_Woman_.-O yes, sir, they can be civil enough to pa.s.sers-by, especially those who they think want nothing from them-but if you came and settled amongst them you would find them, I"m afraid, quite the contrary.
_Myself_.-Would they be uncivil to me if I could speak Welsh?
_Woman_.-Most particularly, sir; the Welsh don"t like any strangers, but least of all those who speak their language.
_Myself_.-Have you picked up anything of their language?
_Woman_.-Not a word, sir, nor my husband neither. They take good care that we shouldn"t pick up a word of their language. I stood the other day and listened whilst two women were talking just where you stand now, in the hope of catching a word, and as soon as they saw me they pa.s.sed to the other side of the bridge, and began buzzing there. My poor husband took it into his head that he might possibly learn a word or two at the public-house, so he went there, called for a jug of ale and a pipe, and tried to make himself at home just as he might in England, but it wouldn"t do. The company instantly left off talking to one another, and stared at him, and before he could finish his pot and pipe took themselves off to a man, and then came the landlord, and asked him what he meant by frightening away his customers. So my poor husband came home as pale as a sheet, and sitting down in a chair said, "Lord, have mercy upon me!"
_Myself_.-Why are the Welsh afraid that strangers should pick up their language?
_Woman_.-Lest, perhaps, they should learn their secrets, sir!
_Myself_.-What secrets have they?
_Woman_.-The Lord above only knows, sir!
_Myself_.-Do you think they are hatching treason against Queen Victoria?
_Woman_.-O dear no, sir.
_Myself_.-Is there much murder going on amongst them?
_Woman_.-Nothing of the kind, sir.
_Myself_.-Cattle-stealing?
_Woman_.-O no, sir!
_Myself_.-Pig-stealing?
_Woman_.-No, sir!
_Myself_.-Duck or hen stealing?
_Woman_.-Haven"t lost a duck or hen since I have been here, sir.
_Myself_.-Then what secrets can they possibly have?
_Woman_.-I don"t know, sir! perhaps none at all, or at most only a pack of small nonsense, that n.o.body would give three farthings to know.
However, it is quite certain they are as jealous of strangers hearing their discourse as if they were plotting gunpowder treason, or something worse.
_Myself_.-Have you been long here?
_Woman_.-Only since last May, sir! and we hope to get away by next, and return to our own country, where we shall have some one to speak to.
_Myself_.-Good bye!
_Woman_.-Good bye, sir, and thank you for your conversation; I haven"t had such a treat of talk for many a weary day.
The Vale of the Dyfi became wider and more beautiful as I advanced. The river ran at the bottom amidst green and seemingly rich meadows. The hills on the farther side were cultivated a great way up, and various neat farm-houses were scattered here and there on their sides. At the foot of one of the most picturesque of these hills stood a large white village. I wished very much to know its name, but saw no one of whom I could inquire. I proceeded for about a mile, and then perceiving a man wheeling stones in a barrow for the repairing of the road, I thought I would inquire of him. I did so, but the village was then out of sight, and though I pointed in its direction, and described its situation, I could not get its name out of him. At length I said hastily, "Can you tell me your own name?"
"Dafydd Tibbot, sir," said he.
"Tibbot, Tibbot," said I; "why, you are a Frenchman."
"Dearie me, sir," said the man, looking very pleased, "am I indeed?"
"Yes, you are," said I, rather repenting of my haste, and giving him sixpence, I left him.
"I"d bet a trifle," said I to myself, as I walked away, "that this poor creature is the descendant of some desperate Norman Tibault who helped to conquer Powisland under Roger de Montgomery, or Earl Baldwin. How striking that the proud old Norman names are at present only borne by people in the lowest station. Here"s a Tibbot, or Tibault, harrowing stones on a Welsh road, and I have known a Mortimer munching poor cheese and bread under a hedge on an English one. How can we account for this save by the supposition that the descendants of proud, cruel and violent men-and who so proud, cruel and violent as the old Normans-are doomed by G.o.d to come to the dogs?"
Came to Pont Velin Cerrig, the bridge of the mill of the Cerrig, a river which comes foaming down from between two rocky hills. This bridge is about a mile from Machynlleth, at which place I arrived at about five o"clock in the evening-a cool, bright moon shining upon me. I put up at the princ.i.p.al inn, which was of course called the Wynstay Arms.
CHAPTER LXXVIII
Welsh Poems-Sessions Business-The Lawyer and his Client-The Court-The Two Keepers-The Defence.
During supper I was waited upon by a brisk, buxom maid, who told me that her name was Mary Evans. The repast over, I ordered a gla.s.s of whiskey-and-water, and when it was brought I asked the maid if she could procure me some book to read. She said she was not aware of any book in the house which she could lay her hand on except one of her own, which if I pleased she would lend me. I begged her to do so. Whereupon she went out, and presently returned with a very small volume, which she laid on the table and then retired. After taking a sip of my whiskey-and-water, I proceeded to examine it. It turned out to be a volume of Welsh poems ent.i.tled _Blodau Glyn Dyfi_, or, Flowers of Glyn Dyfi, by one Lewis Meredith, whose poetical name is Lewis Clyn Dyfi. The author indites his preface from Cemmaes, June, 1852. The best piece is called "Dyffryn Dyfi"; and is descriptive of the scenery of the vale through which the Dyfi runs. It commences thus:
"Heddychol ddyffryn tlws,"
Peaceful, pretty vale,
and contains many lines breathing a spirit of genuine poetry.
The next day I did not get up till nine, having no journey before me, as I intended to pa.s.s that day at Machynlleth. When I went down to the parlour I found another guest there, breakfasting. He was a tall, burly, and clever-looking man of about thirty-five. As we breakfasted together at the same table, we entered into conversation. I learned from him that he was an attorney from a town at some distance, and was come over to Machynlleth to the petty sessions, to be held that day, in order to defend a person accused of spearing a salmon in the river. I asked him who his client was.
"A farmer," said he, "a tenant of Lord V-, who will probably preside over the bench which will try the affair."
"O," said I, "a tenant spearing his landlord"s fish-that"s bad."
"No," said he, "the fish which he speared-that is, which he is accused of spearing-did not belong to his landlord, but to another person; he hires land of Lord V-, but the fishing of the river which runs through that land belongs to Sir Watkin."
"O, then," said I, "supposing he did spear the salmon, I shan"t break my heart if you get him off; do you think you shall?"
"I don"t know," said he. "There"s the evidence of two keepers against him; one of whom I hope, however, to make appear a scoundrel, in whose oath the slightest confidence is not to be placed. I shouldn"t wonder if I make my client appear a persecuted lamb. The worst is, that he has the character of being rather fond of fish-indeed, of having speared more salmon than any other six individuals in the neighbourhood."
"I really should like to see him," said I; "what kind of person is he?
some fine, desperate-looking fellow, I suppose?"
"You will see him presently," said the lawyer; "he is in the pa.s.sage, waiting till I call him in to take some instructions from him; and I think I had better do so now, for I have breakfasted, and time is wearing away."
He then got up, took some papers out of a carpet bag, sat down, and after glancing at them for a minute or two, went to the door and called to somebody in Welsh to come in. Forthwith in came a small, mean, wizened-faced man of about sixty, dressed in a black coat and hat, drab breeches and gaiters, and looking more like a decayed Methodist preacher than a spearer of imperial salmon.