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map Tendubric Roc
mail. map Mouric,
son of Meuric. map Arcmail,
son of Arcmael. map Ris map Iudhail. map Morcant,
son of Morgant. aun ar
tan ioual. Merè fiue Grippi filus. Elired.
- dired Ioab. Edan filiuCincen. filius Brocmail,
son of Brocmail. filius Elived,
son of Elived. Ec sc* nomina filiorum These are the names of the sons of Cunedda, of
Cuneda, quorm. numer which are reckoned pine: Tibion, the first-born, -'erant ıxTepipaun,pmo who died in the region which is called Man; genitus q' moriturus in Guodotin, came here with his father, and with regione, qe vocatManau his brothers aforesaid; Meiriawn, his son, Guodotin, su’ venit huc divided his possessions between his brothers, cu patre suo ~ cu fribs. ij. Osmail, iii. Rumaun, iv. Dunauc, v. Ceretic, suis pre; Meriawn, fili, vi. Abloyc, vii. Einiawn Yrth, viii. Dogmail, 'ei divisit possessiones ix. Edeymn. Their lands extended from a river inta. fatres suos, ij. which is called Dwr Dee to another river Osmail, iii. Rumaun, called Teivi. They possessed many regions in iv. Dunauc, v. Ceretic, the western of Britain. vi. Abloyc, vii. Enniawn Girt, viii. Docmail, ix. Etem; i ctmin 'eorum a fumine quod vocatDubr Duiu
usq ad aliud flumen Tebi. Tenuer' plurimas regiones in occidentali plaga
Brittannie. Nec st' nonima omnium. Then are the names of all the cities which are in
civicatu" q. st in tota all Britain, amounting to twenty-eight. Brittaniæ, quarun, nu
mer' xxviii. Cair Guorchigim,
Caer Gwrtheym. Cair Guinntguic,
Caer Wynt, Venta Belgarum, Winchester.
Caer Municipum, Manchester.
Caer Golun, Coloniæ, Lincoln.
Caer Evrauc, York.
Caer Caradawc, Old Sarum.
Caer Grant, Granta Camboritum, Cambridge. Cair Maunguid. Cair Lundein,
Caer Llundain, Londinium, London. Cair Ceint,
Caer Geint, Cantii civitas, Canterbury. Cair Guiragon,
Caer Wrangon, Brannogenium, Worcester. Cair Peris,
Caer Beris, Porchester.
Caer Dawri, Dorocina, Dorchester.
Caer Lirion, Batæ, Leicester.
Trusting this very ancient document may be of some use to Welsh scholars,
I remain, gentlemen,
S. R. MEYRICK.
October 8, 1831.
In the churchyard wall of Abergele, in Denbighshire, is placed a stone tablet, on which the following Englyn is engraved.
Yma mae yn gorwedd,
Here lies, in the churchyard of Michael, a man whose dwelling was three miles to the north.
What renders this singular is, that the ocean is now within half a mile of the churchyard to the north, so that his house must have been two miles and a half out at sea, if the Englyn be correct. It is one evidence of the many instances of calamitous inundations on the Welsh coast.
LETTER FROM AN AMATEUR GIPSY.
To the Editors.
From my Tent in the Valley of the
Pyscottwr, Caermarthenshire. GENTLEMEN, Can any object in nature be more delightful than a mountainstream, combining the grandeur of the river with the beauty of the wild brook? such is Upper Towey, and such is also the higher course of almost every noted river in Wales, though neglected by tourists for that more expanded portion of its track which allows fashion to flutter on its surface, and violate the solitude of its banks: here, winding along unmown meadow sides, gurgle, gurgle, just loud enough to break the noonday silence of a valley; there, brawling louder among rock fragments in its shallowness, forming tiny islands of their green lumps nodded over by young fern plumes, and of the gnarled old roots of vanished trees, moss grown, and full of primroses : presently sweeping dark and river-like, with breadth and depth for a pleasure boat, or even a yacht, (which God forbid ever should thrust its gaudy foppery there!) but bearing nothing at all, except a weed or waterlily, or little snowy floating island of foam, borne down from some cataract higher up, heard, and just heard to thunder at a distance, within a venerable mountain-wood, black, up a precipice. Such is the young river, sporting like infancy, ali peace and all nature! to me far more attractive than the same stream matured into usefulness, subjugated into a river of burden, flowing on through smiling but insipid fertility, glittering with green and gilded prows and sunny sails, or degraded by the black and sluggish coal barge, that grim abomination of commerce, which scowling among cowslip banks and wooded cliffs, is like some fiendish inhabitant of the world without a sun, come begrimed with all its soot, (for we cannot believe that Satan burns charcoal for ever,) to steal, ugly and horrid, among the golden groves of the world of angels. I am aware, Gentlemen, this is a most Miltonic bounce for
prose; from a wild brook, quite across Phlegethon, and up again above the earth: no matter. I was going to say that a whimsical fellow might run a “right merrie and conceited” parallel between the stages of a Welsh river, and the “ages” of our English Literature. The placid subdued stage just described, the theme of every tourist, that of the “stations” and “points" of view pointed out usque ad nauseam; the lodge of Chepstow and Piercefield, the Towey of Grongar hill and Golden grove; this is like the (misnamed) Augustan age, the Gallicised age of our poetry. But,
give me the Elizabethan age, unsubdued to insipidity; grand, wild nature adorned; too similar, alas ! in the neglect it experiences, to the lonely untrodden valley of the river, neglected for its less original though advanced and widened way. In both I see rugged force fighting all obstacles, one of language, the other of roots and rocks, tumbled down the precipices into its bed; but that rudeness very sweetly relieved by snatches of truly cerulean softness of beauty, whose utmost wildness transcends the utmost art of the other. There are the deep warm secret glens, all flowers and verdure, where one might fancy never foot or pettito had trod, till there came that hermit-lamb which has nibbled yonder little spot of rock turf into a grassplot fit for a king to spread his breakfast upon; never flown over till by that very kite, dim seen, low heard, which is sailing across from the white faced cliff on one side of the vale, to the wooded height and ivied rock-ruins on the other. lover of nature, and our old dramatists, and Welsh vales, will not boggle at my simile, but recognise a certain affinity between those lovely wild dingles, blooming fresh, as it were, from the hand of God; and many a sweet and touching unexpected scene, the fine inspiration of god-like genius bursting on us out of surrounding wildness, in the works of Webster and Shirley, and Chapman, and, above all, Ford, Shakspearian Ford !
One might easily pursue our parallel, follow the beauty of our stream of poetry up to where it begins to be hidden, then is quite lost in barbarous and uncouth wildness, till the very ground fails us, through the obscure grandeur of its remote course in Chaucer and Gower, quite up to the infancy of our language where all is sterile and flowerless, to the deserts of the age of Langland, and of Robert of Gloucester, on to the Anglo-Norman Saxon jargon, where we go foundering and uncertain of meaning, as of step on the tiptop of Pumlumon, by the very cradle of the Wye, brawling forth from its quaking peat bog, barren and horrid.
Now my object is to introduce to your Saesonig readers their old poetical friend, the Towey of Dyer, under his new crthographical face of Tywi, playing among the fine companions of his infancy, to them unknown, probably,--Dethia and Pyscottwr, and Camdwr; promising them a sketch of the dwellers thereby, to the whit as wild and singular, though not as beautiful, as the scenery round them. Beauty, if existing, indeed would be little visible for the effects of peat smoke on the “ human faces divine,” that peep through an eclipse of their own hearth's production, on the half-suffocated inquirer at the door. In Welsh mountain houses, be it known, the chinney and window exchange offices; the former, huge and cavern-like, lets in more light than the latter, while the lattice or peephole of broken windows emit the smoke that should find its way up the chimney.
I said the natives are singular; to the proof—they go bare legged,
bare footed; in fact, the younger folk, half-naked; tea and sugar are rarities and luxuries, little known to them; they are wholly ignorant of all tongues but the Welsh; and, lastly, they constitute a little population of considerable farmers and breeders of sheep, living within half a day's ride of spots familiar to and frequented by all followers of guide books and tours, not one of whom (I speak not of the native traveller) I dare swear would have believed that such a state of society could have been pointed to in Britain, in defiance of the “march of intellect" and tea, of the “schoolmaster" and the mail-coach driver.
Myself and my two sons, “companions of my mountain joys," reached Abergwessyn, by sunset," the wildest and most uninhabitable part of Brecknockshire," saith Theophilus Jones, in his history of the county. Here are two little churches close together, on the bank of the river Irvon, that silvers with its serpentine inosculations with the Gwessyn this secluded spot, buried among mountains so vast, yet so little varied, that the wide round of russet sheepwalk has the effect on the eye of a perpetual autumn. There is 'something peace-breathing and solemn in this singular contiguity of two churches, with their ruins of yews of fine antiquity, compensating with the grandeur of nature's architecture the meanness of man's, which in these lowly temples, the one to Saint David, (Llandewi,) the other to Michael the Archangel, (Llanvihangle,) is, in truth, mean enough. The Abergwessyn added to each of these names, signifies the conflux of the Gwessyn with the Irvon Aber always attaching to the junction of the tributary stream, never to the larger. Here we pondered over a brook and farm of odd name, Nant y: Flaiddast, "the brook of the she-wolf,” one of the Termini mentioned in an old charter of Rees ap Griffith to the monks of Strata Florida Abbey, in Cardiganshire. I should have said we reached this Ultiuma Thule, of the Brecknock historian, by a valley so delightful, so embosomed in grand mountains, so nobly wooded, watered, and sheltered, and its fine old mansion, (Llwynmadoc,) that Dr. Johnson might almost have taken it for the model of a happy valley, without addition, to accommodate his Rasselas.
Next morning, commencing pedestrians, we crossed naked heights, sheepwalk or peat morass quaking under foot, varied here and there only by a dreary sort of waterfall, such as alone is found at that elevation,--a savage looking chasm of fractured stone without trees, down which a dingy water tumbles; and the whole softer country, deep down, presents its dim and distant richness through its gorge, informing the tiptoe traveller at what a height he has been wandering, and giving a frightful degree of dizzy elevation to the wild pinnacle he stands on.
At last the Towey gleamed deep beneath us, and a fine birdeye view broke on us of its valley, or rather a wilderness of vallies,