{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_70214/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_70214","id":"gutenberg_70214","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70214","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - British","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Wales -- Description and travel"],"text":"Transcriber\u2019s Note\nPage 16 - Glendyfrdwy changed to Glyndyfrdwy\n\nThe Footnotes have been changed from alpha to numeric.\n\nIn the List of Illustrations the page number for OLD ROMAN BRIDGE\nNEAR SWANSEA has been changed from 78 to 80 as positioned in the\noriginal.\n\n\n[Illustration: ABEREDW AND BLACK MOUNTAINS. _Page 60._]\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n    PEEPS AT MANY LANDS\n\n    WALES\n\n    BY\n\n    E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON\n    F.R.HIST.S.\n\n    AUTHOR OF \u201cBRITAIN LONG AGO\u201d, ETC.\n\n    CONTAINING TWELVE FULL-PAGE\n    ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR\n\n    LONDON\n    ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK\n    1911\n]\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n    CHAPTER                                      PAGE\n\n    INTRODUCTION                                  vii\n\n    I. WILD WALES                                  1\n\n    II. SNOWDONIA, THE FASTNESS OF LLEWELYN        8\n\n    III. IN GLENDOWER LAND                        14\n\n    IV. A WELSH MARKET-TOWN                       20\n\n    V. A VISIT TO ANGLESEY AND HOLYHEAD           26\n\n    VI. AN EISTEDDFOD                             31\n\n    VII. \u201cMEN OF HARLECH\u201d                         35\n\n    VIII. A BURIED VILLAGE                        43\n\n    IX. THE SACRED RIVER                          48\n\n    X. A PEEP AT PEMBROKE                         51\n\n    XI. THE VALLEY OF THE WYE                     59\n\n    XII. THE GREAT PLYNLIMMON                     64\n\n    XIII. THE VALE OF TEIFY                       71\n\n    XIV. THE DEVIL\u2019S BRIDGE                       78\n\n    XV. THE GLOWING MOUNTAIN                      85\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n    ABEREDW AND BLACK MOUNTAINS          _frontispiece_\n\n                                          FACING PAGE\n\n    CONWAY CASTLE                                   9\n\n    DISTANT VIEW OF CARNARVON BAY                  16\n\n    VALLE CRUCIS ABBEY                             25\n\n    CARNARVON CASTLE                               32\n\n    BRAN THE BLESSED AT HARLECH CASTLE WATCHING\n    MATHOLWCH\u2019S FLEET ARRIVE FROM IRELAND          41\n\n    A DRUID PRIEST                                 48\n\n    ST. CATHERINE\u2019S ROCK, TENBY                    57\n\n    THE WYE NEAR RHAYADER                          64\n\n    CARDIGAN BAY                                   73\n\n    OLD ROMAN BRIDGE NEAR SWANSEA                  80\n\n    THE STACK, HOLYHEAD (_p. 26_)          _on the cover_\n\n    _Sketch-Map of Wales on page vi_\n\n[Illustration: SKETCH-MAP OF WALES.]\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThese peeps at Wales will take us into a country busy with its various\nindustries of coal-mining, slate-quarrying, and wool manufacture, yet\none which, in spite of its modern developments and trade interests, has\nnever lost the magic and glamour of an earlier age.\n\nEvery country-town, almost every hill and mound in the district, has\nits legend, its romance, which lives in the hearts of an intensely\npatriotic and imaginative people, and blends the past and the present\ninto one.\n\nThis is the reason why, in these peeps at various spots in Wales, we\nhave often chosen those unknown to the tourist, but interesting to\nthose who care for the people as well as for the place, because of some\nlegend or history that paints, as nothing else can do, their life in\nthe days of old.\n\nRomance broods over all: the spell of the wizard Merlin has touched\nvale and hill; Arthur and his Round Table, though belonging originally\nto the sister-country of Brittany, has migrated hither and left his\nname and those of his Knights in every part of the land; Taliesin, the\nmarvellous child-bard, still sings beyond the mountain-peaks.\n\nThe actual history of Wales, too, stained with blood though it often\nis, has its romance as well; for what can be more romantic than the\nhopeless struggle for a lost cause as carried on by the last Llewelyn\nand by the brave Glendower?\n\nBy its many \u201ccaers,\u201d or forts, its ruined castles, its well-made roads,\nit speaks of a history of constant struggle and rebellion against\nsuperior forces--the struggle of the Celt against the Saxon, the\nrebellion of the freeborn against the conqueror.\n\nSome of this history, some of these traditions, we shall read in these\npages as we visit the places with which they are connected; and because\nof these we shall have to turn our backs upon many a spot, better\nknown and more frequented than those we have chosen, but, perhaps,\nfor that very reason, less interesting, since, owing to the crowds of\nEnglish tourists which beset them, they have lost much of their Celtic\ncharacter.\n\nAnd let not those of us who \u201chave no Welsh\u201d be daunted by the apparent\ndifficulty of pronouncing the names of these places. A Welshman will\ntell you that his language is \u201cphonetic\u201d--that is, pronounced exactly\nas it is spelt! Nor is this rule misleading if we will but bear in mind\nthat _dd_ is sounded like the English _th_ in _breathe_,\nthat _ff_ is _f_, and _f_ is _v_. _W_ is\nsounded like _oo_; _y_ is _u_ if it comes early in the\nword, and _i_ if later; _aw_ is _ow_; and _ll_ is\nbest pronounced, on one authority, by pressing the tongue against the\nfront teeth and breathing hard.\n\n  E. M. W.-B.\n\n\n\n\nWALES\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nWILD WALES\n\n\nOnce upon a time, says a famous Welsh legend, a certain witch named\nCaridwen set to work to brew a cauldron of knowledge that might make\nher youngest son the wisest man in the world. Now, this cauldron had to\nboil for a year and a day, and at the end of that time it would yield\nthree drops of precious liquid which would make whoever drank them the\nwisest of all men. So she set a passing tramp named Gwion Bach to stir\nthe cauldron and to keep it on the boil, and made up her mind to kill\nhim directly the time was up, lest he should learn the secret of the\nmagic liquid.\n\nBut she miscalculated the time, and so it happened that one day, in her\nabsence, the three magic drops flew up out of the cauldron and fell\nupon the finger of Gwion Bach. Feeling his finger thus scalded, he put\nit to his mouth and sucked it, and immediately he became very wise, and\nknew what Caridwen meant to do to him.\n\nSo he fled to his own people, and the cauldron, left unstirred, burst\nin two, so that the poisonous liquid that was left, poured out and\nflowed into a stream near by, and all the cattle that drank of that\nstream went mad and died.\n\nWhen Caridwen saw this, she made haste to catch Gwion Bach and put him\nto death; but he, when he saw her running after him, changed himself\ninto a hare, for the magic potion had given him skill of all kinds.\nBut she immediately turned herself into a greyhound, and had nearly\ncaught him, when he sprang into a river and changed himself into a\nfish. Then she became an otter, and chased him till, hard pressed, he\ntook the form of a bird. Caridwen then became a hawk, and chased him\ntill, dead-beat, he fell into a granary and changed himself into a\ngrain of wheat. The witch promptly became a high-crested black hen,\nand scratched among the grains till she found him. She was about to\nswallow him, when he, now almost at the end of his resources, became\na beautiful little child. Then Caridwen, not having the heart to kill\nhim, put him into a leathern bag and cast him into the sea, not far\nfrom Aberystwith, just below the Weir of Gwyddno, on April 29.\n\nNow, Gwyddno had a most unlucky son named Elphin, who was \u201calways\nneeding and never getting\u201d; and in order that he might gain something\nfor himself, his father granted him all the weir should contain on\nMay-day. So the nets were set, but in the morning they were quite empty\nsave for a leathern bag which had caught in one of them. Then said one\nof his companions: \u201cTill this day, the weir has been worth a hundred\npounds\u2019 worth of fish every May morning. Now see how your luck has\nturned them away, and left you nothing but a skin.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d said Elphin; \u201cperhaps the skin bag may have something in it that\nis worth more than a hundred pounds.\u201d\n\nSo they opened it, and a little lad peeped out.\n\n\u201cSee what a bright face!\u201d they cried. And Elphin, heavy with\ndisappointment, said, \u201cLet him be called Taliesin, then\u201d (which means\nBright Face), and took him home behind him on his horse. But as they\nrode along the boy began to sing to him so sweet a song of consolation\nthat Elphin marvelled, and asked where he had learnt a thing so\nbeautiful. Then Taliesin replied that, though he was but little, he\nwas, nevertheless, very wise. When they reached the house, Gwyddno\nasked his son if he had had a good haul. \u201cFather,\u201d replied Elphin, \u201cI\nhave caught a poet-minstrel.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! What good will that do thee?\u201d asked his father; but Taliesin\nanswered for himself: \u201cIt will do him more good than the weir ever did\nfor thee!\u201d\n\nAnd so it came about; for Taliesin, the magic child, not only saved\nElphin\u2019s life and liberty when he was in great danger and made him\na rich and fortunate man; he also brought high fame to the House of\nGwyddno by his very name and connection with it. For Taliesin, the rest\nof whose wonderful story must be read elsewhere, became the minstrel,\nand bard, and prophet of the Britain of old days; and this was one of\nhis prophecies made concerning the people of his land:\n\n    \u201cTheir Lord they shall praise,\n    Their language they shall keep,\n    Their land they shall lose\n    Except Wild Wales.\u201d\n\nLet us see how the prophecy has been fulfilled.\n\nWhen the Romans conquered Britain, they found the hardest part of\ntheir task lay in that north-western part of the island which is now\ncalled Wales. The people were more uncivilized than the Britons of the\nsouth-east, but they knew how to fight to the death; and the Roman\nwriter paints for us a vivid picture of the grim lines of warriors,\nurged on by the cries of wild women dancing a witch-dance in the van,\nand by the words of the white-robed, ivy-crowned Druids, who called\ndown the curses of the sky-god upon the Roman foe.\n\nEven when this part of Britain at length was subdued, the inhabitants\nwere very little influenced by their conquerors. They used the fine\nRoman roads laid down for the passage of their conquerors\u2019 troops from\nCaerleon to Chester and along the coast; they marvelled at the pretty\nRoman villas that arose upon their borders; but they kept their own\nlanguage and their own customs, and were influenced scarcely at all\nby the civilization which was spreading fast in the south and east of\nBritain. One thing, however, they eagerly embraced, and that was the\nChristian faith, and that is one reason why many Welsh words connected\nwith the religious services of the Church are merely Latin words in\ndisguise.\n\nWhen the rest of Britain, at the end of the fifth century, had fallen\ninto the hands of the English invaders and conquerors, the western part\nremained free. High among their mountains, these fierce tribes bade\ndefiance to Angle, and Saxon, and Jute, and to them came for protection\nmany of those who had been forced to flee for their lives from other\nparts of Britain. From that time this region came to be known by the\nEnglish as _Wales_, the Land of Strangers; and thus was part of\nthe prophecy concerning the whole people of Britain fulfilled:\n\n    \u201c_Their land they shall lose_\n    _Except Wild Wales._\u201d\n\n\u201c_Their language they shall keep._\u201d We have seen how few Latin\nwords had been borrowed from the Romans, and now that all the rest of\nthe island was fast forgetting its original tongue and learning the\nlanguage of its conquerors, the men of the West were fulfilling that\npart of the prophecy also. Up to this time there had been in the land\nthree distinct races, and at least three languages. There were the\nshort, dark-haired Celts, who came originally from the South of Europe,\nand who became the serfs of the next new-comers, the Irish Celts. These\nwere tall, red-haired people, and very like them were the next to come,\nthe Brythons, or Welsh Celts. While the English were making themselves\nmasters of the rest of Britain, these two latter tribes were at civil\nwar, and in the end the Brythons, or Britons, got the upper hand, and\ntheir language became the language of Wales.\n\nIt was about this time, too, that the first line of the bardic prophecy\nbegan to be fulfilled. Under the stirring influence of Dewi, the\nWater-drinker, the monk of Dyfed, whom we know as St. David, Wales\nbecame caught up in a wave of religious zeal. Monasteries were built,\nmissionaries travelled from end to end of the country, everywhere the\nGospel was preached, and the people received it gladly. Countless Welsh\n\u201csaints,\u201d or missionaries, arose, whose names are now only remembered\nby the churches or places dedicated to them; and while England was\nsunk in heathen darkness, the light of the Celtic Church was burning\nbrightly in the West. From that time down to the present day religious\nzeal has been the characteristic of the Welshman. \u201c_Their Lord they\nshall praise._\u201d\n\nThe Norman Conquest, five centuries later, brought the Lowlands of\nWales--the Borderland, or \u201cMarches,\u201d as it was called--under the\nrule of Norman barons, but the wilder part of the country, though it\ncondescended to borrow something of Norman civilization, remained\nindependent. At the end of the reign of Henry III. Wales was a land\nof shepherd farmers, who knew well how to use the bow and the spear.\nThey were divided into many tribes, but united by their religion and by\ntheir love of music, poetry, oratory, and all those arts which depend\nupon a vivid imagination for their growth. Even to this day the stories\nthat they told are as fascinating to us as they were to the Welsh boys\nand girls who first heard them as they sat by the rude hearthstone, and\nheard the wind skirling down the mountain outside the heavily barred\ndoor.\n\nFortunately for this Celtic spirit of imagination that turns all\nit touches to gold, the next attempt at conquest shook rather than\nshattered the independence of Wild Wales. But we shall best understand\nand enjoy this part of the story of the land if we read it in\nconnection with the particular places at which the more striking events\noccurred.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nSNOWDONIA, THE FASTNESS OF LLEWELYN\n\n\nThe story of the great struggle of Wales for freedom under a Prince of\nher own is laid, fitly enough, amid the wild scenery that surrounds\nthe highest point in Southern Britain. The whole district of Snowdon,\nwith its grim moorlands and towering heights forming a bulwark to the\nwestern shore, breathes an air of freedom, and it was here that the\nlast Llewelyn defied the might of the first English Edward.\n\nRoused by the bitter lament of those who had fallen under the yoke\nof the Anglo-Norman barons, Llewelyn, Lord of Snowdon, threw off the\npretence of alliance and friendship which Henry III. had thought well\nto keep up between them, and claimed to be ruler of all Wales, as his\ngrandfather had done in the days of Henry II. During the long Barons\u2019\nWar in England the \u201cLord of Snowdon\u201d found no difficulty in maintaining\nhis right to be \u201cPrince of Wales\u201d; the real trouble only began when\nEdward I., on his accession, called upon the Prince to do homage as his\nvassal. For two years Llewelyn paid no heed, and when he heard that an\nEnglish army was advancing upon him, went out boldly to meet it.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n    CONWAY CASTLE AND QUAY.      _Page 13._\n]\n\nBut the chieftains of Central and South Wales turned traitor, his own\nbrother David deserted him, and the Prince, driven back to the inmost\nrecesses of his mountain fastness, was forced to lay down his arms.\nPreferring to have him as friend rather than enemy, Edward behaved\ngenerously enough, merely seizing a large slice of his dominions,\nconfining him to the Snowdon district, and providing that the title\n\u201cPrince of Wales\u201d should cease at his death.\n\nFour years elapsed of outward peace and inward commotion. Then came a\nrumour of a strange event. Long years before, Merlin, a famous Welsh\nbard and prophet, had foretold that \u201cwhen English money became round,\na Prince of Wales should be crowned in London.\u201d In 1282 a new copper\ncoinage had taken the place of the usual breaking of the silver penny\ninto halves and quarters; and in that same year the traitor David, who\nhad been rewarded with an English earldom, threw off his allegiance to\nEdward, and appeared with an army before his brother\u2019s dwelling-place.\nGladly did Llewelyn once more raise the standard of revolt, and a\ndesperate struggle for freedom began. The great army of the English\nKing, encircling the Snowdon range, which was the headquarters of the\nPrince, drew in closer and closer; but meantime the English soldiers\nwere suffering terribly in that hard winter of 1282, which the hardy\nWelshmen, living in the snowbound caves of the mountain, seemed to\npass through unheeding. As long as Llewelyn was there to inspire and\ncheer, pain and even death were to be welcomed; but almost by chance\nthe men of Wales lost their leader in a quite unimportant skirmish.\nLlewelyn had emerged from his mountain lair, and, hoping to drive the\nEnglish from the Brecknock district, had ridden forth to meet some\nallies. He was met by a party of English horsemen and cut down by an\nalmost unknown knight. With Llewelyn, \u201cour last ruler,\u201d as the Welsh\nstill call him, the cause of Welsh independence was lost. At Rhuddlan,\nin Flintshire, you may still see a bit of the wall remaining where\nthe Statute of Wales was passed by the Parliament held there in 1284;\nand in that Statute Edward showed the greatest wisdom; for, instead\nof forcing English laws and customs upon them, he allowed the Welsh\nto keep their own as far as possible, altering them only where it was\nclearly for their own advantage.\n\nIt was at Carnarvon Castle, which guards the entrance to \u201cSnowdonia,\u201d\nthat the little Prince was born who was presented by Edward I. to the\nWelsh chieftains upon a shield as a \u201cPrince of Wales who could not\nspeak a word of English.\u201d And nowadays Carnarvon is, perhaps, the\nbest starting-point from which to take a glimpse of this wild and\nmountainous district.\n\nBehind us, as we look towards the mountains, lie the Menai Straits,\nspanned by the fine suspension bridge, so strong and yet so fairy-like\nwith its arches of Anglesey marble, that it has been called a \u201cpoem in\nstone and iron.\u201d This bridge continues the Holyhead road to the island\nof Anglesey, the home of the Llewelyns, where the soil is so fertile\nthat an old saying declares that it can provide corn enough for all the\npeople in Wales; and thence, across the island, we may reach Holyhead,\nthe starting-point for the Irish mail-boats.\n\nTravelling towards Snowdon by rail to Llanberis, the scenery changes\nrapidly from pretty woods and pastures to that of rugged heights,\ncrags, and rock-bound lakes. The mountain valley in which the village\nlies is commanded by the very ancient Welsh castle of Dolbadarn,\nonce the prison of Owen, the brother of the ill-fated Llewelyn, Lord\nof Snowdon. Below is the great lake, and beyond the wild Pass of\nLlanberis, bounded by a \u201ctumultuous chaos of rock and crag, as if\nTitans in some burst of fury had been rending cliffs and flinging their\nfragments far and wide.\u201d If we are lazy, we may climb Snowdon by the\nlittle mountain train, but if not, we set off up the ascent till, just\nbelow the steepest part, we turn off a little from the path to look at\nthe wonderful hollow of Cwmglas, high up in the mountain-side, with\nits two tiny tarns, surrounded by \u201cstriated\u201d or glacier-marked rocks.\n\nA steep scramble brings us to the top of Snowdon, and if it is a clear\nday a glorious view rewards us. Beyond the line of sea is the blue\nrange of the Wicklow Mountains in Ireland; below us, half hidden by the\ncrags and shoulders of the huge mass, lie lakes and valleys, and the\nquiet lowlands stretching to the borders of the Atlantic.\n\nThrough one of the loveliest of these valleys we reach the\nmountain-girt village of Beddgelert. You all know the story of Llewelyn\nand his faithful dog, killed by his master because he thought he had\neaten the child he had in reality saved from a wolf. Here you may\nsee the stones which mark his tomb; but you will probably be told\nthat the story is but a myth, and that the grave is really that of\na Welsh chieftain named Gelert, and not of a dog at all. You may\nconsole yourselves with knowing that, whether this is true or not,\nthe picturesque little village was a favourite hunting-spot for the\nLlewelyn whose story we know in history, and that the curious little\nchurch there is part of one of the oldest monasteries in Wales.\n\nAnother beautiful valley leads to the famous pass and bridge of\nAberglaslyn. Here the huge cliffs on either hand approach so closely\nto one another that there is barely room for road and river; and the\nwooded slopes, as they near the water, afford a strong contrast to the\nwild rocks above.\n\nAfter this rugged splendour, the prettiness of the Fairy Glen at\nBettws-y-Coed will seem tame enough. We will not linger there, but\nwill finish our glimpse of this land of Llewelyn by a visit to Conway\nCastle, built by Edward I. in 1283, to safeguard this part of Wild\nWales that he had so hardly won.\n\nThe town of Conway, \u201crugged without, beautiful within,\u201d is a fine\nexample of the fortified walled towns of the Middle Ages. The walls are\ntriangular, and are said to represent a Welsh harp, and are entered by\ncrumbling stone gateways.\n\nAbove them towers the castle of Edward I., in which he was himself\nbesieged on one occasion by the rebel Welsh, and was only saved by the\narrival of his fleet.\n\nThe poet Gray makes this neighbourhood the scene of an event upon which\nthe light of history throws grave doubt. The English King, believing\nthat the conquest of Wales would never be completed while the bards\nremained to stir up the patriotic zeal of their fellow-countrymen, is\nsaid to have ordered a general massacre of them on the banks of the\nRiver Conway. It was the prophetic curse pronounced on the King by one\nof these bards, standing \u201con a rock, whose haughty brow frowns o\u2019er\nold Conway\u2019s foaming flood,\u201d which\n\n                    \u201cScattered wild dismay\n    As down the steep of Snowdon\u2019s shaggy side\n    He wound with toilsome march his long array.\u201d\n\nIn spite of \u201cCambria\u2019s curse and Cambria\u2019s tears,\u201d the English King\nmust have felt fairly secure within the massive walls of the castle,\nwhose banqueting-hall, now open to the sky, and ivy-grown, is of such\nnoble length and breadth that it might well have contained a regiment\nof retainers. The passionate patriotism of Wales had little chance\nagainst the solid strength of English builders and English troops.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nIN GLENDOWER LAND\n\n\nAs the name of Llewelyn is connected with the Snowdon district, so the\nname of another Welsh hero, Owen Glendower, lives still in that valley\nof the Dee that lies between Corwen and Llangollen.\n\nThe valley itself is one of the most interesting in Wales. Almost of\na horseshoe shape, it is bounded by ranges of mountains, not very\nhigh, but beautiful in shape and colour. On one side, a blaze of\nyellow gorse, Moel Gamelin rears his rounded head; on the other the\nheather-clad heights of the Berwyns invite us to scramble up their\nslopes and to walk along the sky-line to the end of the vale. In the\nhollow lies the picturesque little market-town of Llangollen, and above\nit the steep cone-shaped hill is crowned by the ruined castle of Dinas\nBran.\n\nIn the old days this castle must have been of great importance, for it\nguarded the entrance to the kingdom of Powys, the middle kingdom of\nWales. It was the stronghold of Madoc, Lord of Powys, and of his son\nGriffith, who died in Llewelyn\u2019s last desperate struggle for freedom,\nboth of whom were the ancestors of Owen Glendower himself.\n\nNowadays we shall find a relic of olden times in the harpist who sits\nupon the summit and plays Welsh airs, full of mournful sweetness, to\nthose who visit the ruins. Below in the half-hidden Valle Crucis, lies\none of the most famous of Welsh abbeys, which we are going to explore,\nin order to find the resting-place of these ancestors of Glendower.\n\nIn former days Valle Crucis Abbey, founded by the Lords of Dinas Bran,\nwas noted for its hospitality--a virtue of which we are reminded by the\nruins of a large hostel, or guest-house, and by the fish-ponds which\nstill exist. Here are the monks\u2019 dormitories; and here, in the chapel,\nbelow the beautiful remains of the east window, lie the battered tombs\nof Madoc, the founder, and his son. Returning to Llangollen, and\npassing along the Holyhead road, we presently come to Glyndyfrdwy, that\n\u201cglen of the Dee\u201d from which our hero Owen took his surname.\n\nLike most young Welshmen of noble birth after the Conquest of Wales,\nOwen Glendower was brought up in England. Shakespeare makes him remind\nHotspur that--\n\n    \u201cI can speak English, lord, as well as you,\n    For I was trained up in the English Court,\n    Where, being but young, I framed to the harp,\n    Many an English ditty lovely well.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF CARNARVON BAY]\n\nWhen Henry IV. became King, Owen appealed to him against Lord Grey\nof Ruthin, who had seized a piece of his moorland. The King favoured\nLord Grey, and earned the lifelong hatred of his rival, who promptly\nrecovered his land by force of arms. Grey of Ruthin took a mean\nrevenge. When Henry summoned his Welsh barons, among others, to aid\nhim in a war with Scotland, he suppressed the message that summoned\nGlendower, and then denounced him to the King as a traitor for not\nobeying his call. Glendower\u2019s house was immediately besieged, and he\nhad only just time to escape to the woods. Now, Owen was no mean and\nunknown Welsh knight. He was as learned in books as he was skilled\nin warfare, and his house at Sycherth, ten miles from his native\nvalley, was famous for its hospitality. His wife and children were of\nnoble breed; as a poet of the day sings: \u201cHis wife, the best of wives,\nbeneficent mother of a beautiful nest of chieftains. Happy am I in her\nwine and metheglyn.\u201d\n\nSo, after a century of peace, when this descendant of the last Llewelyn\nraised the standard of revolt on the banks of the Dee, the Welshmen of\nthe districts far and wide flocked to his aid, singing with the bard,\nRed Iolo:\n\n    \u201cThy high renown shall never fail;\n    Owen Glendower, the Great, the Good,\n    Lord of Glyndyfrdwy\u2019s fertile vale,\n    High born, princely Owen, hail!\u201d\n\nRuthin, the stronghold of Lord Grey, now a quiet country-town, was\nfirst attacked and burnt to the ground. Before Henry\u2019s army, under the\ngovernment of Harry Percy, or Hotspur, and the young Prince Henry,\nthen a boy of fourteen, could act against them, the revolt had spread\nall over Wales, and had declared its aim to be independence of English\nrule. The success with which Glendower met soon earned for him the\nreputation of a wizard.\n\n\u201cI can call spirits from the vasty deep,\u201d Shakespeare makes him boast\nto Hotspur; who rudely replies: \u201cAy, but will they answer?\u201d But let the\nrough Northern Earl scoff as he might, Owen certainly met with almost\nuncanny success. The English troops, \u201cbootless and weatherbeaten,\u201d\nwere driven back across the borders again and again. Not only North\nWales, but the South country also rose under him. Midway between the\ntwo stands \u201cPumlumon,\u201d better known as Plynlimmon, a five-pointed peak\nthat rises, almost solitary, from the surrounding plain. Upon this top\nGlendower planted his standard, and from thence he managed to capture\nMortimer, the powerful English Earl of royal blood, who became before\nlong his son-in-law.\n\nOwen was now openly acknowledged as Prince of Wales; castle after\ncastle fell into his hands, and Parliaments were held by him at\nDolgelly, under the shadow of Cader Idris, and elsewhere. But meantime\nPrince Henry, the future Henry V., was growing up and learning the art\nof war. It was he who, while Owen was busy in South Wales, came to his\nown valley of Glyndyfrdwy, and burnt his house down. For seven years\nthe war went on, until the land was wellnigh ruined and the people\nweary of warfare. Pardons were freely offered and as freely accepted,\nuntil at last Owen Glendower found himself deserted. Still he would\nnot give in, and when Henry V., soon after he was made King, sent him\nan unasked for pardon by the hands of Glendower\u2019s own son, it came too\nlate; the hero of Wales\u2019 last bid for independence was dead.\n\nNearly eighty years later Wales recovered her name for loyalty to an\nEnglish Sovereign when a certain Henry Tudor, grandson of a Welsh\ncountry gentleman who had married a King\u2019s widow, landed at Milford\nHaven, and, with the aid of his fellow-countrymen, won the Battle of\nBosworth, and was crowned King as Henry VII. And so, when Henry VIII.,\nhis son, wished to bring about the Union of England and Wales by Act\nof Parliament, no voice was lifted against it. But if Henry thought\nby this Act, and by forbidding all magistrates in Wales to use the\nWelsh language, he was going to make the country actually a part of\nEngland, he was greatly mistaken. The upper classes might flock to the\nEnglish Court and forget their Welsh homes, but the greater part of\nthe people--the workers of the nation--kept their own speech, their\nown customs, their own traditions. The days of warfare were over; but\nstill you can tell a Welshman from an Englishman wherever he is found.\nHe may talk the purest English, but the fall and rise of his voice as\nhe talks differs from the more monotonous tones of his Anglo-Saxon\ncompanion. He is more excitable, more easily moved to wrath, or tears,\nor laughter, and he possesses, as a rule, a far more vivid imagination\nthan is found anywhere outside the Celtic race of which he forms a part.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nA WELSH MARKET-TOWN\n\n\nWe have come to the end of Glendower\u2019s story, but before we leave his\npart of the country altogether let us pay a visit to Corwen, the old\nmarket-town that lies so near his own valley.\n\nSomeone has said that Corwen is \u201crelentlessly tucked away under\nthe dark shoulder\u201d of the heather-clad Berwyns, for above it lies\nthe height of Pen-y-Pigyn, which certainly keeps the sun off very\neffectually. In the porch of the old church, indeed, we shall find\na great stone, called by a Welsh name that means \u201cthe pointed stone\nin the icy nook.\u201d A legend, found in many other parts of Wales, says\nthat the builders vainly tried to erect the church, which was built\nbefore the town, on a sunnier position farther down the valley, but\nevery night the walls were destroyed and the materials carried down\nto the sunless spot under the hill. Just above the vestry door of that\nsame church is a curious mark, said to have been made by the dagger\nof Glendower, flung by him in a fit of rage one day from the top of\nPen-y-Pigyn.\n\nSo far away is Corwen from mines or flannel mills or tourist centres,\nthat it forms in many ways a good example of a Welsh country-town, as\nit might have existed not long after the days of Glendower himself.\n\nThe great interest lies in the monthly fair-day, when the streets\nand market-place are full of shaggy Welsh ponies, black-faced\nmountain-sheep, and cattle with immense horns. At every corner stand\ngroups of farmers, talking eagerly with hands and shoulders as much as\nwith lips, and with that curious rise and fall of the voice which, they\ntell us, is the secret of Welsh oratory. Of that conversation the Saxon\nfrom over the border understands not a word; but no sooner does he make\na remark than with the utmost ease the Welshmen respond in excellent\nEnglish. The power of expressing themselves equally well in both\nlanguages is a striking feature of even the most uneducated classes\nin Wales. Only here and there in some farm hidden far away among the\nhills could one meet with the experience of one who, weary and thirsty\nafter a long tramp over the high moors, approached a tiny farm-house\nand asked the old woman who opened the door for a cup of milk. A shake\nof the head was the only reply. \u201cBut you must have milk or water in\nthe house!\u201d persisted the visitor. Another shake and a stream of words\nin an unknown tongue followed. Not to be baffled, the Saxon raised his\nhand to his mouth and made as if to drink.\n\nWith a cry of delight the old dame rushed away, and returned with a\nlarge bowlful of liquid, of which the traveller eagerly partook. It was\nfine thick butter-milk, but, alas! it was quite sour!\n\nPerhaps, however, the chief regret in the visitor\u2019s mind was the\nimpossibility of explaining why the bowl was returned full to the\nbrim, for the old dame\u2019s puzzled look said plainly enough: \u201cWhat more\n_could_ the stranger want than good Welsh butter-milk?\u201d\n\nMeantime the market-women have spread out their goods--poultry, butter,\neggs, and flowers--on the market-stalls in a picturesque fashion\nenough. Many of the women themselves are worth the attention of an\nartist, with their strong brown faces, black crisp hair, and very dark\nblue eyes, \u201cput in with a smutty finger,\u201d as someone has well described\nthem.\n\nFifty years ago you would have seen them dressed in short red skirts,\nbuckled shoes, crossed bodices, and tall steeple-crowned hats worn\nover caps; but these, unfortunately, have vanished.\n\nThe men--farmers or cattle-drovers for the most part--differ in face\nmore than they do in name. To English ears everyone seems to be called\neither David Mor-r-gan (with a beautiful roll to the \u201cr\u201d) or Owen\nJones. But to the careful eye the difference between the two original\nraces is clear. The one is still short, smaller in build, and very\ndark-haired; the other is tall, ruddy, with long loose limbs and fiery\nred hair.\n\nBorrow, whose amusing description of his walks in \u201cWild Wales\u201d you will\nlike some day to read, thus describes a fair at Llangollen some fifty\nyears ago, and from what one knows of these country-towns, one would\nnot expect to find things very different to-day.\n\n\u201cThe fair,\u201d he says, \u201cwas held in and near a little square in the\nsouth-east quarter of the town. It was a little bustling fair, attended\nby plenty of people from the country. A dense row of carts extended\nfrom the police-station half across the space. These carts were filled\nwith pigs, and had stout cord nettings drawn over them, to prevent the\nanimals escaping.\n\n\u201cBy the sides of these carts the principal business of the fair\nappeared to be going on--there stood the owners, male and female,\nhiggling with Llangollen men and women who came to buy. The pigs\nwere all small, and the price given seemed to vary from eighteen to\ntwenty-five shillings. Those who bought pigs generally carried them\naway in their arms, and then there was no little diversion. Dire was\nthe screaming of the porkers, yet the purchaser always knew how to\nmanage his bargain, keeping the left arm round the body of the swine,\nand with the right hand fast gripping the ear. Some few were led away\nby strings.\n\n\u201cThere were some Welsh cattle, small, of course, and the purchasers\nof these seemed to be Englishmen--tall, burly fellows in general, far\nexceeding the Welsh in height and size....\n\n\u201cNow and then a big fellow made an offer, and held out his hand for\na little Celtic grazier to give it a slap--a cattle bargain being\nconcluded by a slap of the hand--but the Welshman generally turned away\nwith a half-resentful exclamation.\n\n\u201cThere were a few horses and ponies in a street leading into the\nfair--I saw none sold, however....\n\n\u201cNow, if I add there was much gabbling of Welsh round about, and here\nand there some slight sawing of English--that in the street leading\nfrom the north there were some stalls of gingerbread, and a table at\nwhich a queer-looking being, with a red Greek cap on his head, sold\nrhubarb, herbs, and phials containing I know not what--I think I\nhave said all that is necessary about Llangollen Fair.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: VALLE CRUCIS ABBEY. _Page 15._]\n\nPerhaps, however, we should visit Corwen or any other Welsh market-town\non a Sunday to see the most striking characteristics of the people.\n\nThe streets are nearly deserted, and a strange stillness broods over\nthe place. At the open door of some of the cottages an aged woman sits\nwith a Welsh Bible on her knees, and keeps an eye upon the toddling\nbaby at her feet. Everyone else has vanished, and not until a burst of\nmelody sounds from the plainly-built chapels which occur so frequently\non the highways and within the township, is their whereabouts revealed.\nSuch singing it is, too! It has been said that the Welsh people sing\nnaturally in parts, and certainly it seems as though nothing but years\nof training would produce such a result with English choirs, not to\nspeak of a whole congregation, as is the case in Wales. In perfect time\nand tune the beautiful old Welsh melodies ring forth, and we begin to\nrealize what a large part this hymn-singing and fiery enthusiastic\npreaching plays in the daily life of this emotional and deeply\nreligious people.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nA VISIT TO ANGLESEY AND HOLYHEAD\n\n\nWe took such a brief backward glimpse at Anglesey and Holy Island when\nwe were visiting Llewelyn\u2019s country that we may as well now make a\nlonger visit.\n\nCrossing the Menai Straits by the suspension bridge, we pass through\na treeless moorland and over a causeway into Holy Island, from whence\nrises up the great headland known as Holyhead.\n\n\u201cA divine promontory,\u201d Ruskin calls it, \u201clooking westward--the Holy\nHeadland--still not without awe when its red light glares first through\nthe gloom.\u201d\n\nThe first thing we shall want to visit here is South Stack, a\nprecipitous mass of cliff climbed by three hundred and eighty steps.\nFrom thence we look down on the lighthouse, which, though one hundred\nand fifty feet high, looks from this point like a child\u2019s toy. The\ncliff scenery is magnificent here, and a grand sea rolls in to the foot\nof the rocks.\n\nOn our way back we must go to see some most interesting relics of old\ndays. They are known as the Irishmen\u2019s Huts, and were first built in\nthose ancient times when tribes of Irish Celts crossed over to the\nisland, and thence to the mainland, threatening, indeed, to displace\naltogether the original people of the land, and themselves driven out\nin later days by another race. These huts are grouped together so as\nto form tiny villages, in spots where they are guarded either by steep\nrocks or by roughly-constructed walls. They are round in shape, and\nbuilt of stone, though the remains of the walls are now not more than\ntwo feet high. All the entrances look towards the south, as though the\ninhabitants knew the value of sunshine; and the doorways are formed of\ntwo upright stones, with another placed across the top. The roofs were\nprobably thatched or turfed over poles, which stretched from one wall\nto the other.\n\nFrom what was found under the ground on which they stand when it was\nexamined some years ago, it seems as though some of these huts were\nused for living in, some for bathing, some for working metal, some for\nkitchens. Necklaces of jet, stone lamps, weapons of bronze, and moulds\nfor making bronze buttons were found in some. In others there are the\nremains of an apparatus for working metal; in others there are tanks,\nin which water was boiled by throwing hot stones into the water they\ncontained.\n\nRetracing our way by rail, we pass the village of Llangadwaladr, the\nhome of the last British Prince to hold the title of King of All\nBritain. The son of this Prince, Cadwaladr, who lived and died in the\nseventh century, is buried in the church of the place that bears his\nname, the \u201cenclosure, or church, of Cadwaladr.\u201d But the chief interest\nlies in his father, Cadwallon, and his cousin, Brian, who together won\none of the last great battles in the cause of British freedom against\nthe English conquerors.\n\nCadwallon, son of King Cadfan, and Edwin, son of King Ethelfrid of\nNorthumbria, were both born about the same year in the island of\nAnglesey, or Mona, as the Celts call it; for the Celtic mother of Edwin\nhad been driven out of the royal palace, and had returned to her former\nhome. The boys were brought up together in Brittany, another Celtic\nkingdom, and returned together to Anglesey, where they lived until, on\nthe death of his father, Cadwallon was chosen King of All Britain. This\nwas, however, but an empty title, for almost at that very time Edwin\nleft the island and made his way to Northumbria, where he seized the\nkingdom and with it much of the land of the Britons which lay upon its\nborders. But Cadwallon cared not, because he had been his friend.\n\nNow the heart of Brian, the nephew of the British King, was very sore\nbecause of the sufferings of his fellow-countrymen at the hands of the\nEnglish conquerors. One day, as he hunted the otter with his uncle on\nthe banks of a river, the King was overcome with heat and lay down to\nsleep, putting his head on the lap of the lad.\n\nBut Brian\u2019s heart was so heavy that his tears ran down upon the face of\nCadwallon, who muttered uneasily: \u201cIt rains, it rains!\u201d\n\nThen, opening his eyes, he saw the blue sky above him, and said to his\nnephew: \u201cSurely there has been a shower, and now the sun is shining.\nBut where is the rainbow?\u201d\n\nAnd Brian said: \u201cMy lord, it shines upon the head of Edwin!\u201d\n\nThen Cadwallon saw his tearful face, and asked him what he meant; and\nBrian told him all his woe. Whereupon Cadwallon swore to devote the\nrest of his life to winning back the land of Britain for her own people.\n\nBut the strong King of Northumbria drove him back from his borders\nagain and again, and almost in despair he set sail with Brian to seek\nhelp from Brittany. A great storm arose, however, drove the ship upon\nthe rocks, and everyone was drowned save Cadwallon and his nephew, who\nwere cast upon a desert island.\n\nThere, says the tale, King Cadwallon would have died of hunger and\nheart-break had not the devoted Brian secretly cut off a slice of\nhis own flesh, which he roasted and gave to his uncle, saying it was\nvenison. The King ate and took courage, and after a time they were\nable to pass over the stormy sea in the wrecked boat to Brittany.\n\nThe King of that land promised help, but meantime Brian heard that\nhis sister had been taken a captive to Edwin\u2019s Court, and that Edwin\nhimself was much under the influence of a certain clever counsellor,\nwho was especially hostile to the Britons.\n\nSo Brian, dressed in beggar\u2019s rags, but carrying a spiked staff,\ncrossed to Wessex, and made the long journey on foot to York to the\npalace of Edwin. Standing outside, among a crowd of outcasts, he\npresently saw his sister come forth from the Queen\u2019s household with a\npitcher on her head to draw water from the well. At once he pretended\nto ask alms of her, and meantime told her who he was, and bade her\npoint out to him the wily counsellor among Edwin\u2019s followers. At that\nmoment the latter came out with a bag of money for the beggars, and\nBrian, rushing forward, pierced him to the heart with his pointed\nstaff, and then vanished among the crowd.\n\nFleeing from thence to Penda, the strong King of the Mercians, Brian\nwon him over to his uncle\u2019s side, and forthwith Cadwallon, Brian, and\nPenda marched against Edwin in a great battle, in which the King of\nNorthumbria, Cadwallon\u2019s foster-father, was defeated and slain.\n\nPenda took care to secure the northern kingdom for himself, but\nuntil his death Cadwallon earned his title to some extent by becoming\nundisputed ruler over Wales, Devon, Cornwall, and the land now known as\nWestmorland and Cumberland.\n\nHe married a sister of grim King Penda, and their son was the peaceful\nCadwaladr, in whose reign much of the land of the Britons was again\nlost to them. Never again did Welsh Prince claim to be King of All\nBritain, even in name.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nAN EISTEDDFOD\n\n\nNo one who knows and loves Wales will have failed to be present at some\ntime or another at that most interesting and curious ceremony known as\nan Eisteddfod.\n\nThe name simply means a \u201csitting,\u201d and probably refers, not to the\nspectators, but to the \u201cchairing\u201d of the bard, which forms a chief part\nin the proceedings.\n\nThese gatherings, for the purpose of preserving the poetry and music of\nthe country, are held all over the land; but each year a great national\nEisteddfod is held at some convenient centre; and of this notice is\npublished a year and a day beforehand.\n\nAt the appointed time, before crowds of spectators, the trumpets are\nsounded, and the candidates are presented for the \u201cdegree\u201d of bard. For\nthis they have to pass tests of various kinds, poetical and literary,\nwhich are judged then and there. Then the \u201cbards\u201d present their\naddresses to the audience--a poem, a prose composition, a song, as the\ncase may be. Musical competitions form a very marked feature of the\ncontest. From far and near the country choirs flock in, and rival each\nother in choral and solo singing, until one is adjudged the prize.\n\nOther competitors play the harp or violin, and when the contest is\ndecided, the great ceremony of \u201cchairing the bard\u201d begins. A \u201cchair\nsubject\u201d having been previously set for competition, the winner is\nsolemnly conducted to a chair of carved oak, a naked sword is held over\nhis head, and he is greeted with the blare of trumpets as the bard. A\nconcert, given by well-known singers, closes the proceedings, which\nhave often lasted for two or three days.\n\n[Illustration: CARNARVON CASTLE. _Page 10._]\n\nThis ceremony dates from very far-off times. It may, indeed, be found\nin some form in the time of that wonderful King Arthur of whom you have\nall heard.\n\nHe, as you know, was King of Britain in the \u201cdays before history,\u201d and\nat his Court it was the custom to set tests of valour to his knights.\nOnce he set seven of them to find fair Olwen, daughter of Thornogre\nThistlehair, chief of the Giants, and they were given a year and a day\nfor their quest. Of the many wonderful adventures that befell them\nyou may read in a delightful collection of Welsh stories called the\n\u201cMabinogion,\u201d or \u201cBook for Girls and Boys.\u201d\n\nAt another Yule-tide his nephew, Sir Gawayne, was put to a more severe\ntest. A Green Knight of immense stature rode into the dining-hall of\nthe King, and dared any knight present to give him, who was armed only\nwith a holly-stick, a blow with an axe, on the condition that he should\nreceive a blow in return a year and a day after the event.\n\nSir Gawayne proved himself the only one who was not too dismayed at\nsuch a condition, and with one good blow cut off the Green Knight\u2019s\nhead. The latter, however, merely picked it up, and held it aloft, upon\nwhich the head, opening its eyes and addressing Sir Gawayne, said:\n\n\u201cLook you, be ready as you have promised, and seek me till you find me.\nGet you to Green Chapel a year and a day from now, there to receive a\nblow on New Year\u2019s Eve.\u201d\n\nThe adventures of Sir Gawayne must be read elsewhere. They form the\nsubject of a fine English poem of the fourteenth century, and were\ncertainly of the nature of a test of courage and endurance.\n\nBy the sixth century the Eisteddfod seems to have become more of a test\nof poetical and musical talent than of knightly skill and prowess.\nThose who proved themselves worthy at the yearly gathering were classed\nas bards, and were given the right of entry into the castles of all\nWelsh barons and Princes. At one of the earliest of these meetings\nGwynedd, Prince of North Wales, in order to show how superior vocal\nmusic was to that performed on instruments, offered a prize to the\nbards who should swim over the Conway.\n\nEagerly the test was accepted, but when they reached the farther bank\nthe unfortunate harpists found their strings were ruined by the water,\nwhile the singers were merely braced up to even more successful efforts\nthan before.\n\nIn the twelfth century we hear of a very notable Eisteddfod held at\nCaerwys, now a little country-town, hidden away on a high tableland\namong the hills, but notable in former days as the favourite residence\nof the last Llewelyn. It was his ancestor, Griffith, who held there a\ngathering, \u201cto which there repaired all the men of Wales and also some\nfrom England and Scotland,\u201d says the proud historian of the event.\nAnd another is described as taking place at Cardigan Castle, where\nassembled many bards, harpers, and minstrels, \u201cthe best to be found in\nall Wales.\u201d\n\nIn the last century this interesting old custom, which had become much\nneglected, was revived, and now almost every Welsh town can boast of\nits own little Eisteddfod, in which the various choirs of church and\nchapel, the plough-boy poet and the clever school-child, all play\ntheir part in keeping alive that spirit of poetry and music which is\ncharacteristic of the national character of Wild Wales.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\u201cMEN OF HARLECH\u201d\n\n\nWhen Edward I. had completed his so-called conquest of Wales, he\nsafeguarded the land he had won by building seven strong castles in\nseven danger-spots. Those at Carnarvon and Conway we have already\nvisited, but most interesting of all is Harlech Castle, linked as it\nis with the story of the far-off past as well as with the more modern\nhistory of Wales.\n\nBuilt on a crag of rock that juts from a terrace two hundred feet above\nthe plain, stand the great stone towers, looking towards the majestic\nrange of Snowdon to the north, and guarding the wide stretch of country\nbelow; while to the west they gaze over the Irish Sea. Legend tells us\nthat the castle stands upon the site of a far more ancient building,\nBranwen\u2019s Tower, which stood there a thousand years before English\nEdward was heard of.\n\nBran the Blessed was King of Britain in those days, and with him in his\nfortress at Harlech lived his sister, Branwen, the fairest maiden in\nall the land.\n\nNow, one day, says the legend, Bran was at Harlech with his brothers\nand his followers, and sat with them upon the great rock overlooking\nthe sea. And as they sat they saw thirteen ships coming from Ireland\nand making straight towards them. Then Bran the Blessed raised himself\nand said: \u201cI see swift ships coming to this land. See that my officers\nequip themselves right well and go to find out their errand.\u201d\n\nSo the officers did so, and when the ships drew near the shore, behold,\nthey saw that they were very richly furnished, with ropes of silk and\nflags of satin. And in the foremost stood one who lifted a shield high\nabove the bulwarks, and the point of the shield was held upward in\ntoken of peace.\n\nThen the strangers landed, and when they had saluted the King, Bran\nfrom his rock said unto them: \u201cHeaven prosper you, my friends. To whom\ndo these ships belong, and who amongst you is your chief?\u201d\n\nAnd they said: \u201cBehold, the King of Ireland, Matholwch, is here as\nsuitor unto thee, and he will not land unless thou grant him his\ndesire.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what is his desire?\u201d asked the King.\n\nAnd they said: \u201cHe would make alliance with thee, lord, by taking in\nmarriage Branwen, thy fair sister; that, if it seem good to thee, the\nIsland of the Mighty might be joined to the Island of the Blessed, and\nso both become more powerful.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet him land,\u201d said King Bran, \u201cand we will take counsel together upon\nthis matter.\u201d\n\nSo the two Kings met in friendly wise, and it was arranged that\nMatholwch should marry Branwen, the fairest damsel in the land, and\nthat the wedding should take place at Aberffraw, in Anglesey.\n\nThere a great feast was held, all in tents, \u201cfor no house could contain\nBran the Blessed.\u201d But when the banquet was at its height, came in the\nbride\u2019s half-brother, Evnyssian, and, out of spite, because he had not\nbeen consulted in the matter, he went to the stables where the horses\nof the Irish King had been housed, and \u201ccut off their lips to the teeth\nand their ears close to their heads, and their tails close to their\nbacks, and their eyelids to the bone.\u201d\n\nIn his wrath, when he discovered this, the Irish King would have broken\noff the alliance and declared war there and then, but Bran managed to\nappease his anger by giving him \u201ca silver rod as tall as himself and a\nplate of gold as wide as his face;\u201d and so he sailed away to the Isle\nof Saints with his fair bride.\n\nBut he never forgot the insult that had been offered him, for his\npeople, jealous of the strange Queen, were constantly reminding him of\nit; and after her little son, Gwern, was born, the King deposed her\nfrom her place at his side, and ordered her to be cook in his palace.\n\nSad indeed was Branwen, for she was lonely in the land; but she\nreared a starling in the cover of her kneading-trough, and when she\nhad written down the story of her wrongs, she tied the letter under\nthe bird\u2019s wing, and set it free. The bird, it is said, flew straight\nto Carnarvon, the abode at that time of King Bran, perched upon his\nshoulder, and flapped his wings till the letter was seen and taken from\nhim.\n\nFull of anger at the treatment his sister had received, King Bran\ncalled together his fighting-men and embarked for Ireland. But\nMatholwch had no will for warfare, and, having held converse with him,\noffered to make up for the wrongs offered to his wife by giving up\nhis crown at once to his young son Gwern. To this Bran agreed, and\nforthwith the Irish King ordered a great banquet to be prepared, that\nthe contract might be sealed.\n\nNow, the boy Gwern was present at this banquet, and showed himself\nso lovable and so fair that all admired him. But his wicked uncle,\nEvnyssian, who had already wrought so much evil, waited till he came\nnear, and then of a sudden seized him by neck and ankles, and threw him\ninto the great fire that blazed upon the hearth. In vain did Branwen\ntry to fling herself into the flames that she might save her son. The\ndeed was done before she could grasp him, and his fair body had become\na heap of ashes.\n\nBecause of this foul deed did bitter warfare break out between the two\ncountries, and so hard went the fighting against the British that at\nlength only seven knights were left alive on the side of Bran, and he\nhimself was sorely wounded in the head, so that he was about to die.\nThen Bran the Blessed commanded this poor remnant of his followers to\nstrike off his head and bear it to his native land, and he bade them\nkeep it at Harlech for seven years, and then to set it upon the White\nMount in the city of Lud; which place is now called Tower Hill in\nLondon town.\n\nSo the seven knights returned to Harlech with the head of their King,\nand with them they brought his sister, the unhappy Branwen. And on\ntheir way they rested in Anglesey, where Branwen, looking first towards\nIreland and then towards Britain, cried with tears: \u201cWoe is me that I\nwas ever born, for two islands have been destroyed because of me!\u201d\n\nThen died poor Branwen of a broken heart, and they buried her in\nAnglesey, at a spot known henceforth as Ynys Branwen, \u201cwhere a square\ngrave was made for her on the banks of the Alaw, and there was she\nlaid.\u201d[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: From the \u201cMabinogion,\u201d according to the version in Rev. S.\nBaring-Gould\u2019s \u201cBook of North Wales.\u201d]\n\nEarly in the last century a four-sided hole was discovered by a farmer\nin this place, covered over with coarse flagstones. Within was an urn,\nplaced with its mouth downwards, and full of ashes and fragments of\nbone. The urn was certainly one of that period known as the Bronze\nAge, and belonged to the \u201cdays before history,\u201d so we may not unsafely\nconclude that the ashes it contained were really those of the unhappy\nBranwen, sister of Bran the Blessed.\n\nAnd so we come back to Harlech Castle, still with its Branwen Tower,\nbuilt by Edward I. as a bulwark against the \u201crebel Welsh.\u201d\n\nIn later days Owen Glendower besieged and obtained possession of the\ncastle, and was in his turn besieged there by Prince Henry. There\nit was that his son-in-law, Mortimer, died, and there the wife and\nchildren of the latter took, for the last time, refuge when the place\nwas once again captured by the English.\n\n[Illustration: BRAN THE BLESSED AT HARLECH CASTLE WATCHING\nMATHOLWCH\u2019S FLEET ARRIVE FROM IRELAND. _Page 36._]\n\nThe Wars of the Roses caused stirring times at Harlech. The castle\nwas held against Edward IV. by David ap Sinion, who had offered to\nreceive there under his protection Margaret, the unfortunate widow of\nHenry VI., and her son, young Edward, after she had lost the Battle of\nNorthampton.\n\nAgainst this \u201crebel\u201d marched Lord Herbert, who called upon David to\nsurrender. But David had done good work for the Lancastrian cause\nabroad, and he now replied that \u201che had held a castle so long in France\nthat all the old women in Wales had talked about it; and now he was\ngoing to hold Harlech so long that he would set the tongues of all the\nold women in France wagging.\u201d\n\nGreat was the slaughter in that siege, during which, it is said, the\n\u201cMarch of the Men of Harlech\u201d was written to stir the neighbouring\nvassal chieftains to revolt against the usurping Edward.\n\n        \u201cFierce the beacon light is flaming,\n        With its tongues of fire proclaiming\n        \u2018Chieftains, sundered to your shaming,\n        Strongly now unite!\u2019\n        At the cry all Arfon rallies,\n        War-cries rend her hills and valleys,\n        Troop on troop, with headlong sallies,\n        Hurtle to the fight.\n\n        \u201cChiefs lie dead and wounded,\n        Yet where first \u2019twas grounded,\n        Freedom\u2019s flag still holds the crag,\n        Her trumpet still is sounded;\n        O, there we\u2019ll keep her banner flying;\n        While the pale lips of the dying\n        Echo to our shout defying,\n        \u2018Harlech for the right!\u2019\u201d\n\nEven in the English words the chant is inspiring in the extreme; the\nWelsh words, joined to the warlike tune, would stir the veriest coward\nto play his part like a hero.\n\nSad to say, the brave David was forced at length to surrender, on\ncondition that his life was granted.\n\nTo the honour of Lord Herbert be it told that when Edward wished to\nput David to death he sought him out, and demanded of him one of two\nthings: either he must send David back to his castle and despatch\nanother officer to besiege it, or he must take the life of Herbert\nhimself in place of that of the prisoner. Finally, the King forgave\nDavid, and Harlech, the last to hold out for the Lancastrian cause,\nsubmitted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nA BURIED VILLAGE\n\n\nTo-day we are going to take a glimpse at two Welsh lakes, to one of\nwhich a most romantic story is attached.\n\nWe start from Lake Bala, or Llyn Tegid, as it was called in the days\nof Taliesin. Borrow, that whimsical traveller, who walked throughout\nWales, and knew the country as few Welshmen do themselves, thus\ndescribes it:\n\n\u201cI wandered to the northern shore of Llyn Tegid ... the wind was\nblowing from the south, and tiny waves were beating against the shore,\nwhich consisted of small brown pebbles. The lake has not its name,\nwhich signifies Lake of Beauty, for nothing. It is a beautiful sheet of\nwater, and beautifully situated. It is oblong, and about six miles in\nlength. On all sides except to the north it is bounded by hills. Those\nat the southern end are very lofty, the tallest of which is Aran, which\nlifts its head to the clouds like a huge loaf.\u201d Then he recalls how a\nhut by the edge of this lake was in former days the refuge of Llewarch\nthe Aged, who lived to the age of 140, and had twenty-four sons, all\nof whom were slain by the Saxon invader in the grim days of old.\n\nIn more recent times the town of Bala was noted for the knitting\nindustry; and a hundred years ago one might have seen the Tomen of\nBala, a great mound overlooking the valley, covered with a crowd of\nknitters--men, women, and children--all plying their needles with busy\nfingers.\n\nAnd now we turn our backs on the old lake and its prosperous little\nmarket-town, and set off to find a new lake, which only came into\nexistence in the year 1881, which yet, in many ways, has a stranger and\nmore romantic story than any that Llyn Tegid can boast.\n\nUp and up climbs the steep, rough road to the top of the wild pass\non the ridge of the Berwyns; or, if we want a yet wilder walk, we\nmay strike off it to the left across the moorlands, steering our\nway through pathless bogs and treacherous swamps, till we reach a\nsteep precipice guarding a valley through which rushes a torrent\nof waterfalls. Along the side of this sheer rock runs a narrow\nsheep-path--so narrow that we creep along on hands and feet across\nchasms, where it disappears altogether, and finally drop down a\nheadlong descent into the valley of Lake Vyrnwy.\n\nFive miles of peaceful grey water lie below us, fed by mountain\ntorrents such as that we have skirted in our perilous descent.\n\nScarcely a house is to be seen, for the new hotel and its surroundings\nlie hidden by the bend of the shore; it seems a valley of the dead. Yet\nbefore the year 1880, in the Valley of Llanwddyn, as it was called, a\nvillage of 500 inhabitants existed; and a church and chapels, inn, and\nvillage street, farms and cornfields flourished where now stands that\ngreat expanse of water.\n\nA quiet, secluded folk they were, knowing little English and even less\nof the ambitions and needs of the great industrial cities with one of\nwhich they were to be brought into such close touch. Quietly they lived\nand quietly they went to rest under the shadow of their grey church\ntower among the hills.\n\nBut meantime that great busy monster, the city of Liverpool, was\ncrying out for more water. A huge reservoir must be secured, and since\nno other was available, some mountain valley, shut in on all sides,\nmust be turned into a lake for the purpose. The news fell like a\nthunderbolt on the peaceful valley-dwellers. In vain they were told of\ncompensation, of new and more comfortable houses to be built for them\non the wooded ridge above the lake. To the old people the whole thing\ncame upon them as nothing less than a devastation like that which\novertook Pompeii of old. One old dame, indeed, is said to have chosen\ndeath by drowning rather than leave the roof of her ancestors, and a\nscene of actual violence occurred before she could be removed.\n\nThey tell us that a sailor, a native of Llanwddyn, returned after a\nlengthy absence to visit his home. You can imagine his feelings when,\nas he climbed the pass and began the steep descent, he saw his native\nvalley transformed into an immense lake. We, too, as we pass along its\nshores and gaze into the watery depths, may see, with fancy\u2019s eye, the\nsmiling cottage, the cheerful little farm, the sunny gardens, lying\nburied amid the slimy water-weeds. There stood the old church, founded\nin the sixth century, and rebuilt by the famous Knights of Jerusalem in\nthe twelfth, whose bell \u201cjangled for loyalty with such strange noise\nand good affection,\u201d when Beaufort made his progress through Wales in\nthe days of James II. Now that little belfry lies silent far below the\nsurface.\n\nThese are thoughts that tend to sadness, however, and we may cheer\nourselves with a funny tale told of the workmen who were building the\nhuge dam by which the water is pent in. Mr. Baring-Gould tells it as\nfollows:\n\n\u201cNow, it fell out that when the dam was in course of construction,\nthere was a stone in the river called Carreg yr Ysbryd, or the Ghost\nRock, and it had to be removed. This was supposed to cover an evil\nspirit that had been laid and banned beneath it. The Welsh labourers\nengaged on the work would have nothing to do with shifting the block,\nbut the English navvies had no scruples, and they blasted the rock, and\nwith crowbars heaved out of place the fragments that remained.\n\n\u201cThen was revealed a cavity with water in it, and lo! the surface was\nagitated, and something rose out of it. The Taffies took to their\nheels. Then an old toad emerged, hopped on to a stone, yawned, and\npassed its paws over its eyes, as though rousing itself after a long\nsleep.\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s nobbut a frog,\u2019 said the Yorkshire navvies.\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s Cynon himself,\u2019 retorted the Welshmen. (Cynon was a wizard of\nthe ancient days.) \u2018Look how he gapes and rubs his face. You may see by\nthat he has been in prison.\u2019\n\n\u201cAfter that, whenever a Taffy was observed to yawn, \u2018Ah ha!\u2019 said his\nmates; \u2018clearly you have but recently come out of prison.\u2019\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nTHE SACRED RIVER\n\n\nIn our peeps at North Wales we have more than once had a glimpse of the\nRiver Dee. To-day we will pretend we have taken a \u201ccoracle,\u201d one of the\ncurious oval boats which were used in the very earliest days, and which\nyou may sometimes see a man carrying on his shoulders from one bend of\nthe river to another. \u201cCarry thou me, and I will carry thee,\u201d an old\nWelsh proverb makes the coracle say to the fisherman; and it shall now\ncarry us down the course of the river as far as it lies within the land\nof Wales. The River Dee, one of the most lovely in Wales, has always\nbeen connected with the mysterious religion of the Druids. Its very\nname in old days, _Deva_, meant the goddess, or the \u201cdivine one\u201d;\nand its modern Welsh form, _Dwy_, means the same thing. A legend\nof Druid times says that the Dee springs from two fountains high up in\nthe mountains above Bala, called Dwy Fawr and Dwy Fach, or the Great\nand Little Dee, whose waters pass through those of the Lake of Bala\nwithout mingling with them, and come out at its northern extremity.\nThese fountains had their names from two individuals, Dwy Fawr and Dwy\nFach, who escaped from the Deluge when all the rest of the human\nrace were drowned, and the passing of the waters of the two fountains\nthrough the lake without mingling with its flood is an emblem of the\nsalvation of the two individuals from the Deluge, of which the lake is\na type.\n\n[Illustration: A DRUID PRIEST. _Page 4._]\n\nProbably the river was worshipped as a goddess in those days, and when\nWales learnt the Christian faith, it would be but fitting that her\nbank should be crowded with those who sought baptism in her waters.\nNowadays, too, it is no uncommon sight to see a little group of people\nby the waterside presiding over the baptism of one or more of their\ncompanions.\n\nSoon after leaving the lake the Dee passes through a district that\nis closely connected with the youth of that great Celtic hero, King\nArthur. There are few parts of Wales which--by their names, at\nleast--allow us to forget that Arthur and his Court played a famous\npart in Britain in the days before history. And here we have Caer Gai,\nthe ancient stronghold of Sir Kay, the foster-brother of Arthur, who\ncould make himself as tall as the tallest tree in the forest, or lie\nhidden in lake or river for nine days and nights, if needs be. Such\nfire was in his nature that when they needed warmth his companions\nhad but to kindle the piled wood at his finger; he could walk through\ntorrents of rain as dry as on a summer\u2019s day; he could go for nine\ndays and nights without sleep; and no doctor could heal the wounds made\nby his sword.\n\nIt was in this district of Penllyn, opposite to the hill of Yr Aran,\nwhich he calls \u201cRauran,\u201d that Spenser in his great poem makes King\nArthur describe the way his boyhood was passed in the \u201cstronghold of\nKay,\u201d or Caer Gai:\n\n    \u201cWhose dwelling is low in a valley green\n    Under the fort of Rauran, mossy hoar,\n    From whence the River Dee, as silver clean,\n    His tumbling billows rolls with gentle roar;\n    There all my days he trained me up in virtuous lore.\u201d\n\nBut, apart from legend, Caer Gai touches history itself. From its\nwell-preserved ramparts and \u201cfosse,\u201d or moat, enclosing what is now a\nfarm-house, we see that it must have once been a Roman fortress. Roman\nurns have been dug up here, and not very many years ago a ploughman\nturned up a stone with an inscription that showed it must have been\nplaced there by Roman soldiers about A.D. 105.\n\nLeaving Llyn Tegid, or Bala Lake, behind us, we set off down our river\nto Corwen and Llangollen. These places we have already visited, so we\nwill only stay to notice the lovely scenery of this part of the Dee,\nso dear to fishers. Not far from where the river bends north-east to\nChester and the sea, stands Chirk Castle, and near by, in order to\nreach it from Llangollen, we shall pass the line of Offa\u2019s Dyke, a bank\nwith a moat below it that ran from the mouth of the Dee to the mouth of\nthe Wye, which was erected by a King of Mercia in the eighth century as\na barrier beyond which no Welshman might pass.\n\nFor the rest of its course, therefore, the Dee really forms part of the\nboundary-line between England and Wales, and though we shall be sorely\ntempted to linger when we come to the beautiful old city of Chester,\ngazing down from its ancient walls upon the broad river below, we must\nremind ourselves that this is English soil, and leave the sacred waters\nof the Dee to empty themselves by a very long estuary into the sea some\nmiles below Flint Castle, the last refuge of the unhappy Richard II.\nbefore he gave himself into the hands of Bolingbroke.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nA PEEP AT PEMBROKE\n\n\nTo-day we will leave North Wales and travel south to take a glimpse at\nPembrokeshire, in some ways one of the most interesting counties in\nWales.\n\nBetween the northern and southern parts of the country runs a stream,\nflowing into St. Bride\u2019s Bay, which divides the Welsh Pembroke from a\ndistrict known as \u201cLittle England beyond Wales.\u201d\n\nHere, in this latter region, one hears nothing but English spoken.\nThe towns, the people, are typically English, or, at least, very far\nfrom being typically Welsh. This is how a seventeenth-century writer\naccounts for the fact:\n\n\u201cThis same division was in ancient time inhabited wholly by Welshmen,\nbut a great part thereof was won from them by the Englishmen under the\nconduct of Earl Strongbow, and divers others, and the same planted\nwith Englishmen whose posterity enjoys it to this day, and keep their\nlanguage among themselves without receiving the Welsh speech or\nlearning any part thereof, and hold themselves so close to the same\nas to this day they wonder at a Welshman coming among them, the one\nneighbour saying to the other: \u2018Look! there goeth a Welshman!\u2019\u201d\n\nThe interesting thing about this is that these people of South Pembroke\nwere probably not English at all in origin, but Flemings, who came over\nfrom Flanders many centuries ago, and settled there with their woollen\nmanufactures--a trade which perhaps accounts for the superiority of\n\u201cWelsh flannel\u201d to-day.\n\nThese were, like their Welsh neighbours, a very religious and\nemotional people, and more ready, perhaps, than the former to leave\nthe land of their adoption for the perils of the Holy War. For a\nwriter of the time of the early Crusades tells the story of a certain\nArchbishop\u2019s journey through Wales to rouse volunteers for the war in\nfar-off Palestine; and to him \u201cit appears wonderful and miraculous\nthat, although he addressed the Pembroke people both in the Latin\nand French tongues, these persons, who understood neither of these\nlanguages, were much affected, and flocked in great numbers to the\ncross.... They are,\u201d he goes on to say, \u201ca brave and robust people,\never most hostile to the Welsh--a people well versed in commerce and\nwoollen manufactures, anxious to seek gain by sea or land, in defiance\nof fatigue and danger, a hardy race, equally fitted for the plough or\nthe sword.\u201d\n\nSuppose we take a steamer from the charming little seaport town of\nTenby, and follow the coast-line of Pembroke up to Milford Haven.\nRomantic cliffs guard the land, and limestone caverns hint at smuggling\nexpeditions in the good old days. Here is Caldy Island, where stood one\nof the oldest of Benedictine priories; and here, at St. Gowan\u2019s Head,\nthe cliff, rising to a great height above the sea, is split up into a\nnarrow cleft by the force of the waves.\n\nAcross this chasm is built a little cell, known as St. Gowan\u2019s Chapel,\nfrom which a doorway leads to a cave in the cliff, shaped exactly like\na human figure. The legend says that St. Gowan, a holy man of God, was\npraying in his cell when his heathen foes came battering at the door.\nHe called upon the rock to be his shelter, and immediately it opened\nto admit him. When his enemies had gone away baffled, and the saint\nhad emerged, the impression of his form was found in the cliff; and\nnowadays they say that if you stand in the cavity and wish, and then\nturn round without changing your mind, the wish is sure to come true.\n\nNow we are entering Milford Haven, \u201cthe finest harbour in the United\nKingdom,\u201d stretching ten miles inland, with its many bays, creeks,\nand roadsteads. Sailing up the right-hand shore, we presently reach\nPembroke Dock, two miles from the town of Pembroke, where stand the\nruins of one of the earliest built and strongest of the many castles of\nWales.\n\nFrom its huge towers and turrets Strongbow started on that adventurous\njourney of his with the aim of conquering Ireland. For many years after\nthe conquest of Wales its grim keep, with its conical roof capped by an\nenormous millstone, menaced the rebel Welsh. There, in 1456, was born\nHenry Tudor, one day to be Henry VII. of England, and there he spent\nthe first ten years of his boyhood. There also was his landing-place\nwhen he came to drive the usurping Richard from the throne.\n\nIts story during the Civil War is strange enough. Pembroke Castle,\nunder Poyer, the Mayor of Pembroke, was the only place in Wales that\ndeclared for the Parliament. But it looked as though this was only done\nfor love of opposition to the majority, for when the war was over and\ntroops were being sent back home, Poyer refused to give up his post\nas Governor of the Castle, and roused up the whole of South Wales for\nthe Royalist cause, then practically dead. Great must have been the\nsurprise of the Puritans, but before long Cromwell himself was putting\nthe rebels to flight and battering at the walls of Pembroke Castle,\nwhere so many had taken refuge.\n\n\u201cA very desperate enemy, very many of them gentlemen of quality,\nand thoroughly resolved,\u201d so Oliver described them. But the well\nof drinking-water had been captured by him, and hunger and thirst\ncompelled them to surrender. Poyer and two other leaders were sent to\nthe Tower and condemned to death, but pardon being granted to two of\nthe three, lots were then drawn. \u201cLife given by God\u201d was written on two\nslips; the third was a blank. Poyer drew the last, and, facing death\nwith the utmost courage, was shot at Covent Garden.\n\nIt is tempting to take a glimpse at the stately ruins of Carew Castle,\nanother great stronghold of old times; but we must hasten on to\nthe head of the estuary, and thence by land to the ancient town of\nHaverfordwest, now a flourishing market-town, the most important in\nthe county. Again the most striking feature is the great square-walled\ncastle, concerning which the old Welsh historian tells an exciting\nadventure.\n\nIt so happened that a certain robber-chief was imprisoned in the\ndungeon of the castle at the time that the three young sons of the Earl\nof Pembroke and two children of the Governor were playing together\nwithin the walls. The game was shooting with bow and arrows, but the\nlatter were so badly made that the youngsters began to lament that no\none could make them well enough. Either through a chink in the wall,\nor by means of his gaoler, the prisoner conveyed the information that\nhe was noted for the work of arrow-making, and the boys were soon his\ndevoted admirers. One day the too confiding gaoler went off to his\ndinner, leaving the dungeon door with the key in the lock, that the\nboys might visit the interesting maker of arrows. No sooner were some\nof them inside, however, than the brigand locked them in with him, and\nthreatened those who tried to break down the door that he would kill\nthe children and himself unless the Governor swore to let him go free.\nThis was done at length, in sheer despair, and the robber was allowed\nto depart to his lair in safety.\n\n[Illustration: ST. CATHERINE\u2019S ROCK, TENBY.]\n\nHaverfordwest is the nearest station to St. David\u2019s, the most famous\ncathedral in Wales, once the aim of many a pilgrimage, since \u201ctwo\njourneys to St. David\u2019s shrine counted as one to Rome.\u201d And well it\nmight, since even now there are \u201csixteen miles and seventeen hills\u201d to\ntraverse before we reach the sacred spot.\n\nSt. David\u2019s Cathedral stands remote in a somewhat desolate country,\nupon a strip of craggy seaboard, \u201cthe loneliest of British fanes.\u201d\n\u201cWe descend a narrow street paved with rough stones, we look through\na little gateway on the right, and stand astonished and delighted. A\nwonderful prospect bursts upon us: we behold the whole cathedral rising\nbefore us in its stern majesty, with the ruins of St. Mary\u2019s College to\nthe right, and the magnificent remains of the Bishop\u2019s palace to the\nleft, while the dark rocks of Carn Llidi form the background to the\nstriking picture.\u201d[2]\n\n[Footnote 2: D. T. Evans, \u201cWelsh Pictures.\u201d]\n\nThe loveliness of the building itself, its massive pillars and delicate\ntracery, with the grey, purple, and red colours of the sandstone\nfrom which they are formed, make it one of the most beautiful of\ncathedrals; but the most thrilling memory in connection with it is\nthat, when most of England was still plunged in heathen darkness, a\ncathedral stood in this place as the Church of West Britain and the\nseat of an Archbishop of the Celtic Church.\n\nThe shrine of St. David, or Dewi, the Water-drinker, the patron saint\nof Wales, is within, and with him lies the honour of transferring the\nseat of the Archbishopric from its more ancient site at Caerleon in\nMonmouthshire to this spot. St. David, said by one legend to have been\nuncle to King Arthur, became famous by a miracle that occurred in the\nsixth century, when he addressed a great meeting of the Fathers of\nthe early Christian Church, and laid low the false doctrines of one\nPelagius, or Morgan, who was leading the Christians of Britain and\nother lands astray.\n\nAs the saint, then Abbot of St. Patrick\u2019s Monastery, where now stands\nthe present cathedral, addressed a crowd composed of \u201cthe saints of\nAnjou, the saints of England, and of the North, of Man and Anglesey,\nof Ireland and Devonshire and Kent,\u201d and of many other places, a white\ndove descended from heaven upon his shoulder. \u201cUpon which the ground\non which he was standing,\u201d says the legend, \u201cgradually rose under him,\ntill it became a hill, from which his voice, like a loud-sounding\ntrumpet, was clearly heard and understood by all, both near and far\noff, seven thousand people, on the top of which hill a church was\nafterwards built, and stands till this day.\u201d\n\nThis happened farther north at Llandewi-brefi, but it was this miracle\nthat placed the see of the Archbishopric to which St. David was at once\nraised, in Menevia, as this lonely district was called, instead of at\nCaerleon, thus fulfilling the prophecy of Merlin: \u201cMenevia shall put on\nthe pall of Caerleon.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE VALLEY OF THE WYE\n\n\nTo-day let us take a journey up the course of the Upper Wye, loveliest\nof Welsh rivers, from the point where it crosses the border between\nEngland and Wales.\n\nThe course of the Upper Wye begins just below the ruins of Clifford\nCastle, one of the many built upon the \u201cMarches,\u201d or borderland,\nnominally to keep the Welshmen within bounds, actually to shelter the\nrobber-barons who gained their livelihood by harassing the country on\neither side. The grey stones of Clifford, covered now with a wealth\nof ivy, speak to us of that \u201cfair Rosamond\u201d with whom King Henry II.\nfell so deep in love that he took the maiden from her father\u2019s house\nand made her a bower at Godstow. There, as we all know, she was forced\nby Eleanor, his jealous wife, to drink a cup of poison, and never again\nsaw the sunny banks of the Wye.\n\nAs the river sweeps along its curving course, the slopes of the Black\nMountains rise in a broken mass of hill and dale and heathery upland.\nA touch of wildness distinguishes the country from the tamer fields\nof Herefordshire behind us, and rough hills, whitewashed farms,\nroofed with brown stone slabs and heavy beams, take the place of the\ncomfortable and spacious manors of the English county.\n\nThis part of the Wye Valley, divided by the Black Mountains from that\nof the Usk, is, indeed, one of the most complete solitudes to be\nfound in the country, rivalling that of Menevia itself. \u201cWhat a wild\nlittle block of mountain it is, this eighty square miles of complete\nsolitude!\u201d says a traveller of the hill country between the two rivers.\n\u201cHow dark, and deep, and sombre the gorges! How silent the hills, where\ngrouse lie fairly thick in the big tracts of heather! How striking the\nblush of the red sandstone against the greener slope, where the teeth\nor tread of hungry sheep and the downward rush of streams have scarred\nthe mountain-side!\u201d\n\nPresently a spur from these hills stretches out across our valley, and\nthe river turns north-west and changes its character from a broad, easy\nflow to a rushing torrent, with here and there a deep salmon pool among\nthe rocks of its course. This is a very famous part of the river from\nthe fisherman\u2019s point of view, and few save tramps and fishermen are to\nbe met with on the lonely valley road which we are now pursuing.\n\nHere, at Aberedw, stands the castle which was the last refuge of the\nill-fated Llewelyn, Prince of Wales, whose story we read in a former\nchapter. From this spot he set out to join his forces, was surprised\nby the English, and killed in a little wood, henceforth to be known as\n\u201cthe bank of the grave of Llewelyn.\u201d\n\nThe story adds that the men of Builth, close by, refused the Prince and\nhis handful of followers a refuge on that occasion, and the curse of\nthe \u201cTraitors of Builth\u201d is said to have clung for many a long day to\nthe inhabitants.\n\nAnother lovely stretch of the river lies between Builth and Rhayader,\nand again the country on either side is one great solitude; for in\nold days this part of Wales offered no attraction to the great border\nlords save as a fighting-ground between the Men of the South and the\nMen of the North. It was the home, rather, of outlaws and bandits, who\nfound good cover in its woods and highlands, and who doubtless cared as\nlittle as the English barons for the lovely river scenery amidst which\nthey made their home.\n\nRhayader, whose name means \u201cthe Falls,\u201d is a typical Welsh market-town,\nasleep save on market and fair days, when it becomes one mass of\nshouting drovers, frightened cattle, buxom women with their great\nbaskets, and gaitered farmers eagerly discussing the latest topic.\n\nAbove this town the Wye is no longer a stately river, but a straggling\nmountain stream, which makes its way through a wild and ever-rising\ncountry from its source in a spring on the side of Plynlimmon.\n\nThe little wedge of country, some ten miles square, which lies on\nits western bank and stretches away from Rhayader to the border of\nCardigan, is full of weird tales and strange points of interest.\n\n\u201cAt Llancavan a Lord of Builth, wearied with the chase, and overtaken\nby darkness, entered the church with his hounds and spent the night. In\nthe morning his hounds were mad and he was blind. In his remorse for\nhis act of sacrilege he had himself conveyed to Palestine, and there\nled on horseback and fully armed in the front of the fighting-line\nagainst the Saracens, who very promptly killed him.\u201d[3]\n\n[Footnote 3: Bradley, \u201cHighways and Byways of South Wales.\u201d]\n\nAnother legend says that once a miracle happened in Rhayader itself.\nA farmer had been seized by the owner of the castle on a charge of\nsheep-stealing, and was confined in the dungeon thereof. His poor wife,\nknowing that the gaolers were open to bribery, but having neither money\nnor goods, stole from the church the funeral bell, which it was the\nancient custom to ring at the head of the procession to the grave. She\ntook this to Rhayader, and offered it to the gaolers on condition that\nthey should release her husband. But they took the sacred bell and then\nrefused to let him go. That night, says the legend, the whole town was\ndestroyed by fire, save only the wall of the castle on which the bell\nhad been hung.\n\nFrom Rhayader the Valley of the Elan, a tributary of the Wye, runs\nwestward, and becomes a scene of great importance from one point of\nview. The valley is narrow, pent up among the hills, which fling down\ninto it their numberless mountain streams. Here a great dam has been\nbuilt, which pens up the water into two great lakes, and various\nsmaller reservoirs, from which the city of Birmingham draws its\nwater-supply. Fancy 60,000,000 gallons of water a day being carried to\nBirmingham, seventy miles away! These Welsh valleys certainly do their\npart towards keeping the great dirty manufacturing towns of England\nclean and sweet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTHE GREAT PLYNLIMMON\n\n\n\u201cCardigan is a country to itself,\u201d says one who knows Wales well.\nExcept, indeed, for the towns on the coast, Lampeter, with its college,\nand a famous abbey in the south, the whole country has been described\nas a \u201cmountain wilderness.\u201d But since some of us prefer such untrodden\nwastes to those parts that have become merely playgrounds for the\nEnglish tourist, we will pay it a visit to-day.\n\nAt the north-eastern corner of the county stands Plynlimmon, the home\nof the Severn, the Wye, and many a smaller river which ploughs its way\nthrough the wild region we are traversing. And let us note, by the way,\nthat, since railways and even good roads are unknown except on the very\nfringe of this district, our best method of travelling will be on foot.\n\n[Illustration: THE WYE NEAR RHAYADER. _Page 62._]\n\nMany years ago, when that delightful person, George Borrow, a native\nof Norfolk, made a long tour all over Wales on \u201cShanks\u2019s mare,\u201d seeing\nthereby far more of the country and its people than the motor-car\nor railroad travellers of more modern times, he explored this part\nof the country very thoroughly, and this description of his visit to\nPlynlimmon is too good not to quote at length:\n\n\u201cThe mountain of Plynlimmon, to which I was bound, is the third in\nWales for height, being only inferior to Snowdon and Cader Idris. Its\nproper name is Pum or Pump Lumon, signifying the \u2018five points,\u2019 because\ntowards the upper part it is divided into five hills or points.\n\n\u201cPlynlimmon ... has been the scene of many remarkable events. In the\ntenth century a dreadful battle was fought on one of its spurs between\nthe Danes and the Welsh, in which the former sustained a bloody\noverthrow. In 1401 a conflict took place in one of its valleys between\nthe Welsh under Glendower and the \u2018Flemings\u2019 of Pembrokeshire, who,\nangry at having their homesteads plundered and burnt by the chieftain,\nthe mortal enemy of their race, assembled in great numbers and drove\nGlendower and his forces before them to Plynlimmon, where the Welshmen\nstood at bay, and with difficulty won a victory....\n\n\u201c... I started about ten o\u2019clock on my expedition, after making, of\ncourse, a very hearty breakfast ... and went duly north till I came to\na place among hills where the road was crossed by an angry-looking\nrivulet. I was just going to pull off my boots and stockings in order\nto wade through, when I perceived a pole and a rail laid over the\nstream at a little distance above where I was. This rustic bridge\nenabled me to cross without running the danger of getting a regular\nsousing, for these mountain streams, even when not reaching so high as\nthe knee, occasionally sweep the wader off his legs, as I know by my\nown experience. From a lad I learnt that the place where I crossed the\nwater was called the \u2018Foot of the Red Slope.\u2019\n\n\u201cAbout twenty minutes\u2019 walk brought me ... near a spur of the\nPlynlimmon range. Here I engaged a man to show me the sources of the\nrivers and the other wonders of the mountain. He was a tall, athletic\nfellow, and had much more the appearance of an Irishman than the\nWelshman that he was....\n\n\u201cAfter ascending a steep hill and passing over its top, we went down\nits western side, and soon came to a black, frightful bog between two\nhills. Beyond the bog, and at some distance to the west of the two\nhills, rose a brown mountain, not abruptly, but gradually, and looking\nmore like what the Welsh call a slope than a mountain.\n\n\u201c\u2018That, sir,\u2019 said my guide, \u2018is the Great Plynlimmon.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018It does not look much of a hill,\u2019 said I.\n\n\u201c\u2018We are on very high ground, sir, or it would look much higher. I\nquestion, upon the whole, whether there is a higher hill in the world.\nGod bless Plynlimmon Mawr!\u2019 said he, looking with reverence towards the\nhill. \u2018I am sure I have a right to say so, for many is the good crown I\nhave got by showing gentlefolks, like yourself, to the top of him.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018You talk of Plynlimmon Mawr, or the Great Plynlimmon,\u2019 said I; \u2018where\nare the smaller ones?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Yonder they are,\u2019 said the guide, pointing to two hills towards the\nnorth--\u2018the Middle and the Small Plynlimmon.... Those two hills we\nhave just passed make up the five. That small hill connected with the\nbig Plynlimmon on the right is called the Hill of the Calf, or Calf\nPlynlimmon, which makes the sixth summit.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Very good,\u2019 said I, \u2018and perfectly satisfactory. Now let us ascend\nthe big Plynlimmon.\u2019\n\n\u201cIn about a quarter of an hour we reached the summit of the hill, where\nstood a large cairn, or heap of stones. I got up on the top and looked\naround me.\n\n\u201cA mountainous wilderness extended on every side, a waste of\nrusset-coloured hills, with here and there a black, craggy summit. No\nsigns of life or cultivation were to be discovered, and the eye might\nsearch in vain for a grove, or even a single tree. The scene would\nhave been cheerless in the extreme had not a bright sun lighted up the\nlandscape.\n\n\u201c\u2018This does not seem to be a country of much society,\u2019 I said to my\nguide.\n\n\u201c\u2018It is not, sir. The nearest house is the inn we came from, which is\nnow three miles behind us. Straight before you there is not one for at\nleast ten, and on either side it is a wilderness to a vast distance.\nPlynlimmon is not a sociable country, sir; nothing to be found in it,\nbut here and there a few sheep or a shepherd.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Now,\u2019 said I, descending from the cairn, \u2018we will proceed to the\nsources of the rivers\u2019 (the Severn, the Wye, and the Rheidol). The\nsource of the Rheidol is a small, beautiful lake, about a quarter of\na mile in length. It is overhung on the east and north by frightful\ncrags, from which it is fed by a number of small rills. The water is\nof the deepest blue, and of very considerable depth. The banks, except\nto the north and east, slope gently down, and are clad with soft and\nbeautiful moss. The river, of which it is the head, emerges at the\nsouth-eastern side, and brawls away in the shape of a considerable\nbrook amidst moss and rushes down a wild glen to the south. If few\nrivers have a more wild and wondrous channel than the Rheidol, fewer\nstill have a more beautiful and romantic source.\n\n\u201cAfter kneeling down and drinking freely of the lake, I followed my\nguide over a hill into a valley, at the farther end of which I saw a\nbrook streaming to the south.\n\n\u201c\u2018That brook,\u2019 said the guide, \u2018is the young Severn.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe brook came from round the side of a very lofty rock, singularly\nvariegated, black and white, the northern summit presenting somewhat\nthe appearance of the head of a horse. Passing round this crag, we came\nto a fountain, surrounded with rushes, out of which the brook, now\nexceedingly small, came murmuring.\n\n\u201c\u2018The crag above,\u2019 said my guide, \u2018is called the Rock of the Horse, and\nthis spring at its foot is generally called the Source of the Severn.\nHowever, drink not of it, master, for the source is higher up. Follow\nme.\u2019\n\n\u201cI followed him up a steep and very narrow dingle. Presently we came\nto some beautiful little pools of water in the turf, which is here\nremarkably green.\n\n\u201c\u2018These are very pretty pools, aren\u2019t they, master?\u2019 said my companion.\n\u2018Now, if I was a false guide I should bid you stoop and drink, saying\nthat these were the sources of the Severn; but the true source is\nhigher up. Don\u2019t fret, however, but follow me, and we shall be there in\na minute.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo I did as he bade me, following him, without fretting, higher up.\n\n\u201cJust at the top he halted, and said: \u2018Now, master, I have conducted\nyou to the source of the Severn. I have considered the matter deeply,\nand have come to the conclusion that here, and here only, is the true\nsource. Therefore stoop down and drink, in full confidence that you are\ntaking possession of the Holy Severn.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe source of the Severn is a little pool of water some 20 inches\nlong, 6 wide, and about 3 deep. It is covered at the bottom with small\nstones, from between which the water gushes up. Turf-heaps, both large\nand small, are in abundance near by.\n\n\u201cAfter taking possession of the Severn by drinking at its source, I\nsaid: \u2018Now let us go to the fountain of the Wye.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe source of the Wye, which is a little pool, not much larger than\nthe source of the Severn, stands near the top of a grassy hill which\nforms part of the Great Plynlimmon.\n\n\u201cThe stream, after leaving its source, runs down the hill towards the\neast, and then takes a line to the south.\n\n\u201cThe fountains of the Severn and the Wye are in close proximity to\none another. That of the Rheidol stands somewhat apart from both,\nas if, proud of its own beauty, it disdained the other two for its\nhomeliness.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nTHE VALE OF TEIFY\n\n\nWelshmen call the county of Cardigan the Shire Aber Teivi, or the\nshire of the River Teify. The valley of this river forms the boundary\nbetween the shire and those of Pembroke and Carmarthen, and then turns\nnorth-east to the famous monastery of Strata Florida, which is well\nworth a visit to those who love to remember that Wales was the home of\nthe Christian faith in days when England lay in heathen darkness.\n\nWe saw in the last chapter that Cardigan is a lonely county, cut off\nfrom its neighbours by mountains and hills all the way from Plynlimmon\nto Lampeter, and by steep slopes, forming the Valley of the Teify, on\nthe Carmarthen side. Hence its position has made it in bygone days \u201cthe\nlast refuge of the beaten and the first landing-place of returning\nexiles.\u201d\n\nIts people, because of this fact, are not quite like the rest of their\ncountrymen, but form something like a separate tribe, known to their\nneighbours as \u201cCardys.\u201d The men are generally very dark as to eyes,\nhair, and complexion, with \u201cround heads, thick necks, and sturdy\nframes.\u201d\n\nYou remember that Borrow took his guide for an Irishman at first, and\nin many ways the \u201cCardy\u201d does resemble his Celtic cousin across the\nChannel of St. George. But he differs in the fact that he is very\nindustrious and independent, and always on the lookout to better\nhimself. So that, though nearly all the population is composed of\nsmall farmers and their labourers, the county is said to produce more\nteachers, parsons, and preachers than any other in Wales.\n\nWe have heard something already of the tremendous battles that took\nplace in this region--battles which we can easily account for, since\nthe loneliness of the district made it a favourite refuge for all lost\ncauses. The story of one of these battles, the joy of the Welsh bards\nin the twelfth century, tell us how North and South Wales joined in\n1135 in an attack upon the town of Cardigan, at the mouth of the Teify,\nthen held by ruthless English barons, who advanced beyond the walls\nupon them. The advantage falling to the Welsh, the English retreated to\ntheir castle, but the Welshmen cut the supports of the bridge over the\nTeify as they crossed it, so that three thousand perished in the river.\n\n\u201cThe green sea-brine of Teife thickened. The blood of warriors and the\nwaves of ocean swelled its tide. The red-stained sea-mew screamed with\njoy as it floated on a sea of gore.\u201d[4]\n\n[Footnote 4: The quotation is taken from Bradley\u2019s \u201cHighways and Byways\nof South Wales.\u201d]\n\nFrom Cardigan the River Teify winds through a hilly country to Cenarth,\nwhose castle is the scene of a story all too common in the days when\nHenry I. was King of England.\n\n[Illustration: CARDIGAN BAY]\n\nNest, the daughter of Rhys ap Tudor, the last Prince of Wales who was\nactually quite independent of English rule, was the fairest maiden in\nall the land.\n\nWhen her father died, he left her in the charge of Henry I., and the\nKing gave her in marriage to the Norman Gerald, Lord of Pembroke, who\nhad just built this castle at Cenarth as a protection against the\nhostile Welsh on both sides of the river. There he lived happily with\nhis beautiful wife and children for some years, until Cadogan, Prince\nof Cardigan, took it into his head to give a great banquet at Cardigan\nCastle.\n\nNow, at this feast the one topic of conversation and song was the\nbeauty of Nest, the wife of the Norman baron, and at length the wild\nson of Cadogan, Owen by name, arose and declared that he would carry\nher off and bring her back to her own people.\n\nSo one dark night, Owen and his band of followers forced their way into\nPembroke Castle, where the Earl and his wife were then living, and into\nthe room where Gerald and Nest lay asleep.\n\nThe baron barely saved his life by escaping down a drain, while his\nwife and children were carried off and the castle fired. The unhappy\nNest was hidden, they say, in a romantic old house near Llangollen, and\nmeantime all Wales was in an uproar about the ears of the daring robber.\n\nThe wrath of Henry of England fell hot upon Cadogan, who had tried in\nvain to persuade his son to restore his prisoner. Most of his land was\ntaken from him by jealous neighbours as well as by the English barons\nof the border, and at length the turbulent Owen was forced to flee to\nIreland, and Nest returned to her husband.\n\nMany years later, says the tale, Owen returned, an outlaw, to his\nnative land, and before very long found himself fighting in a quarrel\non the same side as the injured Gerald. No sooner did the latter\ndiscover this than, mindful of the ancient feud, he sought out his\nrival and challenged him to single conflict, putting him at last to\ndeath. And still they show below that old manor-house at Eglyseg, the\nhiding-place and prison of poor Nest, the path that climbs the steep\nglen, and claim it to have been the way by which Owen set out upon his\nwild quest and returned with his terrified captives.\n\nBut we must hasten along the deep and rocky valley of our river, past\nthe little town of Lampeter, noted for its training college for those\nwho are going to be clergymen, and through a fair country of meadows\nand hills till we turn aside to a very ancient village, with a still\nmore ancient church. This is Llan-Dewi-Brefi, or the Church of St.\nDavid on the Brefi. We have heard of it in a former chapter, for it\nwas the scene of St. David\u2019s triumph over the heretics in the sixth\ncentury, and the church stands on the site of that which was built in\nmemory of that triumph on the hill which rose under him as he stood to\ngive his message to the assembly.\n\nThe word \u201cBrefi\u201d means a \u201cbellowing,\u201d and legend accounts for the name\nof the little stream which flows by the hill in this fashion.\n\nTwo mighty oxen were dragging stones from the river-bed wherewith\nto build the church, when they came to a very steep hill, up which\nthey found it most difficult to pull the huge stone. At last, in\nhis struggle to do so, one of the animals fell down dead. When this\nhappened, its mate stood and bellowed nine times with force so terrific\nthat the valley shook, and the hill fell down flat, so that the stone\ncould be drawn easily to the site of the church. Once on a time the\ntraveller would be shown an immense horn, said to have fallen from the\nhead of one of these oxen, which gave its name of the \u201cBellowing One\u201d\nto the stream below.\n\nTo the left of the Teify Valley, some miles farther up its course, lies\nthe great Bog of Tregaron, six miles long and one broad, and far more\nlike an Irish bog than any other quagmire in this country.\n\nPicture to yourself a vast flat, brownish expanse, with pools of\ngleaming black water here and there, dotted by hillocks formed by\nstacks of black turf cut from its surface. It is loneliness itself, in\nspite of a brown-smocked turf-cutter here and there at work; and over\nit the only sound that echoes is the cry of the wild-duck, the peewit,\nor grouse.\n\nFarther up still we find the Teify among the mountains, flowing in a\nvalley, at the head of which stand the ruins of Strata Florida. Most\nsolitary is this, perhaps, of all the lonely spots which those old\nCistercian monks chose out in the wilderness, and \u201cmade to blossom like\nthe rose.\u201d\n\nThe monastery was probably founded by Rhys ap Griffith in 1164--\u201cMy\nLord Rhys, the head, and shield, and strength of the south and of all\nWales,\u201d as the chronicler calls him. It became the darling of the\nWelsh chieftains, who showered lands and money upon the monks, until\nthey found themselves the owners of the mountain-range above, and of\nmost of the wide valley in which stand the ruins, and the most noted\nsheep-farmers in Wales.\n\nIn one of these cells was preserved the parchment, still in existence,\nupon which was kept, every day for one hundred and thirty years, a\n\u201cchronicle\u201d of the Welsh history of the time, which only ends with the\ndeath of Llewelyn.\n\nHere, too, lies buried beneath the great yew-trees of the graveyard a\nfamous Welsh poet of the fourteenth century, named Dafydd ap Gwilym\n(David, son of William).\n\nWelsh literature is full of the love-poems addressed by this poet to\nMorfydd, his loved one, \u201cMaid of the glowing form and lily brow beneath\na roof of golden tresses.\u201d\n\nShe was above him in birth, and was sent to a convent in Anglesey to\nbe out of his way. Ap Gwilym, disguised as a monk, followed her to a\nmonastery close by, but only to hear that she had been married to a\nhusband much older than herself. In desperation the bard tried to carry\nher off, but was seized and thrown into a Glamorgan prison until he\ncould pay a large fine. But his fellow-poets would not let the \u201cchief\nbard of Glamorgan\u201d languish in a dungeon; they paid his fine, and set\nthe prisoner free to sing again of Nature and of love.\n\nAp Gwilym died in the year of Glendower\u2019s revolt, still grieving for\nhis lost Morfydd, and, with her name on his lips, passed away, and was\nburied under the walls of the great abbey that had sheltered his last\nyears.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE DEVIL\u2019S BRIDGE\n\n\nCentral Wales is a land of hills and breezy uplands, enclosed by low\nmountain-ranges full of romantic gorges and hidden valleys.\n\nIt includes the north of Cardiganshire and part of the shire of\nMontgomery, and is famous in history as the battle-ground upon which\nmany a struggle between the Men of the South and the Men of the North\nwas fought out.\n\nThe first place of interest on its coast-line is Aberystwith. Here you\nwill find the moated mound, which is all that is left of a castle,\nbuilt by Gilbert de Clare, one of the barons of Henry I., to guard his\nnewly acquired province of Cardigan or Ceredigion; the southern part\nbeing guarded by the castle we have already seen at Cardigan itself, on\nthe mouth of the Teify.\n\nThe much more important ruins of a castle that stand near the College,\nand overlook the sea, are the remains of a later building in the days\nof Edward I.\n\nClose by, the fine grey building of the University College brings\nus back to the present day, and reminds one of the fashion in which\nWales, so long supposed to be behind-hand in the march of progress,\nled the way by founding her own University, with noble colleges at\nBangor, Aberystwith, and Cardiff, where her sons and daughters might\ncomplete the education begun in the intermediate and primary schools\nthroughout the Principality. Not only may Wales pride herself on her\nUniversity, but also on her boldness in first making the experiment\nof teaching boys and girls, young men and women together on precisely\nequal terms--an experiment in co-education which England herself has\nhesitated to make.\n\nThere are many interesting expeditions to be made round this pretty\nseaside town. Near by is Llanbadarn, the Church of St. Paternus, a\nBreton monk, who, in the sixth century, brought the Christian faith to\nthis region. This church developed into a monastery in later days, and\nbecame a refuge in the twelfth century for an unusually studious Bishop\nof those days, who was driven from St. David\u2019s by the rough Norman\nbarons and their favourite priests, and who found at Llanbadarn leisure\nand peace to write his record of the Welsh saints in older times, and\nto keep a valuable \u201cchronicle,\u201d or history, of his own day.\n\nAlong the coast is Borth, and on the beach there, \u201cbetween the Dovey\nand Aberystwith,\u201d may have been that Weir of Gwyddno, of which we read\nin the first chapter. There, you will remember, the unfortunate youth\nElphin found a leathern bag with a child inside, who told him that he\nwould be to him \u201cin the days of his distress better than any three\nhundred salmon.\u201d And you shall hear now how, on one occasion alone,\nTaliesin, the child-bard, was as good as his word.\n\n[Illustration: OLD ROMAN BRIDGE NEAR SWANSEA. _Page 4._]\n\nElphin had been made prisoner by the cruel King Maelgwn, who cast him\ninto a dungeon, barred by thirteen locked doors. After some attempts\nhad been made in vain to win his freedom, Taliesin bade Elphin wager\nthe King that he had a horse both better and swifter than the King\u2019s\nhorses. The King accepted the challenge, promised him his freedom if he\nshould win the race, and fixed day, and time, and place for the trial\nof the steeds.\n\nWhen all was ready, the King went thither with all his Court and four\nand twenty of his swiftest horses; while Elphin could only muster a\nsorry nag ridden by a barefoot boy.\n\nThe course was marked out and the horses placed ready, when Taliesin\ncame running with twenty-four sprigs of holly, burnt black, in his\nhand, and he bade the barefoot boy place the twigs in his belt. Then,\nas he did so, he whispered and bade him let all the King\u2019s horses\nget before him, and as each overtook him, to strike the horse with a\nholly-twig over the crupper, and then let that twig fall, and then\nto take another twig and do the same to every one of the horses as he\nwas overtaken by each.\n\nHe also told the boy to watch carefully when his own horse should\nstumble, and to throw down his cap on the spot.\n\nAll this was done, and every one of the King\u2019s horses, when he was\nstruck by the holly-twig, began to lag behind, so that the horse of\nElphin, ridden by the barelegged boy, won the race with ease.\n\nSo the King was forced to release Elphin, and when this was done,\nTaliesin took his master to the spot where his horse had stumbled, and\nbade workmen dig a hole there, and when they had dug deep enough they\nfound a cauldron full of gold. Then said Taliesin:\n\n\u201cElphin, take thou this as a reward for having taken me out of the\nweir, and reared me from that time until now.\u201d So Elphin went home a\nrich man to his father.\n\nBorth is not the only place in the neighbourhood which is connected\nwith this wonderful bard of the sixth century. His grave is said to lie\namong the hills above the village of Taliesin, and anyone who lies in\nthat hollow for a night alone is said to awake next morning either a\npoet or a madman.\n\nExactly the same thing is said of the man who is bold enough to spend\nthe night on the top of Cader Idris, the home of a giant bard who is\nsaid to have invented the harp, and which is also known to us as the\nsecond highest mountain in Wales.\n\nIf we want to take a long excursion from Aberystwith, we can visit\nthe famous Devil\u2019s Bridge in the Plynlimmon district, which is called\none of the wonders of Wales. This, of course, was visited by the\nindefatigable Borrow, who thus describes the spot:\n\n\u201cTo the north, and just below the hospice, is a profound hollow, with\nall the appearance of the crater of an extinct volcano. At the bottom\nof this hollow the waters of two rivers unite--those of the Rheidol\nfrom the north, and those of the Afon-y-Mynach, or \u2018Monk\u2019s River,\u2019 from\nthe south-east.\n\n\u201cThe Rheidol, falling over a rocky precipice at the northern side\nof the hollow, forms a cataract very pleasant to look upon from the\nwindow of the inn. Those of the Mynach, or Rhyddfant, which pass under\nthe celebrated Devil\u2019s Bridge, are not visible, though they generally\nmake themselves heard. The waters of both, after uniting, flow away\nthrough a romantic glen towards the west. The sides of the hollow are\nbeautifully clad with wood.\n\n\u201cPenetrate now into the hollow. You descend by successive flights of\nsteps, some of which are very slippery and insecure. On your right is\nthe Monk\u2019s River, roaring down its dingle in five successive falls, to\njoin its brother, the Rheidol. Each of the falls has its own peculiar\nbasin, one or two of which are said to be of awful depth. The length\nwhich these falls, with their basins, occupy is about five hundred feet.\n\n\u201cOn the side of the basin of the last but one is the cave, or the site\nof the cave, said to have been occupied in old times by the Wicked\nChildren, two brothers and a sister, robbers and murderers. At present\nit is nearly open on every side, having, it is said, been destroyed to\nprevent its being the haunt of other evil people....\n\n\u201cOf all the falls, the fifth or last is the finest. You view it from\na kind of den, to which the last flight of steps, the ruggedest and\nmost dangerous of all, has brought you. Your position here is a wild\none. The fall, which is split in two, is thundering beside you; foam,\nfoam, foam is flying all about you; the basin or cauldron is boiling\nfrightfully below you; grim rocks are frowning terribly above you,\nand above them forest trees, dank and wet with spray and mist, are\ndistilling drops in showers from their boughs.\n\n\u201cBut where is the bridge--the celebrated Bridge of the Evil One?\n\n\u201cFrom the bottom of the first flight of steps leading down into the\nhollow you see a modern-looking bridge bestriding a deep chasm or\ncleft to the south-east, near the top of the dingle of the Monk\u2019s\nRiver. That, however, is not the Devil\u2019s Bridge, but about twenty\nfeet below that bridge, and completely overhung by it, don\u2019t you see\na shadowy, spectral object, something like a bow, which likewise\nbestrides the chasm? You do? Well, that shadowy, spectral object is the\ncelebrated Devil\u2019s Bridge. It is now quite inaccessible except to birds\nand the climbing, wicked boys of the neighbourhood....\n\n\u201cTo view it properly and the wonders connected with it you must pass\nover the bridge above it and descend a dingle till you come to a small\nplatform on a crag. Below you now is a frightful cavity, at the bottom\nof which the waters of the Monk\u2019s River, which comes tumbling from a\nglen to the east, whirl, boil, and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron in\na manner truly tremendous.\n\n\u201cOn your right is a slit, through which the waters, after whirling\nin the cauldron, escape. The slit is wonderfully narrow, considering\nits height, which is considerably over a hundred feet. Nearly above\nyou, crossing the slit, which is partially wrapped in darkness, is the\nfar-famed bridge, the Bridge of the Evil One--a work which, though\ncrumbling and darkly grey, does much honour to the hand that built it,\nwhether it was the hand of Satan or of a monkish architect, for the\narch is chaste and beautiful, far superior in every respect to the one\nabove it.\n\n\u201cGaze on these objects--the horrid seething pot or cauldron, the gloomy\nslit, and the spectral, shadowy Devil\u2019s Bridge for about three minutes,\nallowing a minute to each, then scramble up the bank, for you have seen\nenough.\n\n\u201cAnd if pleasant recollections do not haunt you through life of the\nnoble falls and the beautiful wooded dingles to the west of the Bridge\nof the Evil One, and awful and mysterious ones of the monk\u2019s boiling\ncauldron, the long, savage, shadowy cleft, and the grey, crumbling\nspectral bridge, I say boldly that you must be a very unpoetical person\nindeed!\u201d[5]\n\n[Footnote 5: Borrow, \u201cWild Wales.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nTHE GLOWING MOUNTAIN\n\n\nOur last peep shall be taken in the busy region of South Glamorgan,\nwhere the hills and valleys present a very different scene from\nthose amongst which we have lately wandered. For here is the home of\ncoal--that powerful material which produces the force required for\nmost of the machinery of the world.\n\nAbove the vales of Dowlais, Neath, and Taff, over the Rhondda Valley\nand the towns of Merthyr Tydvil and Aberdare, hangs a perpetual\nsmoke-cloud from the vast furnaces which are always busy smelting iron\nand steel from the neighbouring coal-fields, or, west of Swansea,\ncopper imported from abroad. Some of these valleys are simply a\nsuccession of mining villages, the home of strenuous toilers who\nall day and all night are working their turns, or \u201cshifts,\u201d some\nunderground in the mines, some at the furnaces, some sending off the\ncoal, and iron, and copper to the great port of Cardiff, or the lesser\nones at Swansea or Barry.\n\nThere is nothing very picturesque about this region, although it can\nboast of the ruins of many strong castles, some interesting churches,\nand the beautiful Vale of Glamorgan--a region of meadows and grassy\nslopes, upon which feed fat cows and oxen to their hearts\u2019 content.\n\nBut this is, perhaps, too tame to be attractive; nor, apart from the\nalmost terrible interest attached to all coal-mines, is there anything\nto keep us lingering in the blackened valleys of the district.\n\nThere is one curious feature, however, at which you will like to take\na peep. Borrow, of course, found it out, and called it the Glowing\nMountain.\n\nHe was on his way to Merthyr Tydvil when, as it began to grow dark,\nhe came to the beginning of a vast moor. In the distance he could see\nweird blazes and hear \u201chorrid sounds\u201d; and, as he went on up hills and\ndown dales, night set in, very black and still. Having toiled to the\ntop of a steep ascent, he stopped to take breath, and saw a glow on all\nsides in the heavens except in the north-east quarter.\n\n\u201cTurning round a corner at the top of the hill, I saw blazes here and\nthere, and what appeared to be a Glowing Mountain in the south-east. I\nwent towards it down a descent, which continued for a long, long way.\nSo great was the light cast by the blazes and that wonderfully glowing\nobject, that I could distinctly see the little stones upon the road.\n\n\u201cAfter walking for about half an hour, always going downwards, I saw\na house on my left hand, and heard a noise of water opposite to it. I\nwent to the waterfall, drank greedily, and then hurried on, more and\nmore blazes and the glowing object looking more terrible than ever.\n\n\u201cIt was now above me at some distance to the left, and I could see\nthat it was an immense quantity of heated matter, like lava, occupying\nthe upper and middle parts of a hill, and descending here and there\nalmost to the bottom in a zigzag and winding manner. Between me and the\nGlowing Mountain lay a deep ravine. After a time I came to a house,\nagainst the door of which a man was leaning.\n\n\u201c\u2018What is all that burning stuff above, my friend?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Dross from the iron forges, sir.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cI now perceived a valley below me, full of lights, and, descending,\nreached houses and a tramway. I had blazes now all around me ... and\nfinally found myself before the Castle Inn at Merthyr Tydvil.\u201d\n\nIn the morning he revisits the scene.\n\n\u201cThe mountain of dross which had startled me on the preceding night\nwith its terrific glare, looked now nothing more than an immense dark\nheap of cinders. It is only when the shades of night have settled\ndown that the fire within manifests itself, making the hill appear an\nimmense glowing mass.\u201d\n\nAnd so, with Borrow, we will turn our backs on the great Welsh\ncoal-field, and say good-bye for the present to Wild Wales.\n\n\nBILLING AND SONS, LTD. PRINTERS GUILDFORD\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF VOLUMES IN THE PEEPS AT MANY LANDS AND CITIES SERIES\n\nEACH CONTAINING 12 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR\n\n\n  BELGIUM\n  BURMA\n  CANADA\n  CEYLON\n  CHINA\n  CORSICA\n  DENMARK\n  EDINBURGH\n  EGYPT\n  ENGLAND\n  FINLAND\n  FRANCE\n  GERMANY\n  GREECE\n  HOLLAND\n  HOLY LAND\n  ICELAND\n  INDIA\n  IRELAND\n  ITALY\n  JAMAICA\n  JAPAN\n  KOREA\n  MOROCCO\n  NEW ZEALAND\n  NORWAY\n  PARIS\n  PORTUGAL\n  RUSSIA\n  SCOTLAND\n  SIAM\n  SOUTH AFRICA\n  SOUTH SEAS\n  SPAIN\n  SWITZERLAND\n\nA LARGER VOLUME IN THE SAME STYLE\n\nTHE WORLD\n\nContaining 37 full-page illustrations in colour\n\n  PUBLISHED BY ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK\n  SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.\n\n\n\n\nAGENTS\n\n\n  =AMERICA=         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n                   64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK\n\n  =AUSTRALASIA=    OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS\n                   205 FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE\n\n  =CANADA=          THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.\n                   ST. MARTIN\u2019S HOUSE, 70 BOND STREET, TORONTO\n\n  =INDIA=           MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.\n                   MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY\n                   309 BOW BAZAAR STREET, CALCUTTA","title":"Peeps at many lands: Wales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":20628}