After supper I sat quiet for about an hour. Then ringing the bell I inquired of the maid whether there was a newspaper in the house. She told me there was not, but that she thought she could procure me one. In a little time she brought me a newspaper, which she said she had borrowed at the parsonage. It was the Cumro, an excellent Welsh journal written in the interest of the Church. In perusing its columns I passed a couple of hours very agreeably, and then went to bed.
CHAPTER LXXVI
Mallwydd and its Church—Sons of Shoemakers—Village Inn—Dottings.
The next day was the thirty-first of October, and was rather fine for the season. As I did not intend to journey farther this day than Machynlleth, a principal town in Montgomeryshire, distant only twelve miles, I did not start from Mallwyd till just before noon.
Mallwyd is a small but pretty village. The church is a long edifice standing on a slight elevation on the left of the road. Its pulpit is illustrious from having for many years been occupied by one of the very celebrated men of Wales, namely Doctor John Davies, author of the great Welsh and Latin dictionary, an imperishable work. An immense yew tree grows in the churchyard, and partly overshadows the road with its branches. The parsonage stands about a hundred yards to the south near a grove of firs. The village is overhung on the north by the mountains of the Arran range, from which it is separated by the murmuring Dyfi. To the south for many miles the country is not mountainous, but presents a pleasant variety of hill and dale.
After leaving the village a little way behind me I turned round to take a last view of the wonderful region from which I had emerged on the previous evening. Forming the two sides of the pass down which comes “the royal river” stood the Dinas mountain and Cefn Coch, the first on the left, and the other on the right. Behind, forming the background of the pass, appearing, though now some miles distant, almost in my close proximity, stood Pen Dyn. This hill has various names, but the one which I have noted here, and which signifies the head of a man, perhaps describes it best. From where I looked at it on that last day of October it was certainly like an enormous head, and put me in mind of the head of Mambrino mentioned in the master work which commemorates the achievements of the Manchegan knight. This mighty mountain is the birth-place of more than one river. If the Gerres issues from its eastern side, from its western springs the Maw that singularly picturesque stream, which enters the ocean at the place which the Saxons corruptly call Barmouth and the Cumry with great propriety Aber Maw or the disemboguement of the Maw.
Just as I was about to pursue my journey, two boys came up, bound in the same direction as myself. One was a large boy, dressed in a waggoner’s frock, the other was a little fellow, in a brown coat and yellowish trowsers. As we walked along together, I entered into conversation with them. They came from Dinas Mawddwy. The large boy told me that he was the son of a man who carted mwyn, or lead ore, and the little fellow that he was the son of a shoemaker. The latter was by far the cleverest, and no wonder, for the sons of shoemakers are always clever, which assertion, should anybody doubt, I beg him to attend the examinations at Cambridge, at which he will find that in three cases out of four the senior wranglers are the sons of shoemakers. From this little chap I got a great deal of information about Pen Dyn, every part of which he appeared to have traversed. He told me, amongst other things, that there was a castle upon it. Like a true son of a shoemaker, however, he was an arch rogue. Coming to a small house, with a garden attached to it, in which there were apple-trees, he stopped, whilst I went on with the other boy, and after a minute or two came running up with a couple of apples in his hand. “Where did you get those apples?” said I; “I hope you did not steal them.”
He made no reply, but bit one, then making a wry face, he flung it away, and so he served the other. Presently afterwards, coming to a side lane, the future senior wrangler—for a senior wrangler he is destined to be, always provided he finds his way to Cambridge—darted down it like an arrow, and disappeared.
I continued my way with the other lad, occasionally asking him questions about the mines of Mawddwy. The information, however, which I obtained from him was next to nothing, for he appeared to be as heavy as the stuff which his father carted. At length we reached a village, forming a kind of semicircle on a green, which looked something like a small English common. To the east were beautiful green hills; to the west the valley, with the river running through it, beyond which rose other green hills, yet more beautiful than the eastern ones. I asked the lad the name of the place, but I could not catch what he said, for his answer was merely an indistinct mumble, and before I could question him again he left me, without a word of salutation, and trudged away across the green.
Descending a hill, I came to a bridge, under which ran a beautiful river, which came foaming down from a gulley between two of the eastern hills. From a man whom I met I learned that the bridge was called Pont Coomb Linau, and that the name of the village I had passed was Linau. The river carries an important tribute to the Dyfi—at least it did when I saw it, though perhaps in summer it is little more than a dry water-course.