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Wild Wales: The People, Language, & Scenery
Hey?”
“Really, sir,” said the landlord, “I don’t know how to reply to you, for the greater part of your discourse is utterly unintelligible to me. Perhaps you are a better Welshman than myself; but however that may be, I shall take the liberty of retiring in order to give orders about your supper.”
In about half-an-hour the supper made its appearance in the shape of some bacon and eggs; on tasting them I found them very good, and calling for some ale I made a very tolerable supper. After the things had been removed I drew near to the fire, but, as it still smoked, I soon betook myself to the kitchen. My guide had taken his departure, but the others whom I had left were still there. The landlord was talking in Welsh to a man in a rough great-coat about sheep. Setting myself down near the fire I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water, and then observing that the landlord and his friend had suddenly become silent, I said, “Pray go on with your discourse! Don’t let me be any hindrance to you.”
“Yes, sir,” said the landlord snappishly, “go on with our discourse; for your edification, I suppose?”
“Well,” said I, “suppose it is for my edification, surely you don’t grudge a stranger a little edification which will cost you nothing?”
“I don’t know that, sir,” said the landlord; “I don’t know that. Really, sir, the kitchen is not the place for a gentleman.”
“Yes, it is,” said I, “provided the parlour smokes. Come, come, I am going to have a glass of whiskey-and-water; perhaps you will take one with me.”
“Well, sir!” said the landlord in rather a softened tone, “I have no objection to take a glass with you.”
Two glasses of whiskey-and-water were presently brought, and the landlord and I drank to each other’s health.
“Is this a sheep district?” said I, after a pause of a minute or two.
“Yes, sir!” said the landlord; “it may to a certain extent be called a sheep district.”
“I suppose the Southdown and Norfolk breeds would not do for these here parts,” said I with a regular Norfolk whine.
“No, sir! I don’t think they would exactly,” said the landlord, staring at me. “Do you know anything about sheep?”
“Plenty, plenty,” said I; “quite as much indeed as about Welsh words and poetry.” Then in a yet more whining tone than before, I said, “Do you think that a body with money in his pocket could hire a comfortable sheep farm hereabouts?”
“O sir!” said the landlord in a furious tone, “you have come to look out for a farm, I see, and to outbid us poor Welshmen; it is on that account you have studied Welsh; but, sir, I would have you know – ”
“Come,” said I, “don’t be afraid; I wouldn’t have all the farms in your country, provided you would tie them in a string and offer them to me. If I talked about a farm it was because I am in the habit of talking about everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting to be so, which comes much to the same thing. My real business in this neighbourhood is to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery about it.”
“Very good, sir!” said the landlord; “I thought so at first. A great many English go to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery near it, though I really don’t know why, for there is nothing so very particular in either. We have a bridge here too quite as good as the Devil’s Bridge; and as for scenery, I’ll back the scenery about this house against anything of the kind in the neighbourhood of the Devil’s Bridge. Yet everybody goes to the Devil’s Bridge and nobody comes here.”
“You might easily bring everybody here,” said I, “if you would but employ your talent. You should celebrate the wonders of your neighbourhood in cowydds, and you would soon have plenty of visitors; but you don’t want them, you know, and prefer to be without them.”
The landlord looked at me for a moment, then taking a sip of his whiskey-and-water, he turned to the man with whom he had previously been talking, and recommenced the discourse about sheep. I made no doubt, however, that I was a restraint upon them; they frequently glanced at me, and soon fell to whispering. At last both got up and left the room; the landlord finishing his glass of whiskey-and-water before he went away.
“So you are going to the Devil’s Bridge, sir!” said an elderly man, dressed in a grey coat with a broad-brimmed hat, who sat on the settle smoking a pipe in company with another elderly man with a leather hat, with whom I had heard him discourse, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in English, the Welsh which he spoke being rather broken.
“Yes!” said I, “I am going to have a sight of the bridge and the neighbouring scenery.”
“Well, sir, I don’t think you will be disappointed, for both are wonderful.”
“Are you a Welshman?” said I.
“No, sir! I am not; I am an Englishman from Durham, which is the best county in England.”
“So it is,” said I; “for some things, at any rate. For example, where do you find such beef as in Durham?”
“Ah, where indeed, sir? I have always said that neither the Devonshire nor the Lincolnshire beef is to be named in the same day with that of Durham.”
“Well,” said I, “what business do you follow in these parts? I suppose you farm?”
“No, sir! I do not; I am what they call a mining captain.”
“I suppose that gentleman,” said I, motioning to the man in the leather hat, “is not from Durham?”
“No, sir, he is not; he is from the neighbourhood.”
“And does he follow mining?”
“No, sir, he does not; he carries about the letters.”
“Is your mine near this place?” said I.
“Not very, sir; it is nearer the Devil’s Bridge.”
“Why is the bridge called the Devil’s Bridge?” said I.
“Because, sir, ’tis said that the Devil built it in the old time, though that I can hardly believe, for the Devil, do ye see, delights in nothing but mischief, and it is not likely that such being the case he would have built a thing which must have been of wonderful service to people by enabling them to pass in safety over a dreadful gulf.”
“I have heard,” said the old postman with the leather hat, “that the Devil had no hand in de work at all, but that it was built by a Mynach, or monk, on which account de river over which de bridge is built is called Afon y Mynach – dat is de Monk’s River.”
“Did you ever hear,” said I, “of three creatures who lived a long time ago near the Devil’s Bridge called the Plant de Bat?”
“Ah, master!” said the old postman, “I do see that you have been in these parts before; had you not you would not know of the Plant de Bat.”
“No,” said I, “I have never been here before; but I heard of them when I was a boy from a Cumro who taught me Welsh, and had lived for some time in these parts. Well, what do they say here about the Plant de Bat? for he who mentioned them to me could give me no further information about them than that they were horrid creatures who lived in a cave near the Devil’s Bridge several hundred years ago.”
“Well, master,” said the old postman, thrusting his forefinger twice or thrice into the bowl of his pipe, “I will tell you what they says here about the Plant de Bat. In de old time two, three hundred year ago, a man lived somewhere about here called Bat, or Bartholomew; this man had three children, two boys and one girl, who, because their father’s name was Bat, were generally called Plant de Bat, or Bat’s children. Very wicked children they were from their cradle, giving their father and mother much trouble and uneasiness; no good in any one of them, neither in the boys nor the girl. Now the boys, once when they were rambling idly about, lighted by chance upon a cave near the Devil’s Bridge. Very strange cave it was, with just one little hole at top to go in by. So the boys said to one another, ‘Nice cave this for thief to live in. Suppose we come here when we are a little more big and turn thief ourselves.’ Well, they waited till they were a little more big, and then leaving their father’s house they came to de cave and turned thief, lying snug there all day, and going out at night to rob upon the roads. Well, there was soon much talk in the country about the robberies which were being committed, and people often went out in search of de thieves, but all in vain; and no wonder, for they were in a cave very hard to light upon, having as I said before merely one little hole at top to go in by. So Bat’s boys went on swimmingly for a long time, lying snug in cave by day and going out at night to rob, letting no one know where they were but their sister, who was as bad as themselves, and used to come to them and bring them food, and stay with them for weeks, and sometimes go out and rob with them. But as de pitcher which goes often to de well comes home broke at last, so it happened with Bat’s children. After robbing people upon the roads by night many a long year and never being found out, they at last met one great gentleman upon the roads by night, and not only robbed but killed him, leaving his body all cut and gashed near to Devil’s Bridge. That job was the ruin of Plant de Bat, for the great gentleman’s friends gathered together and hunted after his murderers with dogs, and at length came to the cave, and going in found it stocked with riches, and the Plant de Bat sitting upon the riches, not only the boys but the girl also. So they took out the riches and the Plant de Bat, and the riches they did give to churches and spyttys, and the Plant de Bat they did execute, hanging the boys and burning the girl. That, master, is what they says in dese parts about the Plant de Bat.”
“Thank you!” said I. “Is the cave yet to be seen?”
“O yes! it is yet to be seen, or part of it, for it is not now what it was, having been partly flung open to hinder other thieves from nestling in it. It is on the bank of the river Mynach, just before it joins the Rheidol. Many gentlefolk in de summer go to see the Plant de Bat’s cave.”
“Are you sure?” said I, “that Plant de Bat means Bat’s children?”
“I am not sure, master; I merely says what I have heard other people say. I believe some says that it means the wicked children, or the Devil’s children. And now, master, we may as well have done with them, for should you question me through the whole night I could tell you nothing more about the Plant de Bat.”
After a little farther discourse, chiefly about sheep and the weather, I retired to the parlour, where the fire was now burning brightly; seating myself before it, I remained for a considerable time staring at the embers and thinking over the events of the day. At length I rang the bell and begged to be shown to my chamber, where I soon sank to sleep, lulled by the pattering of rain against the window and the sound of a neighbouring cascade.
CHAPTER LXXXIII
Wild Scenery – Awful Chasm – John Greaves – Durham County – Queen Philippa – The Two Aldens – Welsh Wife – The Noblest Business – The Welsh and the Salve – The Lad John.
A rainy and boisterous night was succeeded by a bright and beautiful morning. I arose, and having ordered breakfast, went forth to see what kind of country I had got into. I found myself amongst wild, strange-looking hills, not, however, of any particular height. The house, which seemed to front the east, stood on the side of a hill on a wide platform abutting on a deep and awful chasm, at the bottom of which chafed and foamed the Rheidol. This river enters the valley of Pont Erwyd from the north-west, then makes a variety of snake-like turns, and at last bears away to the south-east just below the inn. The banks are sheer walls from sixty to a hundred feet high, and the bed of the river has all the appearance of a volcanic rent. A brook running from the south past the inn, tumbles into the chasm at an angle, and forms the cascade whose sound had lulled me to sleep the preceding night.
After breakfasting, I paid my bill, and set out for the Devil’s Bridge without seeing anything more of that remarkable personage in whom were united landlord, farmer, poet, and mighty fine gentleman – the master of the house. I soon reached the bottom of the valley, where are a few houses, and the bridge from which the place takes its name, Pont Erwyd signifying the Bridge of Erwyd. As I was looking over the bridge near which are two or three small waterfalls, an elderly man in a grey coat, followed by a young lad and dog, came down the road which I had myself just descended.
“Good day, sir,” said he, stopping, when he came upon the bridge. “I suppose you are bound my road?”
“Ah,” said I, recognising the old mining captain with whom I had talked in the kitchen the night before, “is it you? I am glad to see you. Yes! I am bound your way, provided you are going to the Devil’s Bridge.”
“Then, sir, we can go together, for I am bound to my mine, which lies only a little way t’other side of the Devil’s Bridge.”
Crossing the bridge of Erwyd, we directed our course to the south-east.
“What young man is that?” said I, “who is following behind us?”
“The young man, sir, is my son John, and the dog with him is his dog Joe.”
“And what may your name be, if I may take the liberty of asking?”
“Greaves, sir; John Greaves from the county of Durham.”
“Ah! a capital county that,” said I.
“You like the county, sir! God bless you! John!” said he in a loud voice, turning to the lad, “why don’t you offer to carry the gentleman’s knapsack?”
“Don’t let him trouble himself,” said I. “As I was just now saying, a capital county is Durham county.”
“You really had better let the boy carry your bag, sir.”
“No!” said I; “I would rather carry it myself. I question upon the whole whether there is a better county in England.”
“Is it long since your honour was in Durham county?”
“A good long time. A matter of forty years.”
“Forty years! why that’s the life of a man. That’s longer than I have been out of the county myself. I suppose your honour can’t remember much about the county.”
“O yes I can, I remember a good deal.”
“Please your honour tell me what you remember about the county. It would do me good to hear it.”
“Well, I remember it was a very fine county in more respects than one. One part of it was full of big hills and mountains, where there were mines of coal and lead with mighty works with tall chimneys spouting out black smoke, and engines roaring and big wheels going round, some turned by steam, and others by what they called forces, that is brooks of water dashing down steep channels. Another part was a more level country with beautiful woods, happy-looking farmhouses, well-filled fields and rich glorious meadows, in which stood stately with brown sides and short horns the Durham ox.”
“O dear, O dear!” said my companion. “Ah, I see your honour knows everything about Durham county. Forces! none but one who had been in Durham county would have used that word. I haven’t heard it for five-and-thirty years. Forces! there was a force close to my village. I wonder if your honour has ever been in Durham city.”
“O yes! I have been there.”
“Does your honour remember anything about Durham city?”
“O yes! I remember a good deal about it.”
“Then, your honour, pray tell us what you remember about it – pray do! perhaps it will do me good.”
“Well, then, I remember that it was a fine old city standing on a hill with a river running under it, and that it had a fine old church, one of the finest in the whole of Britain; likewise a fine old castle; and last, not least, a capital old inn, where I got a capital dinner off roast Durham beef, and a capital glass of ale, which I believe was the cause of my being ever after fond of ale.”
“Dear me! Ah, I see your honour knows all about Durham city. And now let me ask one question. How came your honour to Durham city and county? I don’t think your honour is a Durham man, either of town or field.”
“I am not; but when I was a little boy I passed through Durham county with my mother and brother to a place called Scotland.”
“Scotland! a queer country that, your honour!”
“So it is,” said I; “a queerer country I never saw in all my life.”
“And a queer set of people, your honour.”
“So they are,” said I; “a queerer set of people than the Scotch you would scarcely see in a summer’s day.”
“The Durham folks, neither of town or field, have much reason to speak well of the Scotch, your honour.”
“I dare say not,” said I; “very few people have.”
“And yet the Durham folks, your honour, generally contrived to give them as good as they brought.”
“That they did,” said I; “a pretty licking the Durham folks once gave the Scots under the walls of Durham city, after the scamps had been plundering the country for three weeks – a precious licking they gave them, slaying I don’t know how many thousands, and taking their king prisoner.”
“So they did, your honour, and under the command of a woman too.”
“Very true,” said I; “Queen Philippa.”
“Just so, your honour! the idea that your honour should know so much about Durham, both field and town!”
“Well,” said I, “since I have told you so much about Durham, perhaps you will now tell me something about yourself. How did you come here?”
“I had better begin from the beginning, your honour. I was born in Durham county close beside the Great Force, which no doubt your honour has seen. My father was a farmer and had a bit of a share in a mining concern. I was brought up from my childhood both to farming and mining work, but most to mining, because, do you see, I took most pleasure in it, being the more noble business of the two. Shortly after I had come to man’s estate my father died leaving me a decent little property, whereupon I forsook farming altogether and gave myself up, body, soul and capital, to mining, which at last I thoroughly understood in all its branches. Well, your honour, about five-and-thirty years ago, that was when I was about twenty-eight, a cry went through the north country that a great deal of money might be made by opening Wales, that is, by mining in Wales in the proper fashion, which means the north-country fashion, for there is no other fashion of mining good for much – there had long been mines in Wales, but they had always been worked in a poor, weak, languid manner, very different from that of the north country. So a company was formed, at the head of which were the Aldens, George and Thomas, for opening Wales, and they purchased certain mines in these districts, which they knew to be productive, and which might be made yet more so, and settling down here called themselves the Rheidol United. Well, after they had been here a little time they found themselves in want of a man to superintend their concerns, above all in the smelting department. So they thought of me, who was known to most of the mining gentry in the north country, and they made a proposal to me through George Alden, afterwards Sir George, to come here and superintend. I said no, at first, for I didn’t like the idea of leaving Durham county to come to such an outlandish place as Wales; howsomever, I at last allowed myself to be overpersuaded by George Alden, afterwards Sir George, and here I came with my wife and family, for I must tell your honour I had married a respectable young woman of Durham county, by whom I had two little ones – here I came and did my best for the service of the Rheidol United. The company was terribly set to it for a long time, spending a mint of money and getting very poor returns. To my certain knowledge the two Aldens, George and Tom, spent between them thirty thousand pounds – the company, however, persevered, chiefly at the instigation of the Aldens, who were in the habit of saying ‘Never say die!’ and at last got the better of all their difficulties and rolled in riches, and had the credit of being the first company that ever opened Wales, which they richly deserved, for I will uphold it that the Rheidol United, particularly the Aldens, George and Thomas, were the first people who really opened Wales. In their service I have been for five-and-thirty years, and dare say shall continue so till I die. I have been tolerably comfortable, your honour, though I have had my griefs, the bitterest of which was the death of my wife, which happened about eight years after I came to this country. I thought I should have gone wild at first, your honour! Having, however, always plenty to do, I at last got the better of my affliction. I continued single till my English family grew up and left me, when feeling myself rather lonely I married a decent young Welshwoman, by whom I had one son, the lad John, who is following behind with his dog Joe. And now your honour knows the whole story of John Greaves, miner from the county of Durham.”
“And a most entertaining and instructive history it is,” said I. “You have not told me, however, how you contrived to pick up Welsh: I heard you speaking it last night with the postman.”
“Why, through my Welsh wife, your honour! Without her I don’t think I should ever have picked up the Welsh manner of discoursing – she is a good kind of woman, my Welsh wife, though – ”
“The loss of your Durham wife must have been a great grief to you,” said I.
“It was the bitterest grief, your honour, as I said before, that I ever had – my next worst I think was the death of a dear friend.”
“Who was that?” said I.
“Who was it, your honour? why, the Duke of Newcastle.”
“Dear me!” said I; “how came you to know him?”
“Why, your honour, he lived at a place not far from here, called Hafod, and so – ”
“Hafod!” said I; “I have often heard of Hafod and its library; but I thought it belonged to an old Welsh family called Johnes.”
“Well, so it did, your honour! but the family died away, and the estate was put up for sale, and purchased by the Duke, who built a fine house upon it, which he made his chief place of residence – the old family house, I must tell your honour, in which the library was had been destroyed by fire: well, he hadn’t been long settled there before he found me out and took wonderfully to me, discoursing with me and consulting me about his farming and improvements. Many is the pleasant chat and discourse I have had with his Grace for hours and hours together, for his Grace had not a bit of pride, at least he never showed any to me, though, perhaps, the reason of that was that we were both north-country people. Lord! I would have laid down my life for his Grace and have done anything but one which he once asked me to do: ‘Greaves,’ said the Duke to me one day, ‘I wish you would give up mining and become my steward.’ ‘Sorry I can’t oblige your Grace,’ said I; ‘but give up mining I cannot. I will at any time give your Grace all the advice I can about farming and such like, but give up mining I cannot: because why? I conceive mining to be the noblest business in the ‘versal world.’ Whereupon his Grace laughed, and said he dare say I was right, and never mentioned the subject again.”
“Was his Grace very fond of farming and improving?”
“O yes, your honour! like all the great gentry, especially the north-country gentry, his Grace was wonderfully fond of farming and improving – and a wonderful deal of good he did, reclaiming thousands of acres of land which was before good for nothing, and building capital farm-houses and offices for his tenants. His grand feat, however, was bringing the Durham bull into this country, which formed a capital cross with the Welsh cows. Pity that he wasn’t equally fortunate with the north-country sheep.”
“Did he try to introduce them into Wales?”
“Yes; but they didn’t answer, as I knew they wouldn’t. Says I to the Duke, ‘It won’t do, your Grace, to bring the north-country sheep here: because why? the hills are too wet and cold for their constitutions;’ but his Grace, who had sometimes a will of his own, persisted and brought the north-country sheep to these parts, and it turned out as I said: the sheep caught the disease and the wool parted and – ”
“But,” said I, “you should have told him about the salve made of bran, butter and oil; you should have done that.”
“Well, so I did, your honour; I told him about the salve, and the Duke listened to me, and the salve was made by these very hands; but when it was made, what do you think? the foolish Welsh wouldn’t put it on, saying that it was against their laws and statties and religion to use it, and talked about Devil’s salves and the Witch of Endor, and the sin against the Holy Ghost, and such-like nonsense. So to prevent a regular rebellion, the Duke gave up the salve and the poor sheep pined away and died, till at last there was not one left.”
