Chapter III (1)

_THE FATAL BANQUET_; _OR_, _VENGEANCE AT HAND_.

The palace of the Prince of Llynfi was characterized by drunkenness and vice, dissipation and sensuality, intemperance and debauchery. Virtue had no lodgment there. Righteousness had no habitation there. Justice, religion, and truth were wholly absent from the palace of the prince. He and his family gave themselves up to pleasure, to riotous living, and to revellings; and from day to day, week to week, and month to month, they lived as if there was no God—no hereafter—no judgment to come! Moreover, they had so sunk in sin and iniquity, that they were quite insensible to those feelings which are common and general, and indeed universal, in the lowest state of humanity. Flower after flower of the family circle had withered and died, or had been plucked from the tree of life by the will of the Almighty, yet from the heart of the survivors there never escaped a sigh; never a tear was shed; their hearts had become a flinty rock, and were as insensible of impression as the Parian marble. Thus they lived: thus, too, they died; for at last they were cut down as cumberers of the ground.

Before the untimely death of the son, the prince had arranged for a grand banquet to take place on the very day his mortal remains were consigned to the tomb. During the progress of preparation for the funeral, preparations were also being made for the expected banquet. On their return from the church, many of the guests had already arrived and many more soon followed. By nine o’clock the palace was filled with a splendid array of the licentious male and female inhabitants of the villages in the surrounding country. According to old traditions, two renowned minstrels from a distance had been summoned to cheer them in their revels; and riot and disorder, such as had never before been witnessed even in that palace, resounded among the hills. The party had been many hours assembled: it was midnight. In the midst of their revellings there was suddenly heard a crash of thunder, which shook the palace to its foundation; and this was immediately followed by louder and louder peals, which boomed through the valley as the noise of a thousand pieces of artillery. The prince and his riotous companions were awe-struck, and presently they heard a voice saying in deep, solemn tones, “Vengeance is at hand!” In a moment the two minstrels arose, and beholding in the air a mysterious hand beckoning to them, they fled after it as it retreated. The hand moved faster and faster, and as it moved they increased their speed. After they had gone a considerable distance the earth heaved violently, and appeared to totter on its foundations. For a moment they turned round to see the distance they had come. They saw the ground divide in twain, and up through this large chasm they beheld the waters rushing forth like the ocean when convulsed, and mingling with the roaring sound of the waters were the dying shrieks of the revellers. Pausing for another moment in their flight, the minstrels observed, with great terror, a wide expanse of boiling and agitated waters where the palace and village had stood, engulfing the palace and its wicked and impious inmates far below its bosom. Since then, Llyn Savathan has ever been regarded as an unhallowed spot; the great wickedness of the prince and his followers having drawn upon them the just judgment of the Eternal.

TREFFYNNON; OR, LEGENDS OF SAINT WINIFRED.

“The lifeless tears she shed into a fountain turn,
And, that for her alone the water should not mourn,
The pure vermilion blood that issued from her veins
Unto this very day the pearly gravel stains,
As erst the white and red were mixèd in her cheek.
And that one part of her might be the other like,
Her hair was turned to moss, whose sweetness doth declare,
In liveliness of youth the natural sweets she bare.”

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

When but a mere youth, I had a strong and extreme longing to visit Holywell, or Treffynnon, which according to my youthful fancy was the most wonderful place under the sun. This desire had its origin in the following circumstances.

About three miles from my paternal abode there was situate a small village, which had risen into fame and notoriety by reason of its annual May fair. At this fair an immense number of people congregated. Young men and maidens were there. Farmers’ sons and daughters flocked in great numbers; and this being the annual hiring fair, hundreds of men and women servants went to find either new masters or fresh mistresses. Then from the neighbouring towns and villages, people came for the purpose of providing fun, amusement, and entertainment for the holiday seekers. Shows innumerable were there; Mr. Cheap Jack vending his wares, with which he combined interesting stories and flashes of wit, had thousands of willing and enchanted listeners, and a goodly number of ready purchasers. On the roadside from one end of the village to the other was a continuous row of stalls, laden with every conceivable variety of articles. All these marvellous things filled my boyish fancy with amazement and wonder.

But what struck me most, was a person who had a stall situate near the bridge, on which were placed in rows several thousands of small wooden boxes, which in circumference were about the size of a crown piece, and three quarters of an inch deep. These boxes he arranged with great deliberation and care, and when he completed his work, not a single box could be seen out of its proper place.

This person was fantastically dressed. He wore a three-cornered hat, the brim of which was tipped with gold. He had pink velvet breeches, with a waistcoat of similar material; red stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. His frock coat, made of good West of England broadcloth, had, in consequence of many years’ wear, become a dark blood colour. In his hat were placed two rows of feathers, arranged in the form of the Prince of Wales’ plume. He was certainly a most singular looking figure, and from the hour when he commenced to expatiate on the virtues of his wares until the dusk of the evening, attracted an immense audience.

When his preparations were finished, he took in his left hand one of the little boxes, from which he removed the lid, or cover, and commenced to address the crowd in the following fashion. “This box, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “contains wonderful ointment. It will cure the itch, the stitch, and nettle-rash. It is a sure remedy for all diseases of the skin. It will, when applied, remove warts from the fingers, corns from the toes, and bunions from the feet. It is an effectual cure for cuts, bruises, and for every kind of wounds. Time, ladies and gentlemen, would fail me to speak of its wonderful properties, and the history of cases it has cured would fill a dozen large volumes. Every man should therefore possess half a dozen boxes of this valuable salve. They should be placed in the nobleman’s palace, in every farm house, in every poor man’s cottage. The use of this wonderful ointment will save you many a long doctor’s bill, and, between you and me, doctors are doing their best to stop its sale, because one box of this salve is worth a hundred visits of the physician. People have paid lots of money to doctors without getting any benefit; they then came to me, and by using one box only, were made perfectly whole. This ointment is the grandest discovery of the age. It was found out, not by man’s skill, oh, no; but an angel came from distant worlds and directed my sainted mother how to make it. The secret is with me, and it must remain with me; for were it known, its efficacy would disappear.

“You, ladies and gentlemen, would doubtless like to know the several constituent parts of this justly renowned ointment, but as I have already said, I dare not reveal the secret. The spirit of one who when on this earth was as pure as she was comely and beautiful, told the secret to my sainted mother. I refer to Saint Winifred, who was murdered twelve hundred years ago. From the spot on which she was beheaded, her head rolled down the declivity, and did not stop until it reached the altar of the church, and immediately there sprang up a spring of water, which in volume is unequalled in the world. The wonderful salve is not called after the saint, this her spirit forbade, but Eli Treffynnon, or Holywell salve. As I make it myself, I can offer to sell it at twopence per box, though doctors charge sixpence for a far inferior article. Twopence per box being the price, for which I charge no more nor will I take less. Who will buy? who will buy? Now is your time, for I shall not visit these parts for twelve months.”

The people then rushed to the vendor of Eli Treffynnon, and in less than an hour he had disposed of more than a thousand boxes of the ointment.

“A wonderful man that, is he not?” said I to my companion.

“Yes, truly.”

_Myself_. Can you tell me where Treffynnon is?

“Not exactly,” replied my companion; “but it is in the north.”

_Myself_. In the north of England or Scotland, which?

“Oh, no, in neither; but in North Wales.”

_Myself_. Is it a town or a village?

“A town, I believe; but it is not a large place.”

_Myself_. Have you ever heard of the remarkable well before?

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen an account of it in an old book.”

_Myself_. If I knew the way, I would go and see this wonderful fountain.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Go two hundred miles to see a spring!”

_Myself_. Why not?

“Why? Because you can see plenty of fountains nearer home.”

_Myself_. But this is a well.

“Yes; a well to be sure. But don’t the waters of all rivers come from wells?”

_Myself_. Of course they do. But it requires a hundred wells to make up the Severn, the Wye, and the Ithon, but here is a large river from one well, one spring. I’ll certainly go one of these days and see it.

Many, many years, however, came, and passed away, before the design I then formed was carried out.

* * * * *

My first visit to Holywell, or Treffynnon, took place just about the close of the Crimean War. I arrived in the town late one evening in mid winter, but as the night was extremely dark, while the rain descended in torrents, I refrained from leaving my hotel, the name of which I do not at present remember. It was then the principal inn of the town, with a first rate bill of fare.

Being a private gentleman, and therefore debarred from joining the commercials, breakfast was prepared for me in a snug little parlour which was generally used by the landlady as her private sitting-room. Before I had taken my seat at the breakfast, the waitress came into the room, all smiles, and asked me if I had any objection to a gentleman joining me at the morning meal.

“Who is the gentleman?” I asked the waitress.

“Oh, Squire Eli, of Ffynnon Hall.”

_Myself_. What kind of a person is he? Is he old or young, has he a hump on his back, and does he wear spectacles? is he a nice, good-tempered fellow, or sour as crab beer? Tell me, gentle maid, the kind of companion I am to be honoured with.

“Oh, sir, how you do talk. Squire is a nice, well-spoken gentleman; and I am sure you’ll like him.”

_Myself_. Show the gentleman up; but tell your mistress that she will be a loser by his introduction, because I generally eat twice as much in company as when alone.

Presently Mr. Eli made his appearance, and I expressed to him how greatly pleased I was at his honouring me with his presence.

He replied to my remarks in a very neat speech, and said he was delighted in the opportunity of making my acquaintance, having heard of me from a common friend.

Before rising from the table I said, “What a beautiful name you have selected for your seat!”

“Then do you know Welsh?”

_Myself_. I know a little; I wish I knew more. It is the grandest language under the sun.

“For expressiveness and eloquence and poetry, you are right.”

_Myself_. I presume you selected the name because you have a crystal fountain by the Hall?

“Oh, dear, no. There is a fountain it is true, but its existence in no way determined me to select the name; and, between us, I don’t think there is a similar designation for a house in North or South Wales.”

_Myself_. Have you visited the south, Mr. Eli?

“Visited the South! Why, there is not a town or village in the six counties I’ve not been in. I know the country well.”

“Have you ever been at Bridgend, in the county of R.?”

“At Bridgend! Of course I have; many and many a time.”

_Myself_. If I’m not mistaken, I have seen you there.

“Probably you have; that is, if you ever attended its annual May fair.”

_Myself_. Then you are the man, the veritable vendor of Eli Treffynnon?

“Of course I am. I thought the waitress had duly informed you of that.”

_Myself_. No, no; but never mind. I’m delighted to see you. Your speech on your ointment awoke in my bosom an intense longing to see this place; and I’ve come almost specially to see for myself its wonders. I hope, therefore, Mr. Eli, you have no special engagement this morning.

“And suppose I have not?”

_Myself_. In that case I trust you will be my cicerone. I am extremely anxious to know the history and traditions of the wonderful well.

“I’ll accompany you with pleasure, and tell its wondrous history. When shall we start?”

_Myself_. Now, if you please.

Just as we reached the lower part of the principal street, we saw a man with measured steps approaching us. The man had a leathern strap fastened round his neck, at the other end of which was suspended a large bell, a cushion being buckled to the right knee. Every time the cushioned knee came forward the bell jingled, and it being of considerable size its tones could be heard a long distance from the scene of the man’s perambulations. When he came up to the place where we were standing, I asked Mr. Eli the question,—

“Is that man mad?”

“By no means: he is in his right mind.”

_Myself_. No sane man, I should think, would be guilty of such folly.

“The man,” replied Mr. Eli, “is doing a Christian duty.”

_Myself_. I fail to see any act of devotion in carrying a bell about the town. Please, Mr. Eli, explain yourself.

“You, a stranger, very naturally conclude the man is demented. When you know the object of his mission you will come to a different opinion.”

_Myself_. Pray, Mr. Eli, enlighten me.

“We have a church here, my dear sir.”

_Myself_. Yes.

“That church is situate in a hole at the head of a deep dell.”

_Myself_. But what has that to do with this man?

“This,” replied Mr. Eli; “we cannot, up the town, hear the church chimes, though we are not two hundred yards from them.”

_Myself_. But the man does not carry your church bells on his knee.

“Oh, dear me, no; but this man walks round the town just before divine service, and the ringing of his bell warns the people that it is time for them to go to church.”

_Myself_. A singular invention, certainly. Pity they built the church in such an outlandish place.

_Mr. Eli_. Oh, don’t say so. The church was built there by direction. It is close to the well of St. Winifred, the healing waters of which, as you are aware, are celebrated far and near.

_Myself_. Then the tales you and others tell about the efficacy of the waters of the fountain are really true?

“Yes, of course, they are perfectly true. When all is said and written about the waters, we can truly say that the half is not told.”

_Myself_. I should like to possess a true and authentic history of the place.

“Doubtless,” replied Mr. Eli, “you would. Its history has yet to be written.”

_Myself_. There is, then, evidence, Mr. Eli, that people who have bathed in its waters have been made whole?

“Yes; plenty of evidence,” replied Mr. Eli; “and if you will now accompany me to the well, I’ll show you some of the many witnesses.”

When we entered the building, my friend conducted me to a spot where we had a good view of the interior. He pointed with his finger to the roof, at the same time remarking, “Up there, look up there, for there is the evidence, the witnesses, to which I referred.”

_Myself_. Do you mean those barrows, hand carts, crutches, and staves, and other things too numerous to mention, fastened to the ceiling?

“Of course I do. Are they not irresistible witnesses to the healing power of these waters?”

_Myself_. I really fail to see your point, Mr. Eli. Pray explain yourself more fully.

“People come here,” said my friend, “from all parts of the world. Some come on wheel-barrows, some on crutches, some by the aid of walking-sticks; they bathe in these healing waters, like they did when our Lord was upon earth, and are cleansed. They leave here new men and women, and having no further need of either crutch or barrow, leave them behind as witnesses to the power of this wonderful fountain.”

_Myself_. You have greatly excited my curiosity, Mr. Eli. Pray furnish me with some information respecting the history of this place.

“You are heartily welcome to the facts and traditions I have been fortunate enough to succeed in collecting, which can be briefly told. They are as follows:—

“Once upon a time, that is, about twelve hundred and twenty-five years ago, this Treffynnon was a royal city, and then the king’s palace was within its precincts. The then reigning sovereign was Allen the First, and his dominion extended over the whole of the hundred of Coleshill, from the royal mines of which he derived a princely income. The king had a son of the name of Cradocus, a name which has led old writers to conclude that his mother was a daughter of some Roman, who, preferring this country to his own, and having espoused a British lady, settled down here.

“At the time of which I speak, there resided in Holywell a potent lord of the Trewith, who married Lady Wento, an only sister of Saint Beuno, descendants of an ancient and illustrious Montgomeryshire family. The only issue of this marriage was a daughter, a beautiful and lovely maiden, who was as pure as she was beautiful, whose name was Winifred.

“When she had grown up to be a young lady, her uncle, Saint Beuno, who resided at Clynnog, in Carnarvonshire, came on one occasion to this royal town to pay a friendly visit to his family. During his stay he obtained a grant of land from Lord Trewith, his brother-in-law, upon which he erected a church. Now the altar of that church was close by yon bubbling fountain.”

_Myself_. Have you historical proofs of this, Mr. Eli? I asked.

“You will see by-and-by the evidence upon which I rely.”

_Myself_. Pray proceed; your narrative is deeply interesting.

“After the erection of the church,” Mr. Eli continued, “Saint Beuno took under his charge his niece Winifred, who vowed to remain a virgin, and to devote her life to works of charity, mercy, and religion.

“On a lovely Sunday evening, on the 22nd of June, the Lady Winifred left her parents’ castle for the purpose of taking a walk in the cool of the day. When she attained the summit of the hill her progress was stayed by Prince Cradocus, who, being struck with her extreme beauty, at once made a proposal of marriage.

“‘Prince,’ replied Lady Winifred, ‘I can form no earthly ties. I have already vowed my life and wealth to the work of my Saviour.’

“‘But, noble and beautiful lady, I have sworn you shall be mine, and nothing shall prevent the fulfilment of my oath.’

“‘Your offer, illustrious prince, comes too late; my vow is irrevocable.’

“‘Pray, Lady Winifred, don’t say that. Your hand I am resolved to possess, and you shall share with me the throne of my ancestors.’

“‘For earthly thrones, prince, I care not; my treasures are not here but above.’

“‘If you persist, noble lady, in your refusal, I am resolved to effect my object by force.’

“‘You dare not do that, prince. You must not further molest me. Stand by, for I would proceed on my way.’

“Cradocus was vexed at being thus robbed of his prey, and getting into a fearful passion, took his sword from its sheath, and there and then,—oh, horror of horrors! cut off the head of the virgin. For his guilty act, vengeance from on high soon overtook him. On the spot where he committed the crime, he fell down a dead man, and the earth opening, swallowed his impious corpse. {260} There is, however, a tradition, that Cradocus’s master, the devil, carried off his body to the dismal regions of despair.

“Now about the well. I’ve told you, that it was on the hillside above here where Cradocus committed the foul deed. It appears that when the head was severed from the body it commenced to roll down the steep hill by which we descended, and stopped when it reached the altar, before which a number of devout people were kneeling. The very moment the head stopped there came up this fountain, the waters of which possess the same miraculous power as did those waters of the pool of Bethesda referred to in the Gospel of St. John.

“It appears Saint Beuno was the officiating priest at the altar when this sad event took place. Recognising the head as that of his beloved niece, he took it up, and ran with it to where the mangled body lay, to which he rejoined it. To the astonishment of all present, the head at once united itself to the body, the place of separation being only marked by a white ring or line, which extended round the neck. From that hour she was called Saint Winifred, and was always after regarded as a holy person, a special vessel chosen by Christ to do His work. After this event she lived fifteen years, and gained universal fame by her deeds of love and charity. Well, though more than twelve hundred years have come and gone since then, this fountain is as powerful to-day as it was then in healing and in curing diseases. Hundreds, aye, thousands, have blessed the day on which they bathed in this Iachâd Ffynnon—healing fountain. Now, my story is done.”

_Myself_. And a most interesting tale it is, Mr. Eli, for which I thank you very much. There is one more circumstance I wish to be informed of in order to have a complete history of the sainted lady.

“To what do you refer?” asked Mr. Eli.

_Myself_. I presume the lady died here.

“Oh yes; she died in her father’s mansion.”

_Myself_. In that case, I presume, her sepulchre is in your churchyard?

“Not so, my friend,” replied Mr. Eli.

_Myself_. Then she was not buried here?

“No, she was not interred here, and for this reason. Her uncle, Saint Beuno, died on the 21st of April, 660, and his remains were interred in the Abbey Church of Bardsey Island. On his death, Saint Winifred retired to Gwytheriu, and placed herself under the protection of St. Elerius, who at that time was living in devotional seclusion in that sequestered mountain village. At that time there was there a convent of nuns under the superintendence of Theonia. Saint Winifred assumed the veil, and on the death of Theonia became the abbess. On her death, the remains were removed from Treffynnon to Gwytheriu, and interred near the graves of St. Cybi and St. Sannan. After a lapse of five hundred years from the date of her death, the bones of St. Winifred were removed with great pomp to the church of St. Peter and St. Paul, Shrewsbury. The wooden chest in which the remains were preserved is still kept. The translation of the saint’s remains took place in the reign of King Stephen.”

_Myself_. It’s a pity that no monument to her memory has been erected here. Don’t you think so, Mr. Eli?

“I cannot share your opinion, my friend. This well and its wonderful cures are monuments which will live when Parian marble shall crumble into dust. But there is another monument. Observe,” said Mr. Eli, “the sweet scented moss which grows there by the well-side, the _Jungermannia esplenoides_ of Linnæus. On each anniversary of the decollation of Saint Winifred, this moss, and the stones of the fountain, assume the colour of blood. This annual change in the tint of the moss is an immortal monument of the dear departed saint, as if it said:—

“For thee, blest maid, my tears, my endless pain,
Shall in immortal monuments remain.
The image of thy death each year renew,
And prove my grief, to distant ages, true.”

After making a general inspection of the well, and examining the grotesque figures of animals and other works of sculpture, my friend and I paid a brief visit to the chapel over the well. During our stay there, he placed in my hand a copy of the following letter, addressed by the queen of James II., to Sir Roger Mostyn.

“SIR ROGER MOSTYN,—

“It having pleased the king, by his royal grant, to bestow upon me
the ancient chapel adjoining St. Winifred’s Well, these are to desire
you to give present possession, in my name, of the said chapel, to
Mr. Thomas Roberts, who will deliver this letter into your hands. It
being also my intention to have the place decently repaired, and put
to a good use, I further desire that you will afford him your favour
and protection, that he may not be disturbed in the performance
thereof. You may rest assured that what you do herein, according to
my desire, shall be very kindly remembered by

“Your good friend,
“MARY REGINA.

“WHITEHALL,
_May_ 8_th_, 1687.”

On leaving the chapel, I cordially thanked my friend for the information he had imparted respecting the Winifred legend; and told him, that some day I would try to make his name and his Eli Treffynnon as immortal as the saint whose history he had so eloquently told. But before my tale sees the light, my entertainer has gone to that bourne from whence no traveller returns; yet it may be,—who knows?—that his spirit still visits our world, and communes with dear ones and friends left behind.

[Picture: View of Swansea in September, 1748]

THE VISIT OF ELIDORUS TO THE FAIRY KINGDOM BENEATH THE BAY.

A short time before our visit to Swansea, wrote Giraldus Cambrensis, a circumstance worthy of note occurred in these parts, which Elidorus, a priest, most strenuously affirmed had befallen him. When a youth of twelve years, and learning his letters, since, as Solomon says, “The root of learning is bitter, although the fruit is sweet,” in order to avoid the discipline and frequent stripes inflicted on him by his preceptor, he ran away, and concealed himself under the hollow bank of a river. After fasting in that situation for two days, two little men of pigmy stature appeared to him, saying, “If you will come with us, we will lead you into a country full of delights and sports.” Assenting and rising up, he followed his guides through a path, at first subterraneous and dark, into a most beautiful country, adorned with rivers and meadows, woods and plains, but obscure, and not illuminated with the full light of the sun. All the days were cloudy, and the nights extremely dark, on account of the absence of the moon and stars. The boy was brought before the king, and introduced to him in the presence of the court; who, having examined him for a long time, delivered him to his son, who was then a boy. The men were of the smallest stature, but very well proportioned in their make; they were all of a fair complexion, with luxuriant hair falling over their shoulders like that of women. They had horses and greyhounds adapted to their size. They neither ate flesh nor fish, but lived on milk diet, made up into messes with saffron. They never took an oath, for they detested nothing so much as lies. As often as they returned from our upper hemisphere, they reprobated our ambition, infidelities, and inconstancies. They had no form of public worship, being strict lovers and reverers, as it seemed, of truth.

The boy frequently returned to our hemisphere, sometimes by the way he had first gone, sometimes by another; at first in company with other persons, and afterwards alone; and made himself known only to his mother, declaring to her the manners, nature, and state of that people. Being desired by her to bring a present of gold, with which that region abounded, he stole, when at play with the king’s son, the golden ball with which he used to divert himself, and brought it to his mother in great haste; and when he reached the door of his father’s house, but not unpursued, and was entering it in a great hurry, his foot stumbled on the threshold, and falling down into the room where his mother was sitting, the two pigmies seized the ball, which had dropped from his hand, and departed, showing the boy every mark of contempt and derision. On recovering from the fall, confounded with shame, and execrating the evil counsel of his mother, he returned by the usual track to the subterraneous road, but found no appearance of any passage, though he searched for it on the banks of the river (Tawe) for nearly the space of a year. But since those calamities which reason cannot mitigate are often alleviated by time, and length of time alone blunts the edge of our afflictions, and puts an end to many evils, the youth having been brought back by his friends and mother, and restored to his right way of thinking, and to his learning, in process of time attained the rank of priesthood. Whenever David II., Bishop of St. David’s, talked to him in his advanced state of life concerning this event, he could never relate the particulars without shedding tears. He had made himself acquainted with the language of that nation, the words of which, in his younger days, he used to recite, which, as the bishop had often informed me, were very conformable to the Greek idiom. When they asked for water, they said, “Ydor ydorum,” which meant, bring water; for “ydor,” in their language, signifies water, and dwr also, in the British language, signifies water. When they wanted salt they said, “Halgein ydorum,” bring salt. Salt is called halen in British.

[So far the narrative of Giraldus Cambrensis. We are happy to be able to lay before our readers some further details, hitherto unpublished, of the early life of Elidorus, and of his visits to the fairy kingdom beneath the bay.]

On the brow of Town Hill, and commanding a magnificent view of Swansea Bay, the channel, and their circumjacent coast, with the Devonian range of mountains in the distance; there stood, at the time of which we write, a small thatched cottage, with mud or clay walls, which was then occupied by Shôn Gwyllt, his wife Mary, and their son John, an only child.

Shôn, as had been his father and his grandfather before him, was a fisherman, which, in those times, was a highly remunerative business. Fish of all kinds were then abundant, and they commanded a ready market. In the bay were shoals of conger, cod, mullet, sole, whiting, and flat-fish; while, in the season, the fishermen were often fortunate enough to secure in their nets sea trout and salmon, which, for delicacy of flavour, were unequalled in the British seas and rivers, the Tawe excepted. In the Tawe salmon were as plentiful as the daisy on the verdant mead in early summer. The waters of that river then, and for several hundred years after, were as clear as the crystal dewdrops. Now it was on that delightful, that glossy and pellucid river that Shôn Gwyllt plied his trade, and the sylvan groves on its banks resounded with the sound of his rich tenor voice. Shôn loved a good song, and the echo of his voice in the near and distant groves had for him a peculiar charm.

We have already observed that Shôn plied his calling on the Tawe. He had a horror of the sea. Upon its waters he never ventured. Nothing could induce him to join his brother fishermen in the bay. Though they often tempted him by predicting that they would certainly have a splendid haul of fish, yet the prospect of a rich reward for his labour had no influence on his mind. To their solicitation he used to reply, “The Tawe has been a good and generous parent to me, so I shall not forsake the kind and rich old mother.” And Shôn did not forsake her. Day after day, during the season, he might be seen with his coracle on his back, wending his way down Mount Pleasant and across the fields to the Tawe (there were no houses there then), and thence he fished up the river as far as Morriston, which at that time consisted of a few clod-built huts. It was but seldom that he ventured above that village, though occasionally, and once in a way, he fished up to Ynistawe, but never went so high up the stream as Penllwch. His aversion to Penllwch appears to have arisen from the circumstance that his cousin met with an untimely end there, and Shôn dreaded to fish the deep pools under Glais, where the young man, whom he loved as a brother, was drowned.

Although Shôn was passionately fond of his trade, yet, strange to say, he was strongly opposed to his son following in his footsteps. He reasoned thus: It is an occupation in which there is a great risk of life. The fisherman has to contend with bad seasons, and occasionally fish is a drug in the market. The business is not respectable; those engaged in it are men of the lowest class, ignorant, drunken, and improvident, living from hand to mouth, never saving a penny against a rainy day. Instead of allowing young John to accompany him, he resolved to send him to school; and to school accordingly his son was duly sent. John, however, hated school, and intensely disliked his preceptor, a dislike he gloried in exhibiting whenever an opportunity offered itself. The teacher resented the boy’s conduct by the free use of the cane. In the severity of punishment he had no mercy, and to escape chastisement young Gwyllt often absented himself from school. The hours thus spent were among the happiest of his boyhood. After his father had gone, John would walk down to the Tawe, and leaping into a stranded coracle, he, with his paddle, would spend hour after hour in skimming over the waters. When he got tired, he would row to the bank, and fastening his little boat to the stake, lie down to rest. The remainder of the youth’s story we shall tell in his own words, which are as follows:—

I lay me down on the banks of Tawe’s crystal waters, and slept. In my sleep, behold I had a dream. In my dream or vision I saw a man approaching who was exceeding small in stature. He was clad in rich apparel, and the fastenings of his garments—which were as white as the winter’s snow—were of pure gold, rubies, and other precious gems. When he came up to the place where I lay, he addressed me in the softest and sweetest voice I had ever heard, and the voice said, “Oh, youth with ruddy cheeks and curly locks, why sleepest thou, seeing it is only the third hour after the sun of thy world has passed his meridian?”

“I sleep,” I replied, “to forget the past, to drown the very thought of existence.”

“With youth,” said the voice, “there is nothing to regret. The days of youth are days of innocence and pleasure. Every breeze fans the flame of delight.”

“But my sorrow, sweet voice, does not spring from the heart’s passion or paternal unkindness, but from stripes inflicted upon my body by a tyrannical and cruel teacher, a man who has no mercy nor kindness of heart.”

“Methinks you neglect your lesson,” said the voice, “and your preceptor uses the rod in order to teach you to be wise and learned.”

“If that be so, I’d rather be ignorant with whole bones, than learned with the lash so frequently used on my back.”

“There is a saying in your country, is there not?” said the voice, “‘spare the rod; spoil the child.’”

“Yes, yes; there is such a proverb, though I believe in it not.”

“What do you then believe in, my child?” asked the voice.

“I believe in gentleness and kindness. The victory that overcometh the world is love. Love will soften the hardest heart, subdue the most stubborn will, and melt the hardest natures like wax is melted in the fire.”

“If you worked hard at your books, and were attentive to your lessons, your master would probably be kind to you. You should remember that youth is the time to acquire knowledge, and that its possession is one of the most pleasurable things on earth.”

“Knowledge might be all you say in its favour, sweet voice, but I care not for it. One day spent on the banks of this beautiful river, or skimming on the bosom of its limpid and crystal waters in some friend’s coracle, from which I often watch the finny tribe below in their plays and gambols—is better to me than a thousand anywhere else. The waters of the Tawe are to me a source of exquisite delight, an unspeakable charm. I could gaze upon them for ever.”

“Ah, comely youth,” said the voice, “you speak what you know, and I must own to being charmed with your enthusiasm. You are young, and your vision is contracted. You are inexperienced; your world is bounded by the surrounding horizon. If you will come with me, I will show you fairer climes than these, more beautiful landscapes, grander hills and mountains; vales infinitely more lovely, and streamlets, brooks and rivers, which surpass in splendour and sublimity all other running waters of the world. Besides, in my country, everything is beautiful. The gold is as abundant there as are the stones on this lowland strand or on ocean’s tidal shore.”

“You have drawn, sweet voice, a charming picture of your country, but where is it? Is it an ideal or a real kingdom? If it be real, I would visit if I knew the way. Pray tell me the road which leads to a world so resplendently beautiful.”

“Fair youth,” said the voice, “the road is nigh thee; it is close to where thou sleepest. I will conduct thee there.”

“On one condition only will I be thy companion.”

“Name your condition, and if it be in my power, it shall be granted.”

“That you solemnly promise to guide me back again to my own native sphere, in the event of my failing to find the way.”

“Yes; I promise. Further, you shall have perfect liberty to stay, or to return to this upper world, at any time you desire. I will, too, be your companion.”

“But who art thou? What, too, is thy name?”

“I am a prince of my kingdom; and my name is Tippin.”

“What is your highness’ position at the royal court?”

“I am chancellor of my royal master, King Penaf, the wisest and best of monarchs.”

“Pray prince, is your king a giant like you?”

“In wisdom, yes. But fair youth, you should judge all men, not by their stature, but by their wise words, weighty sayings, and just decrees. The mind is the standard of man, for mind is the man. But don’t let us tarry longer. Awake! awake! oh sleeper; arise from your couch of sand; let us away, for my hour of departure has come.”

When I awoke, I found myself being carried through a dimly-lighted tunnel on the wings of the wind; I say on the wings of the wind for I was not conscious that any palpable substance touched my body. The further we receded from the earth, the wider and loftier became the subterranean passage; and by means of the dim light, I discerned rocks of gold and precious stones. When we arrived at the end of the passage, there appeared in the distance a scene which filled my bosom with wonder and admiration; never had I previously beheld such a combination of beauty. How shall I describe it! This I cannot do, for it passes description; far grander, infinitely grander, was the scene than anything I had ever witnessed.

In the distance were high hills and Alpine heights, plains and meads, and dells, which were covered with grass of emerald green. I could see neither sun, nor moon, nor stars; but the country was illumined by a beautiful blue soft light which was delightful, and most agreeable to the eye. Between day and night, there appeared no perceptible difference; while in those regions, summer and winter, spring and autumn, were unknown. Their year was distinguished by no seasons; they enjoyed a perpetual spring. Beautiful was their clime, exquisitely lovely was their country, singular and mysterious were the people.

As regards the climate, it had no variation. There was always there a soft, gentle, and warm breeze; which produced the most delectable sensation. This breeze appeared to possess life-giving and life-sustaining properties. When it came, as it sometimes did, in stronger currents than was generally the case, the old would repair to the mountain tops or bwllchs, and after two or three hours’ stay would return to the plain strong, blooming, and hale. But more of this anon.

Immediately after our arrival in the open country, the prince conducted me in silence to a building, the walls of which were formed of the finest marble. Its entrance was guarded by two little men, even less in stature than my conductor, who made obeisance as we passed. The prince conducted me up a flight of stairs, and then through several rooms, containing rich and costly furniture; at last we came to a door on which was printed in letters of gold “The King’s Chamber.” This chamber we entered. Having placed a chair beside me for my use, he then walked to the other side of the chamber, where there was a curious instrument fastened to a silver slab, and touched a small spring. There was attached to the instrument a thread or wire of the most delicate workmanship, which quivered at the touch; presently I heard the sound of a bell, which was followed by several ticks, and when the ticks ceased, the prince remarked that the royal carriage from Dinas Aur would arrive there in half an hour, in order to take us to the golden city.

“And how far is it to your city?” I asked.

“The actual distance is one hundred and twenty miles.”

“But your carriage travels more swiftly than the flight of the bird?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, is it safe to go so fast?”

“Yes, perfectly safe.”

“Your assurance contents me. Will you, please, answer me one question, namely: as you appear to travel about 250 miles in an hour, I want to know in what consists your motive power? Surely your horses can’t travel so rapidly as that?”

“Oh no; we don’t use horses. In these regions we make nature administer to our every want. We shall travel through the air, which we use to propel us along; more I cannot say, as this singular phenomenon is beyond my comprehension. The thing was discovered by our wise men, who keep the secret in their own breasts. Look, my young friend,” said the prince, addressing me; “the carriage is coming, do you observe its approach?”

When I looked, I saw something like a black spot in the air; it appeared like a small bird. Presently it became more distinct, and before I was really aware, the royal carriage had arrived, having come nearly five minutes earlier than we expected. At once we stepped into the royal saloon. Presently I discovered the carriage moving. When we ascended some twenty yards above the earth, we were carried at a fearful pace through the air; I perceived it was kept up by means of wings, which were made of material which in appearance was silk. These wings were of great dimensions, but were extended or contracted in size according to the power and force of the current. The propelling agency was compressed air, but how this worked, and whether it was combined with other gases or not, I could not learn. I found the travelling exceedingly pleasant; when I closed my eyes I could not detect the least motion. Objects came and went, we appeared to pass them as rapidly as the moving clouds in a terrible storm, or falling stars on a bright November night. We arrived at our destination a few minutes earlier than we anticipated. The prince conducted me to the royal palace, and placing me in charge of some important state functionary, repaired to the council of his royal master; when he left, he said he would not be long, and on returning he would join me for the evening. I must own, that I felt extremely sorry to have to part, even for a short time, from one who was so kind and so agreeable; and I felt this the more in consequence of the peculiar position in which I was placed. I was now the denizen of a strange world, and surrounded by a strange race.

During the absence of Prince Tippin I began to realize my position. I thought what a fool I was in leaving my home and country, the anxiety my absence would cause my parents, and the uncertainty of my ever seeing them again. This thought deeply moved me. I was exceedingly uneasy in both mind and conscience; I could neither sit nor lie still for three consecutive minutes. At last, after examining every article in the room, I asked the attendant if he could give me any kind of book or writing material, by the aid of which I hoped to forget myself. The attendant informed me that they did not use books, that their knowledge was orally handed down from father to son, from the priests to the people, and thus all the inhabitants became wise.

When the prince returned dinner was served up in the ante-room,—a fine hall, radiantly lighted up. Our first course was soup made of choice herbs, which was not only extremely satisfying but exceedingly palatable. Of this I partook heartily. When the dishes were removed our attendant brought in milk thickened with meal, coloured with saffron; this was served up in basins of gold. Afterwards we had tarts, pies, and fruit of the most delicious flavour; the fruit resembled the pear, but was sweeter and more juicy.

After the meal was over, I asked the prince if he would give me a glass of wine.

“My young friend,” replied the prince, “I regret to be unable to comply with your wish. Wines, and all kinds of alcoholic drinks, are prohibited from being used by the law of the State; I dare not, therefore, supply you with this beverage, even if I had it in my possession.”

“But why, excellency, have you such a singular law?”

“For various reasons. Would you wish to be furnished with the cause of the existence of such an enactment?”

“You will confer upon me a personal favour by stating the reasons for the existence of such a regulation.”

“These are the reasons. We want the minds of our people to be clear and bright, and their intellectual vision unclouded. Is not that important?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Again; in these dominions, crime, destitution, poverty, pauperism, and wrong-doing are unknown; but if our people, like yours, imbibed spirituous liquors, crimes would be as frequent and poverty as widely spread as are those terrible evils in your kingdom!”

“I readily admit the force of your reasoning; I am bound to own that the drinking customs of my country are the real causes of our more serious national evils.”

“Then, sir, your government ought to enact stringent laws in order to diminish the cause of those evils.”

“We are a race of free men, living in a free country, and I am afraid that no government will for some years be strong enough to battle successfully with this custom.”

“You pass laws to suppress vice; and drunkenness being one of the greatest vices of your people, and the parent of all others, I can see no reason why you should not put down this traffic by legislation.”

“Your excellency may be right in your conclusion. The evil is a terrible blot on our civilization; were we a strictly sober race, we should be by far the grandest people on earth.”

“My own observations lead me to the same conclusion; but for the present we must put an end to the argument. It is time for you to retire. Your attendant awaits you. To-morrow we shall meet again, though I am afraid only for a few minutes, as I have to pay a visit to a distant part of the empire.”

The next morning I breakfasted alone. Though I saw during the morning several of the little people passing along the lawn in front of my window, I did not venture to speak to them, nor did any member of the race pay me a visit.

About midday the door of my room was opened, and a little gentleman walked into the hall, and, without saying a word, sat down in a vacant chair opposite the one on which I was seated. After examining my appearance, he observed, “I presume you are the stranger who accompanied Prince Tippin to the palace last evening?”

“I am the stranger, sir.”

“I hope the attendant has shown you every courtesy, and has not been wanting in hospitality.”

“From the prince and attendant I have received every consideration; and as for the fare, sir, I might have gone further and fared worse. I like your food much.”

“This is a very different country from yours, is it not?”

_Myself_. Yes; widely different.

“I presume you find it strange to have light without a sun or moon or stars?”

_Myself_. I miss the genial light of the sun; but there is a softness, a reflected beauty, in the light here which we do not possess in our diurnal luminary.

“Our light is uniform, as is our climate. In the northern regions of your country the sun constantly shines during several months of your year, which is followed by continuous darkness or night, when the inhabitants have to reside in snow or ice-built houses. Dreary must be the life of a people so circumstanced. You have in your climate genial and joyous spring, when nature revives from the dead and puts on her youthful and gay apparel, when the thorn, the citron, and the apple-tree bud and blossom;—beautiful is your spring, the loveliest and most charming season of your year. Then comes your summer, with its green meads, and fields of waving corn, and rich fruit. No artist can paint, no language can set forth, the grandeur of your clime during autumn. What have you afterwards? Cold, icy, and chilling winter, with its dank and cold atmosphere; with your hills, mountains, and even your dales, covered with snow. In winter your country seems dead, clay-like, and lifeless; sad and dreary to me is your winter scene. In this land we have perpetual spring. In all the months of the year the orange, the citron, and the apple-tree send forth their buds and blossoms and their ripe and rich fruit; our valleys and mountains are always green, a circumstance which to you, doubtless, appears very strange.”

_Myself_. Is that really so? Do your fields and trees and hillsides present at all times the same hue?

“Yes; the colour never alters, and nature in this region is never weary in its development, and never halts in the manifestation of her power; she goes from strength to strength, and with increased vigour as the years roll on.”

_Myself_. A strange phenomenon this! Can you account for the existence of such perennial inherent power?