WOMAN. - The Lord above only knows, sir!
MYSELF. - Do you think they are hatching treason against Queen
Victoria?
WOMAN. - Oh dear no, sir.
MYSELF. - Is there much murder going on amongst them?
WOMAN. - Nothing of the kind, sir.
MYSELF. - Cattle-stealing?
WOMAN. - Oh no, sir!
MYSELF. - Pig-stealing?
WOMAN. - No, sir!
MYSELF. - Duck or hen stealing?
WOMAN. - Haven't lost a duck or hen since I have been here, sir.
MYSELF. - Then what secrets can they possibly have?
WOMAN. - I don't know, sir! perhaps none at all, or at most only a
pack of small nonsense that nobody would give three farthings to
know. However, it is quite certain they are as jealous of
strangers hearing their discourse as if they were plotting
gunpowder treason or something worse.
MYSELF. - Have you been long here?
WOMAN. - Only since last May, sir! and we hope to get away by next,
and return to our own country, where we shall have some one to
speak to.
MYSELF. - Good-bye!
WOMAN. - Good-bye, sir, and thank you for your conversation; I
haven't had such a treat of talk for many a weary day.
The Vale of the Dyfi became wider and more beautiful as I advanced.
The river ran at the bottom amidst green and seemingly rich
meadows. The hills on the farther side were cultivated a great way
up, and various neat farm-houses were scattered here and there on
their sides. At the foot of one of the most picturesque of these
hills stood a large white village. I wished very much to know its
name, but saw no one of whom I could inquire. I proceeded for
about a mile, and then perceiving a man wheeling stones in a barrow
for the repairing of the road I thought I would inquire of him. I
did so, but the village was then out of sight, and though I pointed
in its direction and described its situation I could not get its
name out of him. At last I said hastily, "Can you tell me your own
name?"
"Dafydd Tibbot, sir," said he.
"Tibbot, Tibbot," said I; "why, you are a Frenchman."
"Dearie me, sir," said the man, looking very pleased, "am I,
indeed?"
"Yes, you are," said I, rather repenting of my haste, and giving
him sixpence, I left him.
"I'd bet a trifle," said I to myself, as I walked away, that this
poor creature is the descendant of some desperate Norman Tibault
who helped to conquer Powisland under Roger de Montgomery or Earl
Baldwin. How striking that the proud old Norman names are at
present only borne by people in the lowest station. Here's a
Tibbot or Tibault harrowing stones on a Welsh road, and I have
known a Mortimer munching poor cheese and bread under a hedge on an
English one. How can we account for this save by the supposition
that the descendants of proud, cruel, and violent men - and who so
proud, cruel and violent, as the old Normans - are doomed by God to
come to the dogs?"
Came to Pont Velin Cerrig, the bridge of the mill of the Cerrig, a
river which comes foaming down from between two rocky hills. This
bridge is about a mile from Machynlleth, at which place I arrived
at about five o'clock in the evening - a cool, bright moon shining
upon me. I put up at the principal inn, which was of course called
the Wynstay Arms.
CHAPTER LXXVIII
Welsh Poems - Sessions Business - The Lawyer and his Client - The
Court - The Two Keepers - The Defence.
DURING supper I was waited upon by a brisk, buxom maid who told me
that her name was Mary Evans. The repast over, I ordered a glass
of whiskey and water, and when it was brought I asked the maid if
she could procure me some book to read. She said she was not aware
of any book in the house which she could lay her hand on except one
of her own, which if I pleased she would lend me. I begged her to
do so. Whereupon she went out and presently returned with a very
small volume, which she laid on the table and then retired. After
taking a sip of my whiskey and water I proceeded to examine it. It
turned out to be a volume of Welsh poems entitled "Blodau Glyn
Dyfi"; or, Flowers of Glyn Dyfi, by one Lewis Meredith, whose
poetical name is Lewis Glyn Dyfi. The author indites his preface
from Cemmaes, June, 1852. The best piece is called Dyffryn Dyfi,
and is descriptive of the scenery of the vale through which the
Dyfi runs. It commences thus:
"Heddychol ddyffryn tlws,"
Peaceful, pretty vale,
and contains many lines breathing a spirit of genuine poetry.
The next day I did not get up till nine, having no journey before
me, as I intended to pass that day at Machynlleth. When I went
down to the parlour I found another guest there, breakfasting. He
was a tall, burly, and clever-looking man of about thirty-five. As
we breakfasted together at the same table we entered into
conversation. I learned from him that he was an attorney from a
town at some distance, and was come over to Machynlleth to the
petty sessions, to be held that day, in order to defend a person
accused of spearing a salmon in the river. I asked him who his
client was.
"A farmer," said he, "a tenant of Lord V-, who will probably
preside over the bench which will try the affair."
"Oh," said I, "a tenant spearing his landlord's fish - that's bad."
"No," said he, "the fish which he speared, that is, which he is
accused of spearing, did not belong to his landlord but to another
person; he hires land of Lord V-, but the fishing of the river
which runs through that land belongs to Sir Watkin."
"Oh, then," said I, "supposing he did spear the salmon I shan't
break my heart if you get him off:
