"I came in my official capacity," said he; "the petty sessions have been held here to-day.""I know they have," I replied; "and that two poachers have been convicted. I came here on my way to South Wales to see the grave of Huw Morris, who, as you know, is buried in the churchyard.""Have you seen the clergyman?" said R-.
"No," I replied.
"Then come with me," said he; "I am now going to call upon him. Iknow he will be rejoiced to make your acquaintance."He led me to the clergyman's house, which stood at the south-west end of the village within a garden fenced with an iron paling. We found the clergyman in a nice comfortable parlour or study, the sides of which were decorated with books. He was a sharp clever-looking man, of about the middle age. On my being introduced to him he was very glad to see me, as my friend R- told me he would be. He seemed to know all about me, even that I understood Welsh.
We conversed on various subjects: on the power of the Welsh language; its mutable letters; on Huw Morris, and likewise on ale, with an excellent glass of which he regaled me. I was much pleased with him, and thought him a capital specimen of the Welsh country clergyman. His name was Walter Jones.
After staying about half-an-hour I took leave of the good kind man, who wished me all kind of happiness, spiritual and temporal, and said that he should always be happy to see me at Llan Silin. My friend R- walked with me a little way and then bade me farewell.
It was now late in the afternoon, the sky was grey and gloomy, and a kind of half wintry wind was blowing. In the forenoon I had travelled along the eastern side of the valley, which I will call that of Llan Rhyadr, directing my course to the north, but I was now on the western side of the valley, journeying towards the south. In about half-an-hour I found myself nearly parallel with the high crag which I had seen from a distance in the morning. It was now to the east of me. Its western front was very precipitous, but on its northern side it was cultivated nearly to the summit.
As I stood looking at it from near the top of a gentle acclivity a boy with a team, whom I had passed a little time before, came up.
He was whipping his horses, who were straining up the ascent, and was swearing at them most frightfully in English. I addressed him in that language, inquiring the name of the crag, but he answered Dim Saesneg, and then again fell to cursing; his horses in English.
I allowed him and his team to get to the top of the ascent, and then overtaking him, I said in Welsh: "What do you mean by saying you have no English? You were talking English just now to your horses.""Yes," said the lad, "I have English enough for my horses, and that is all.""You seem to have plenty of Welsh," said I; "why don't you speak Welsh to your horses?""It's of no use speaking Welsh to them," said the boy; "Welsh isn't strong enough.""Isn't Myn Diawl tolerably strong?" said I.
"Not strong enough for horses," said the boy "if I were to say Myn Diawl to my horses, or even Cas Andras, they would laugh at me.""Do the other carters," said I, "use the same English to their horses which you do to yours?""Yes" said the boy, "they'll all use the same English words; if they didn't the horses wouldn't mind them.""What a triumph," thought I, "for the English language that the Welsh carters are obliged to have recourse to its oaths and execrations to make their horses get on!"I said nothing more to the boy on the subject of language, but again asked him the name of the crag. "It is called Craig y Gorllewin," said he. I thanked him, and soon left him and his team far behind.
Notwithstanding what the boy said about the milk-and-water character of native Welsh oaths, the Welsh have some very pungent execrations, quite as efficacious, I should say, to make a horse get on as any in the English swearing vocabulary. Some of their oaths are curious, being connected with heathen times and Druidical mythology; for example that Cas Andras, mentioned by the boy, which means hateful enemy or horrible Andras. Andras or Andraste was the fury or Demigorgon of the Ancient Cumry, to whom they built temples and offered sacrifices out of fear. Curious that the same oath should be used by the Christian Cumry of the present day, which was in vogue amongst their pagan ancestors some three thousand years ago. However, the same thing is observable amongst us Christian English: we say the Duse take you! even as our heathen Saxon forefathers did, who worshipped a kind of Devil so called, and named a day of the week after him, which name we still retain in our hebdomadal calendar like those of several other Anglo-Saxon devils. We also say: Go to old Nick! and Nick or Nikkur was a surname of Woden, and also the name of a spirit which haunted fords and was in the habit of drowning passengers.
Night came quickly upon me after I had passed the swearing lad.
However, I was fortunate enough to reach Llan Rhyadr, without having experienced any damage or impediment from Diawl, Andras, Duse, or Nick.
