Penelope's Postscripts
Page 13
IIIPENELOPE’S PRINTS OF WALES
And at length it chanced that I came to the fairest Valley in the World, wherein were trees of equal growth; and a river ran through the Valley, and a path was by the side of the river. And I followed the path until midday, and I continued my journey along the remainder of the Valley until the evening: and at the extremity of a plain I came to a lone and lustrous Castle, at the foot of which was a torrent.
WE are coaching in Wales, having journeyed by easy stages from Liverpoolthrough Llanberis, Penygwryd, Bettws-y-Coed, Beddgelert and Dolgelly onour way to Bristol, where we shall make up our minds as to the next step;deciding in solemn conclave, with floods of argument and temperamentaldifferences of opinion, what is best worth seeing where all is beautifuland inspiring. If I had possessed a little foresight I should haveavoided Wales, for, having proved apt at itinerary doggerel, I wassolemnly created, immediately on arrival, Mistress of Rhymes andTravelling Laureate to the party—an office, however honourable, that isno sinecure since it obliges me to write rhymed eulogies or diatribes onDolgelly, Tan-y-Bulch, Gyn-y-Coed, Llanrychwyn, and other Welsh hamletswhose names offer breakneck fences to the Muse.
I have not wanted for training in this direction, having made a journey(heavenly in reminiscence) along the Thames, stopping at all the villagesalong its green banks. It was Kitty Schuyler and Jack Copley whoinsisted that I should rhyme Henley and Streatley and Wargrave before Ishould be suffered to eat luncheon, and they who made me a crown oflaurel and hung a pasteboard medal about my blushing neck when Isucceeded better than usual with Datchett!—I well remember Datchett,where the water-rats crept out of the reeds in the shallows to watch ourrepast; and better still do I recall Medmenham Abbey, which defied all myefforts till I found that it was pronounced Meddenam with the accent onthe first syllable. The results of my enforced tussles with the Musestare at me now from my Commonplace Book.
“Said a rat to a hen once, at Datchett, ‘Throw an egg to me, dear, and I’ll catch it!’ ‘I thank you, good sir, But I greatly prefer To sit on mine _here_ till I hatch it.’”
“Few hairs had the Vicar of Medmenham, Few hairs, and he still was a-sheddin’ ’em, But had none remained, He would not have complained, Because there was _far_ too much red in ’em!”
It was Jack Copley, too, who incited me to play with rhymes for Veniceuntil I produced the following _tour de force_:
“A giddy young hostess in Venice Gave her guests hard-boiled eggs to play tennis. She said ‘If they _should_ break, What odds would it make? You can’t _think_ how prolific my hen is.’”
Reminiscences of former difficulties bravely surmounted faded intoinsignificance before our first day in Wales was over.
Jack Copley is very autocratic, almost brutal in discipline. It is hewho leads me up to the Visitors’ Books at the wayside inns, and puttingthe quill in my reluctant fingers bids me write in cheerful hexameters myimpressions of the unpronounceable spot. My martyrdom began at Penygwryd(Penny-goo-rid’). We might have stopped at Conway or some other town ofsimple name, or we might have allowed the roof of the Cambrian Arms orthe Royal Goat or the Saracen’s Read to shelter us comfortably, andprovide me a comparatively easy task; but no; Penygwryd it was, and theoutskirts at that, because of two inns that bore on their swinging signsthe names: _Ty Ucha_ and _Ty Isaf_, both of which would make any minorpoet shudder. When I saw the sign over the door of our chosen hostelry Iwas moved to disappear and avert my fate. Hunger at length brought meout of my lair, and promising to do my duty, I was allowed to join theirresponsible ones at luncheon.
Such a toothsome feast it was! A delicious ham where roses and liliesmelted sweetly into one another; some crisp lettuces, ale in pewter mugs,a good old cheese, and that stodgy cannon-ball the “household loaf,” dearfor old association’s sake. We were served at table by the granddaughterof the house, a little damsel of fifteen summers with sleek brown hairand the eyes of a doe. The pretty creature was all blushes and dimplesand pinafores and curtsies and eloquent goodwill. With what a sweetpoliteness do they invest their service, some of these soft-voicedBritish maids! Their kindness almost moves one to tears when one isfresh from the resentful civility fostered by Democracy.
As we strolled out on the greensward by the hawthorn hedge we werefollowed by the little waitress, whose name, however pronounced, waswritten Nelw Evans. She asked us if we would write in the “Locked Book,”whereupon she presented us with the key. It seems that there is anordinary Visitors’ Book, where the common herd is invited to scrawl itsunknown name; but when persons of evident distinction and geniuspatronize the inn, this “Locked Book” is put into their hands.
I found that many a lord and lady had written on its pages, and menmighty in Church and State had left their mark, with much bad poetrycommendatory of the beds, the food, the scenery, and the fishing.Nobody, however, had given a line to pretty Nelw Evans; so I pencilledher a rhyme, for which I was well paid in dimples:—
“At the Inn called the Penygwryd A sweet little maiden is hid. She’s so rosy and pretty I write her this ditty And leave it at Penygwryd.”
Our next halt was at Bettws-y-Coed, where we passed the week-end. It wasa memorable spot, as I failed at first to rhyme the name, and onlysucceeded under threats of a fate like unto that of the immortal babes inthe wood. I left the verse to be carved on a bronze tablet in thevillage church, should any one be found fitted to bear the weight of itseulogy:—
“Here lies an old woman of Bettws-y-Co_ed_; Wherever she went, it was there that she go_ed_. She frequently said: ‘My own row have I ho_ed_, And likewise the church water-mark have I to_ed_. I’m therefore expecting to reap what I’ve sow_ed_, And go straight to heaven from Bettws-y-Co_ed_.’”
At another stage of our journey, when the coaching tour was nearly ended,we were stopping at the Royal Goat at Beddgelert. We were seated aboutthe cheerful blaze (one and sixpence extra), portfolio in lap, makingready our letters for the post. I announced my intention of writing toSalemina, left behind in London with a sprained ankle, and determinedthat the missive should be saturated with local colour. None of us wereable to spell the few Welsh words we had picked up in our journeyings,but I evaded the difficulties by writing an exciting little episode inwhich all the principal substantives were names of Welsh towns, draggedin bodily, and so used as to deceive the casual untravelled reader.
I read it aloud. Jack Copley declared that it made capital sense, andsounded as if it had happened exactly as stated. Perhaps you will agreewith him:—
DDOLGHYHGGLLWN, WALES.
. . . We left Bettws-y-Coed yesterday morning, and coached thirty-threemiles to this point. (How do you like this point when you see itspelled?) We lunched at a wayside inn, and as we journeyed on we beganto see pposters on the ffences announcing the ffact that there was to bea Festiniog that day in the village of Portmadoc, through which we wereto pass.
I always enoyw a Festiniog yn any country, and my hheart beat hhigh withanticipation. Yt was ffive o’clock yn the cool of the dday, andppresently the roadw became ggay with the returning festinioggers. Herewas a fine Llanberis, its neck encircled with shining meddals wonw inprevious festiniogs; there, just behind, a wee shaggy Rhyl led alongproudly by its owner. Evydently the gayety was over for the day, for theppeople now came yn crowds, the women with gay plaid Rhuddlans over theirshoulders and straw Beddgelerts on their hheads.
The guardd ttooted his hhorn continuously, for we now approached theprincipalw street of the village, where hhundreds of ppeople wereconggreggated. Of course there were allw manner of Dolgelleys yn thecrowd, and allw that had taken pprizes were gayly decked with ribbons.Just at this moment the hhorn of our gguard ffrightened a superbLlanrwst, a spirited black creature of enormous size. It made a ddashthrough the lines of tterrified mothers, who caught their
innocentPwllhelis closer to their bbosoms. In its madd course it bruised theside of a huge Llandudno hitched to a stout Tyn-y-Coed by the way-side.It bbroke its Bettws and leaped ynto the air. Ddeath stared us yn theface. David the whip grew ppale, and signalled to Absalom the gguard tosave as many lives as he could and leave the rrest to Pprovidence.Absalom spprang from his seat, and taking a sharp Capel Curig from hisppocket (Hheaven knows how he chanced to have it about his pperson), heaimed straight between the Llangollens of the infuriated Llandudno. Witha moan of baffled rrage, he sank to earth with a hheavy thuddw. Absalomwithdrew the bbloody Capel Curig from the dying Llandudno, and wiping yton his Penygwryd, replaced yt yn his pocket for future possible use.
The local Dolwyddelan approached, and ordered a detachment ofTan-y-Bulchs to remove the corpse of the Llandudno. With a shudder wesaw him borne to his last rrest, for we realized that had yt not bbeenfor Absalom’s Capel Curig we had bbeen bburied yn an unpronounceableWelsh ggrave.