"So I should have guessed, sir, by your being so well acquainted
with pennillion and histories. Ah, the Church. . . . ."
"This is dreadfully hot weather, said I, "and I should like to
offer you sixpence for ale, but as I am a Churchman I suppose you
would not accept it from my hands."
"The Lord forbid, sir," said the old man, "that I should be so
uncharitable! If your honour chooses to give me sixpence, I will
receive it willingly. Thank your honour! Well, I have often said
there is a great deal of good in the Church of England."
I once more looked at the hill which overlooked the scene of Owen
Gwynedd's triumph over the united forces of the Irish Lochlanders
and Normans, and then after inquiring of the old man whether I was
in the right direction for Penmynnydd, and finding that I was, I
set off at a great pace, singing occasionally snatches of Black
Robin's ode in praise of Anglesey, amongst others the following
stanza:-
"Bread of the wholesomest is found
In my mother-land of Anglesey;
Friendly bounteous men abound
In Penmynnydd of Anglesey."
I reached Penmynnydd, a small village consisting of a few white
houses and a mill. The meaning of Penmynnydd is literally the top
of a hill. The village does not stand on a hill, but the church
which is at some distance, stands on one, or rather on a hillock.
And it is probable from the circumstance of the church standing on
a hillock, that the parish derives its name. Towards the church
after a slight glance at the village, I proceeded with hasty steps,
and was soon at the foot of the hillock. A house, that of the
clergyman, stands near the church, on the top of the hill. I
opened a gate, and entered a lane which seemed to lead up to the
church.
As I was passing some low buildings, probably offices pertaining to
the house, a head was thrust from a doorway, which stared at me.
It was a strange hirsute head, and probably looked more strange and
hirsute than it naturally was, owing to its having a hairy cap upon
it.
"Good day," said I.
"Good day, sar," said the head, and in a moment more a man of
middle stature, about fifty, in hairy cap, shirt-sleeves, and green
apron round his waist, stood before me. He looked the beau-ideal
of a servant of all work.
"Can I see the church?" said I.
"Ah, you want to see the church," said honest Scrub. "Yes, sar!
you shall see the church. You go up road there past church - come
to house, knock at door - say what you want - and nice little girl
show you church. Ah, you quite right to come and see church - fine
tomb there and clebber man sleeping in it with his wife, clebber
man that - Owen Tiddir; married great queen - dyn clebber iawn."
Following the suggestions of the man of the hairy cap I went round
the church and knocked at the door of the house, a handsome
parsonage. A nice little servant-girl presently made her
appearance at the door, of whom I inquired whether I could see the
church.
"Certainly, sir," said she; "I will go for the key and accompany
you."
She fetched the key and away we went to the church. It is a
venerable chapel-like edifice, with a belfry towards the west; the
roof sinking by two gradations, is lower at the eastern or altar
end, than at the other. The girl, unlocking the door, ushered me
into the interior.
"Which is the tomb of Tudor?" said I to the pretty damsel.
"There it is, sir," said she, pointing to the north side of the
church; "there is the tomb of Owen Tudor."
Beneath a low-roofed arch lay sculptured in stone on an altar tomb,
the figures of a man and woman; that of the man in armour; that of
the woman in graceful drapery. The male figure lay next the wall.
"And you think," said I to the girl; "that yonder figure is that of
Owen Tudor?"
"Yes, sir," said the girl; "yon figure is that of Owen Tudor; the
other is that of his wife, the great queen; both their bodies rest
below."
I forbore to say that the figures were not those of Owen Tudor and
the great queen, his wife; and I forbore to say that their bodies
did not rest in that church, nor anywhere in the neighbourhood, for
I was unwilling to dispel a pleasing delusion. The tomb is
doubtless a tomb of one of the Tudor race, and of a gentle partner
of his, but not of the Rose of Mona and Catherine of France. Her
bones rest in some corner of Westminster's noble abbey; his moulder
amongst those of thousands of others, Yorkists and Lancastrians,
under the surface of the plain, where Mortimer's Cross once stood,
that plain on the eastern side of which meanders the murmuring Lug;
that noble plain, where one of the hardest battles which ever
blooded English soil was fought; where beautiful young Edward
gained a crown, and old Owen lost a head, which when young had been
the most beautiful of heads, which had gained for him the
appellation of the Rose of Anglesey, and which had captivated the
glances of the fair daughter of France, the widow of Monmouth's
Harry, the immortal victor of Agincourt.
Nevertheless, long did I stare at that tomb which though not that
of the Rose of Mona and his queen, is certainly the tomb of some
mighty one of the mighty race of Theodore. Then saying something
in Welsh to the pretty damsel, at which she started, and putting
something into her hand, at which she curtseyed, I hurried out of
the church.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Mental Excitation - Land of Poets - The Man in Grey - Drinking
Healths - The Greatest Prydydd - Envy - Welshmen not Hogs -
Gentlemanly Feeling - What Pursuit?
