Thomas Corbet, two justices of the peace for the county of Hereford, to grant a warrant for his apprehension on the ground of his being in league with the thieves of the Marches. Griffith in the bosom of his mighty clan bade defiance to Saxon warrants, though once having ventured to Hereford he nearly fell into the power of the ministers of justice, only escaping by the intervention of Sir John Scudamore, with whom he was connected by marriage. Shortly afterwards the civil war breaking out the Duke of York apologised to Griffith and besought his assistance against the king, which the chieftain readily enough promised, not out of affection for York but from the hatred which he felt, on account of the Kilgarran affair, for the Earl of Pembroke, who had sided, very naturally, with his half-brother the king and commanded his forces in the west. Griffith fell at the great battle of Mortimer’s Cross, which was won for York by a desperate charge made right at Pembroke’s banner by Griffith and his Welshmen when the rest of the Yorkists were wavering. His last words were, “Welcome, Death! since honour and victory make for us.”
The power and wealth of Griffith ap Nicholas and also parts of his character have been well described by one of his bards, Gwilym ab Ieuan Hen, in an ode to the following effect: —
“Griffith ap Nicholas, who like thee
For wealth and power and majesty!
Which most abound, I cannot say,
On either side of Towey gay,
From hence to where it meets the brine,
Trees or stately towers of thine?
The chair of judgment thou didst gain,
But not to deal in judgments vain —
To thee upon thy judgment chair
From near and far do crowds repair;
But though betwixt the weak and strong
No questions rose of right and wrong,
The strong and weak to thee would hie;
The strong to do thee injury,
And to the weak thou wine wouldst deal
And wouldst trip up the mighty heel.
A lion unto the lofty thou,
A lamb unto the weak and low.
Much thou resemblest Nudd of yore,
Surpassing all who went before;
Like him thou’rt fam’d for bravery,
For noble birth and high degree.
Hail, captain of Kilgarran’s hold!
Lieutenant of Carmarthen old!
Hail chieftain, Cambria’s choicest boast!
Hail Justice at the Saxon’s cost!
Seven castles high confess thy sway,
Seven palaces thy hands obey.
Against my chief, with envy fired,
Three dukes and judges two conspired,
But thou a dauntless front didst show,
And to retreat they were not slow.
O, with what gratitude is heard
From mouth of thine, the whispered word;
The deepest pools in rivers found
In summer are of softest sound;
The sage concealeth what he knows,
A deal of talk no wisdom shows;
The sage is silent as the grave,
Whilst of his lips the fool is slave;
Thy smile doth every joy impart,
Of faith a fountain is thy heart;
Thy hand is strong, thine eye is keen,
Thy head o’er every head is seen.”
The church of Llandovery is a large edifice standing at the southern extremity of the town in the vicinity of the Towey. The outside exhibits many appearances of antiquity, but the interior has been sadly modernised. It contains no remarkable tombs; I was pleased, however, to observe upon one or two of the monuments the name of Ryce, the appellation of the great clan to which Griffith ap Nicholas belonged; of old the regal race of South Wales. On inquiring of the clerk, an intelligent young man who showed me over the sacred edifice, as to the state of the Church of England at Llandovery, he gave me a very cheering account, adding, however, that before the arrival of the present incumbent it was very low indeed. “What is the clergyman’s name?” said I; “I heard him preach last night.”
“I know you did, sir,” said the clerk bowing, “for I saw you at the service at Llanfair – his name is Hughes.”
“Any relation of the clergyman at Tregaron?” said I.
“Own brother, sir.”
“He at Tregaron bears a very high character,” said I.
“And very deservedly, sir,” said the clerk, “for he is an excellent man; he is, however, not more worthy of his high character than his brother here is of the one which he bears, which is equally high, and which the very dissenters have nothing to say against.”
“Have you ever heard,” said I, “of a man of the name of Rees Pritchard, who preached within these walls some two hundred years ago?”
“Rees Pritchard, sir! Of course I have – who hasn’t heard of the old vicar – the Welshman’s candle? Ah, he was a man indeed! We have some good men in the Church, very good; but the old vicar – where shall we find his equal?”
“Is he buried in this church?” said I.
“No, sir, he was buried out abroad in the churchyard, near the wall by the Towey.”
“Can you show me his tomb?” said I. “No, sir, nor can any one; his tomb was swept away more than a hundred years ago by a dreadful inundation of the river, which swept away not only tombs but dead bodies out of graves. But there’s his house in the market-place, the old vicarage, which you should go and see. I would go and show it you myself, but I have church matters just now to attend to – the place of church clerk at Llandovery, long a sinecure, is anything but that under the present clergyman, who though not a Rees Pritchard is a very zealous Christian, and not unworthy to preach in the pulpit of the old vicar.”
Leaving the church I went to see the old vicarage, but, before saying anything respecting it, a few words about the old vicar.
Rees Pritchard was born at Llandovery, about the year 1575, of respectable parents. He received the rudiments of a classical education at the school of the place, and at the age of eighteen was sent to Oxford, being intended for the clerical profession. At Oxford he did not distinguish himself in an advantageous manner, being more remarkable for dissipation and riot than application in the pursuit of learning. Returning to Wales he was admitted into the ministry, and after the lapse of a few years was appointed vicar of Llandovery. His conduct for a considerable time was not only unbecoming a clergyman but a human being in any sphere. Drunkenness was very prevalent in the age in which he lived, but Rees Pritchard was so inordinately addicted to that vice that the very worst of his parishioners were scandalised and said: “Bad as we may be we are not half so bad as the parson.”
He was in the habit of spending the greater part of his time in the public-house, from which he was generally trundled home in a wheelbarrow in a state of utter insensibility. God, however, who is aware of what every man is capable of, had reserved Rees Pritchard for great and noble things, and brought about his conversion in a very remarkable manner.
The people of the tavern which Rees Pritchard frequented had a large he-goat, which went in and out and mingled with the guests. One day Rees in the midst of his orgies called the goat to him and offered it some ale; the creature, far from refusing it, drank greedily, and soon becoming intoxicated fell down upon the floor, where it lay quivering, to the great delight of Rees Pritchard, who made its drunkenness a subject of jest to his boon companions, who, however, said nothing, being struck with horror at such conduct in a person who was placed among them to be a pattern and example. Before night, however, Pritchard became himself intoxicated, and was trundled to the vicarage in the usual manner. During the whole of the next day he was ill and kept at home, but on the following one he again repaired to the public-house, sat down and called for his pipe and tankard. The goat was now perfectly recovered and was standing nigh. No sooner was the tankard brought than Rees, taking hold of it, held it to the goat’s mouth. The creature, however, turned away its head in disgust and hurried out of the room. This circumstance produced an instantaneous effect upon Rees Pritchard. “My God!” said he to himself, “is this poor dumb creature wiser than I? Yes, surely; it has been drunk, but having once experienced the wretched consequences of drunkenness, it refuses to be drunk again. How different is its conduct to mine! I, after having experienced a hundred times the filthiness and misery of drunkenness, have still persisted in debasing myself below the condition of a beast. O, if I persist in this conduct what have I to expect but wretchedness and contempt in this world and eternal perdition in the next? But, thank God, it is not yet too late to amend; I am still alive – I will become a new man – the goat has taught me a lesson.” Smashing his pipe, he left his tankard untasted on the table, went home, and became an altered man.
Different as an angel of light is from the fiend of the pit was Rees Pritchard from that moment from what he had been in former days. For upwards of thirty years he preached the Gospel as it had never been preached before in the Welsh tongue since the time of Saint Paul, supposing the beautiful legend to be true which tells us that Saint Paul in his wanderings found his way to Britain and preached to the inhabitants the inestimable efficacy of Christ’s blood-shedding in the fairest Welsh, having like all the other apostles the miraculous gift of tongues. The good vicar did more. In the short intervals of relaxation which he allowed himself from the labour of the ministry during those years he composed a number of poetical pieces, which after his death were gathered together into a volume and published, under the title of “Canwyll y Cymry; or, the Candle of the Welshman.” This work, which has gone through almost countless editions, is written in two common easy measures, and the language is so plain and simple that it is intelligible to the homeliest hind who speaks the Welsh language. All of the pieces are of a strictly devotional character, with the exception of one, namely a welcome to Charles, Prince of Wales, on his return from Spain, to which country he had gone to see the Spanish ladye whom at one time he sought as bride. Some of the pieces are highly curious, as they bear upon events at present forgotten; for example, the song upon the year 1629, when the corn was blighted throughout the land, and “A Warning to the Cumry to repent when the Plague of Blotches and Boils was prevalent in London.” Some of the pieces are written with astonishing vigour, for example, “The Song of the Husbandman,” and “God’s Better than All,” of which last piece the following is a literal translation.
God’s Better Than All
God’s better than heaven or aught therein,
Than the earth or aught we there can win,
Better than the world or its wealth to me —
God’s better than all that is or can be.
Better than father, than mother, than nurse,
Better than riches, oft proving a curse,
Better than Martha or Mary even —
Better by far is the God of heaven.
If God for thy portion thou hast ta’en
There’s Christ to support thee in every pain,
The world to respect thee thou wilt gain,
To fear the fiend and all his train.
Of the best of portions thou choice didst make
When thou the high God to thyself didst take,
A portion which none from thy grasp can rend
Whilst the sun and the moon on their course shall wend.
When the sun grows dark and the moon turns red,
When the stars shall drop and millions dread,
When the earth shall vanish with its pomps in fire,
Thy portion still shall remain entire.
Then let not thy heart though distressed, complain!
A hold on thy portion firm maintain.
Thou didst choose the best portion, again I say —
Resign it not till thy dying day.
The old vicarage of Llandovery is a very large-mansion of dark red brick, fronting the principal street or market-place, and with its back to a green meadow bounded by the river Bran. It is in a very dilapidated condition, and is inhabited at present by various poor families. The principal room, which is said to have been the old vicar’s library, and the place where he composed his undying Candle, is in many respects a remarkable apartment. It is of large dimensions. The roof is curiously inlaid with stucco or mortar, and is traversed from east to west by an immense black beam. The fire-place, which is at the south, is very large and seemingly of high antiquity. The windows, which are two in number and look westward into the street, have a quaint and singular appearance. Of all the houses in Llandovery the old vicarage is by far the most worthy of attention, irrespective of the wonderful monument of God’s providence and grace who once inhabited it.
The reverence in which the memory of Rees Pritchard is still held in Llandovery the following anecdote will show. As I was standing in the principal street staring intently at the antique vicarage, a respectable-looking farmer came up and was about to pass, but observing how I was employed he stopped, and looked now at me and now at the antique house. Presently he said:
“A fine old place, is it not, sir? but do you know who lived there?”
Wishing to know what the man would say provided he thought I was ignorant as to the ancient inmate, I turned a face of inquiry upon him; whereupon he advanced towards me two or three steps, and placing his face so close to mine that his nose nearly touched my cheek, he said in a kind of piercing whisper:
“The Vicar.”
Then drawing his face back he looked me full in the eyes as if to observe the effect of his intelligence, gave me two nods as if to say, “He did, indeed,” and departed.
The Vicar of Llandovery had then been dead nearly two hundred years. Truly the man in whom piety and genius are blended is immortal upon earth.
