Departure for South Wales - Tregeiriog - Pleasing Scene - Trying to Read - Garmon and Lupus - The Cracked Voice - Effect of a Compliment - Llan Rhyadr.
THE morning of the 21st of October was fine and cold; there was a rime frost on the ground. At about eleven o'clock I started on my journey for South Wales, intending that my first stage should be Llan Rhyadr. My wife and daughter accompanied me as far as Plas Newydd. As we passed through the town I shook hands with honest A-, whom I saw standing at the door of a shop, with a kind of Spanish hat on his head, and also with my venerable friend old Mr Jones, whom I encountered close beside his own domicile. At the Plas Newydd I took an affectionate farewell of my two loved ones, and proceeded to ascend the Berwyn. Near the top I turned round to take a final look at the spot where I had lately passed many a happy hour. There lay Llangollen far below me, with its chimneys placidly smoking, its pretty church rising in its centre, its blue river dividing it into two nearly equal parts, and the mighty hill of Brennus overhanging it from the north.
I sighed, and repeating Einion Du's verse "Tangnefedd i Llangollen!"turned away.
I went over the top of the hill and then began to descend its southern side, obtaining a distant view of the plains of Shropshire on the east. I soon reached the bottom of the hill, passed through Llansanfraid, and threading the vale of the Ceiriog at length found myself at Pont y Meibion in front of the house of Huw Morris, or rather of that which is built on the site of the dwelling of the poet. I stopped and remained before the house thinking of the mighty Huw, till the door opened, and out came the dark-featured man, the poet's descendant, whom I saw when visiting the place in company with honest John Jones - he had now a spade in his hand and was doubtless going to his labour. As I knew him to be of a rather sullen unsocial disposition, I said nothing to him, but proceeded on my way. As I advanced the valley widened, the hills on the west receding to some distance from the river. Came to Tregeiriog a small village, which takes its name from the brook; Tregeiriog signifying the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog. Seeing a bridge which crossed the rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a little beyond the village, I turned aside to look at it. The proper course of the Ceiriog is from south to north; where it is crossed by the bridge, however, it runs from west to east, returning to its usual course, a little way below the bridge. The bridge was small and presented nothing remarkable in itself: Iobtained, however, as I looked over its parapet towards the west a view of a scene, not of wild grandeur, but of something which Ilike better, which richly compensated me for the slight trouble Ihad taken in stepping aside to visit the little bridge. About a hundred yards distant was a small water-mill, built over the rivulet, the wheel going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of pigs, the generality of them brindled, were either browsing on the banks or lying close to the sides half immersed in the water; one immense white hog, the monarch seemingly of the herd, was standing in the middle of the current. Such was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life well suited to the brushes of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or to those of men scarcely inferior to them in their own style, Gainsborough, Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour had been in a highly excited state; I had been repeating verses of old Huw Morris, brought to my recollection by the sight of his dwelling-place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads. Iadmired the vigour but disliked the principles which they displayed; and admiration on the one hand and disapproval on the other, bred a commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when tide runs one way and wind blows another. The quiet scene from the bridge, however, produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when Iresumed my journey I had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers.
I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley through which the Ceiriog or a river very similar to it flows. It is half-way between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles from each. I went to a small inn or public-house, sat down and called for ale. A waggoner was seated at a large table with a newspaper before him on which he was intently staring.
"What news?" said I in English.
"I wish I could tell you," said he in very broken English, "but Icannot read."
"Then why are you looking at the paper?" said I.
"Because," said he, "by looking at the letters I hope in time to make them out.""You may look at them," said I, "for fifty years without being able to make out one. You should go to an evening school.""I am too old," said he, "to do so now; if I did the children would laugh at me.""Never mind their laughing at you," said I, "provided you learn to read; let them laugh who win!""You give good advice, mester," said he, "I think I shall follow it.""Let me look at the paper," said I.
He handed it to me. It was a Welsh paper, and full of dismal accounts from the seat of war.
"What news, mester?" said the waggoner.
"Nothing but bad," said I; "the Russians are beating us and the French too.""If the Rusiaid beat us," said the waggoner, "it is because the Francod are with us. We should have gone alone.""Perhaps you are right," said I; "at any rate we could not have fared worse than we are faring now."I presently paid for what I had had, inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr, and departed.