The Gloomy Valley - The Lonely Cottage - Happy Comparison - Clogs -The Alder Swamp - The Wooden Leg - The Militiaman - Death-bed Verses.
ON reaching the ruined village where the Pandy stood I stopped, and looked up the gloomy valley to the west, down which the brook which joins the Ceiriog at this place, descends, whereupon John Jones said, that if I wished to go up it a little way he should have great pleasure in attending me, and that he should show me a cottage built in the hen ddull, or old fashion, to which he frequently went to ask for the rent; he being employed by various individuals in the capacity of rent-gatherer. I said that I was afraid that if he was a rent-collector, both he and I should have a sorry welcome. "No fear," he replied, "the people are very good people, and pay their rent very regularly," and without saying another word he led the way up the valley. At the end of the village, seeing a woman standing at the door of one of the ruinous cottages, I asked her the name of the brook, or torrent, which came down the valley. "The Tarw," said she, "and this village is called Pandy Teirw.""Why is the streamlet called the bull?" said I. "Is it because it comes in winter weather roaring down the glen and butting at the Ceiriog?"The woman laughed, and replied that perhaps it was. The valley was wild and solitary to an extraordinary degree, the brook or torrent running in the middle of it covered with alder trees. After we had proceeded about a furlong we reached the house of the old fashion -it was a rude stone cottage standing a little above the road on a kind of platform on the right-hand side of the glen; there was a paling before it with a gate, at which a pig was screaming, as if anxious to get in. "It wants its dinner," said John Jones, and opened the gate for me to pass, taking precautions that the screamer did not enter at the same time. We entered the cottage, very glad to get into it, a storm of wind and rain having just come on. Nobody was in the kitchen when we entered, it looked comfortable enough, however, there was an excellent fire of wood and coals, and a very snug chimney corner. John Jones called aloud, but for some time no one answered; at last a rather good-looking woman, seemingly about thirty, made her appearance at a door at the farther end of the kitchen. "Is the mistress at home,"said Jones, "or the master?"
"They are neither at home," said the woman, "the master is abroad at his work, and the mistress is at the farm-house of - three miles off to pick feathers (trwsio plu)." She asked us to sit down.
"And who are you?" said I.
"I am only a lodger," said she, "I lodge here with my husband who is a clog-maker.""Can you speak English?" said I.
"Oh yes," said she, "I lived eleven years in England, at a place called Bolton, where I married my husband, who is an Englishman.""Can he speak Welsh?" said I.
"Not a word," said she. "We always speak English together."John Jones sat down, and I looked about the room. It exhibited no appearance of poverty; there was plenty of rude but good furniture in it; several pewter plates and trenchers in a rack, two or three prints in frames against the wall, one of which was the likeness of no less a person than the Rev. Joseph Sanders, on the table was a newspaper. "Is that in Welsh?" said I.
"No," replied the woman, "it is the BOLTON CHRONICLE, my husband reads it."I sat down in the chimney-corner. The wind was now howling abroad, and the rain was beating against the cottage panes - presently a gust of wind came down the chimney, scattering sparks all about.
"A cataract of sparks!" said I, using the word Rhaiadr.
"What is Rhaiadr?" said the woman; "I never heard the word before.""Rhaiadr means water tumbling over a rock," said John Jones - "did you never see water tumble over the top of a rock?""Frequently," said she.
"Well," said he, "even as the water with its froth tumbles over the rock, so did sparks and fire tumble over the front of that grate when the wind blew down the chimney. It was a happy comparison of the Gwr Boneddig, and with respect to Rhaiadr it is a good old word, though not a common one; some of the Saxons who have read the old writings, though they cannot speak the language as fast as we, understand many words and things which we do not.""I forgot much of my Welsh in the land of the Saxons," said the woman, "and so have many others; there are plenty of Welsh at Bolton, but their Welsh is sadly corrupted."She then went out and presently returned with an infant in her arms and sat down. "Was that child born in Wales?" I demanded.
"No," said she, "he was born at Bolton, about eighteen months ago -we have been here only a year."
"Do many English," said I, "marry Welsh wives?""A great many," said she. "Plenty of Welsh girls are married to Englishmen at Bolton.""Do the Englishmen make good husbands?" said I.
The woman smiled and presently sighed.
"Her husband," said Jones, "is fond of a glass of ale and is often at the public-house.""I make no complaint," said the woman, looking somewhat angrily at John Jones.
"Is your husband a tall bulky man?" said I.
"Just so," said the woman.
"The largest of the two men we saw the other night at the public-house at Llansanfraid," said I to John Jones.
"I don't know him," said Jones, "though I have heard of him, but Ihave no doubt that was he."
I asked the woman how her husband could carry on the trade of a clog-maker in such a remote place - and also whether he hawked his clogs about the country.