Welsh Journals

THE LAST OF THE OLD SQUIRE THE old Squire of Plas Mawr is dead, and the whole country-side has assembled to follow his remains to the vault of his ancestors in the grave- yard of the little grey church of St. Teilo on the windy hill. The long low facade of the mansion looks unutterably gloomy on this raw cheerless December afternoon, with its two rows of deep-set windows, all of them closely shuttered or curtained. From the eaves of the roof and from the branches of the neighbouring oaks the drops of water fall with a ceaseless drip, drip, for it has been raining heavily all the morning, though by noon the downpour has ceased and the violence of the west wind has abated. The front door, which is on a level with the gravel sweep, stands wide open, and above it is suspended a large hatchment bearing the old Squire's coat-of- arms, wherein appear conspicuous the three scaling ladders and the blood-stained spear-head of Prince Cadifor ap Dyfnwal, from whom so many of the South Cardiganshire gentry claim descent. Now that the hour fixed for the ceremony is drawing nigh, the broad space in front of Plas Mawr is crowded with mourners, whose numbers seem momentarily to increase. The old Squire was neither better nor worse than his predecessors, but the hap-hazard indiscriminate hospitality of the house has always been a by-word in the valley of the Teifi, so that everybody from far and near attends his obsequies as a matter of course, for the country people dearly love a funeral with all its dismal ritual and its atmosphere of suppressed morbid excitement. From time to time one of the waiting mourners outside enters the house by the open portal, or some- one from within passes out with viands in his hands or else wiping his mouth. All are discussing the deceased in low tones, generally to his advantage, for de mortuis nil nisi bonum is a rule that is strictly observed on all such occasions. Even his tenantry, whom he has often treated harshly, speak of his jovial humour, and commend some of the hard bargains he used to drive. Some of the women, too, thanks to the solemnity of the affair and to the warm ale or glasses of sherry they have been imbibing indoors, are sobbing hysterically into large cotton handkerchiefs. All wear the deepest of black gar- ments, so that at a little distance the assembled crowd presents the appearance of a flock of rooks that has just alighted on the gravel. Within the house there reigns much bustle and confusion, except in the small oak-panelled library, (Temp. 1750) where the Squire's nephews, the lawyer:and the clergyman are sitting round a table covered with glasses and decanters of port and sherry. The four persons seldom utter a word, and only disturb the muffled silence of the darkened chamber to fill or empty their glasses. But in the long low dining- room, opening out of the entrance hall, a very different scene is being enacted. Here the coffin, supported on two low coffin stools and shrouded with a black velvet pall, is the centre of constant attention on the part of the funeral guests, who. as they gaze, recall the six feet two inches of the Squire with whispered approbation. At the foot of the coffin stands a small table, whereon by a special request of the dead man, repose his hunting horn, his whip and his spurs. On the very centre of the heavy pall rests a small silver dish filled with salt, that awaits the attention of the local sin-eater," for the old superstitions of the Cymry still linger in the upper regions of the valley of the Teifi. Beyond the coffin stretches a long buffet board, where perspiring serving men and maids are busily engaged in carving cold joints of beef and mutton, and in drawing jugs of foaming ale for the mourners who keep crowding into the room. In one of the deep window seats stands a china dish filled with sprigs of box and rosemary, for the guests to take away with them. If it is cold and raw without, it feels unbearably hot and close in this long low room, which has its windows shuttered and its darkness lit feebly by a few wax candles in sconces affixed to the oaken pannelling. The whole chamber reeks with the odour of beer and victuals, mingled with the peculiar oppressive smell of wet flannels. Amid the crowd of hungry and thirsty mourners, there suddenly sneaks in an old bitch fox-hound, a special favourite of the old Squire. She goes cautiously snuffing about the room, and on reaching the coffin sets up a dismal howling, which attracts the notice of all present. The poor old dog is quickly driven out of the room, but not before some of the more superstitious have turned pale, and whisper together the evil augury they apprehend from the incident. Meantime the group before the entrance have swelled, and the buzz of conversation grows louder, as the time for the starting of the funeral procession draws near. Already the parson has galloped off on his shaggy pony to the church, to don surplice and stole and there to await the expected train of mourners.