“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 Clyn 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.