"Is this house your own?"
"Oh no! I pay rent for it, and not a cheap one."
"Have you a husband?
"I had, but he is dead."
"Have you any children?"
"I had three, but they are dead too, and buried with my husband at
the monastery."
"Where is the monastery?"
"A good way farther on, at the strath beyond Rhyd Fendigaid."
"What is the name of the little river by the house?"
"Avon Marchnad (Market River)."
"Why is it called Avon Marchnad?"
"Truly, gentleman, I cannot tell you."
I went on sipping my ale and finding fault with its bitterness till
I had finished it, when getting up I gave the old lady her groat,
bade her farewell, and departed.
CHAPTER XCI
Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid - Strata Florida - The Yew-Tree - Idolatry -
The Teivi - The Llostlydan.
AND now for the resting-place of Dafydd Ab Gwilym! After wandering
for some miles towards the south over a bleak moory country I came
to a place called Fair Rhos, a miserable village, consisting of a
few half-ruined cottages, situated on the top of a hill. From the
hill I looked down on a wide valley of a russet colour, along which
a river ran towards the south. The whole scene was cheerless.
Sullen hills were all around. Descending the hill I entered a
large village divided into two by the river, which here runs from
east to west, but presently makes a turn. There was much mire in
the street; immense swine lay in the mire, who turned up their
snouts at me as I passed. Women in Welsh hats stood in the mire,
along with men without any hats at all, but with short pipes in
their mouths; they were talking together; as I passed, however,
they held their tongues, the women leering contemptuously at me,
the men glaring sullenly at me, and causing tobacco smoke curl in
my face; on my taking off my hat, however and inquiring the way to
the Monachlog, everybody was civil enough, and twenty voices told
me the way the Monastery. I asked the name of the river:
"The Teivi, sir: the Teivi."
"The name of the bridge?"
"Pony y Rhyd Fendigaid - the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, sir."
I crossed the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, and presently leaving the
main road, I turned to the east by a dung-hill, up a narrow lane
parallel with the river. After proceeding a mile up the lane,
amidst trees and copses, and crossing a little brook, which runs
into the Teivi, out of which I drank, I saw before me in the midst
of a field, in which were tombstones and broken ruins, a rustic-
looking church; a farm-house stood near it, in the garden of which
stood the framework of a large gateway. I crossed over into the
churchyard, ascended a green mound, and looked about me. I was now
in the very midst of the Monachlog Ystrad Flur, the celebrated
monastery of Strata Florida, to which in old times Popish pilgrims
from all parts of the world repaired. The scene was solemn and
impressive: on the north side of the river a large bulky hill
looked down upon the ruins and the church, and on the south side,
some way behind the farm-house, was another which did the same.
Rugged mountains formed the background of the valley to the east,
down from which came murmuring the fleet but shallow Teivi. Such
is the scenery which surrounds what remains of Strata Florida:
those scanty broken ruins compose all which remains of that
celebrated monastery, in which saints and mitred abbots were
buried, and in which, or in whose precincts, was buried Dafydd Ab
Gwilym, the greatest genius of the Cimbric race and one of the
first poets of the world.
After standing for some time on the mound I descended, and went up
to the church. I found the door fastened, but obtained through a
window a tolerable view of the interior, which presented an
appearance of the greatest simplicity. I then strolled about the
churchyard looking at the tombstones, which were humble enough and
for the most part modern. I would give something, said I, to know
whereabouts in this neighbourhood Ab Gwilym lies. That, however,
is a secret that no one can reveal to me. At length I came to a
yew-tree which stood just by the northern wall, which is at a
slight distance from the Teivi. It was one of two trees, both of
the same species, which stood in the churchyard, and appeared to be
the oldest of the two. Who knows, said I, but this is the tree
that was planted over Ab Gwilym's grave, and to which Gruffydd Gryg
wrote an ode? I looked at it attentively, and thought that there
was just a possibility of its being the identical tree. If it was,
however, the benison of Gruffydd Gryg had not had exactly the
effect which he intended, for either lightning or the force of wind
had splitten off a considerable part of the head and trunk, so that
though one part of it looked strong and blooming, the other was
white and spectral. Nevertheless, relying on the possibility of
its being the sacred tree, I behaved just as I should have done had
I been quite certain of the fact. Taking off my hat I knelt down
and kissed its root, repeating lines from Gruffydd Gryg, with which
I blended some of my own in order to accommodate what I said to
present circumstances:-
"O tree of yew, which here I spy,
By Ystrad Flur's blest monast'ry,
Beneath thee lies, by cold Death bound,
The tongue for sweetness once renown'd.
Better for thee thy boughs to wave,
Though scath'd, above Ab Gwilym's grave,
Than stand in pristine glory drest
Where some ignobler bard doth rest;
I'd rather hear a taunting rhyme
From one who'll live through endless time,
Than hear my praises chanted loud
By poets of the vulgar crowd."
I had left the churchyard, and was standing near a kind of garden,
at some little distance from the farm-house, gazing about me and
meditating, when a man came up attended by a large dog.
