Skulduggery at the crossroads

When I wrote about my great grandfather’s notebooks and said they cleared up the mystery of the family ghost story I didn’t mention that it possibly cleared up another family legend as well.

The three things I had been brought up with were:

a) my grandfather was almost born on the banks of the River Vyrnwy;

b) my great, great uncle William returned as a ghost to say farewell to his mother as she lay dying;

c) a Pierce ancestor was a murder victim or possibly a murderer and the incident took place at a crossroads.

From the notebooks of the Rev David Pierce, a Welsh Presbyterian minister, formerly a schoolteacher and at one time listed on a census as a pauper, I know the first was true as his manse at Salem, Meifod was near the banks of the River Vyrnwy, and his wife Margaret was by the river when she realised the baby was coming.

They called him Edward Vyrnwy Pierce and he was my grandfather, an English Presbyterian minister whose circuit in the early 20th century included the Princes Street Presbyterian Church in Rhyl.

English Presbyterian Church, Princess Street, Rhyl, where my grandfather preached.

The notebooks also included the story of David and his family seated around the kitchen fire in their Machynlleth home at the time his grandmother, Elizabeth, was dying upstairs.

He wrote about the sound of a soldier’s boots tramping down the main street in Machynlleth, passing through the kitchen and up the stairs to were the old woman lay dying.

More than this, however, David spoke of his great grandfather (although he mistook the generation and described him as his father Elias’s father) John who was a labourer living in Machynlleth in the 18th century.

He was born in 1727 and by the 1750s he was heavily involved in the Welsh Methodist Revival in Wales.

David revealed that John Pierce used to hold meetings of Methodists in his house because it was a bit further out of Machynlleth than others.

Eventually the Anglican vicar warned him off from holding these meetings and threatened to have him thrown out of town unless he produced documents to prove his right to be there.

At that time you could be moved on from a parish if you had not been born there. You did, however, have a right of residence if you were indentured to work for a parish resident.

We have never found John’s birth record and we do not know if he had indentures.

John must have realised that it was not a good idea to defy the Anglican vicar openly so he stopped holding the meetings in his house.

Instead he and his fellow Methodists went into the nearby Llynlloedd woods and held their meetings in a clearing in secret.

The vicar must have realised John was defying him but apparently could not prove it, or John had proved his right of residence.

Suffice it to say John remained a resident of Machynlleth and continued to hold regular meetings in the woods.

David reveals in his family history that John was returning from the woods one night, alone, and was set upon by a group of men (possibly at a crossroads) and was given a severe beating.

The attackers were never identified but in Machynlleth it was always believed the vicar had ordered the beating.

Instead of winning back the Methodists he hardened their resolve and their belief in a simpler form of worship.

In Wales the Methodists broke away completely from the Church of England and formed their own church. Unlike the Wesleyans, however, they followed the Calvinistic tradition which began in the 16th century in Europe.

John Pierce was a leading light in the Calvinistic Methodist Movement in Machynlleth and helped raise the funds for the group to build their own chapel in the town.

Capel Norton was built in 1784, just six years before John died. It remained in use as a chapel into the 20th century (even though the Calvinists moved to a bigger Chapel in Maengwyn Street in the 1850s and an English Presbyterian group took it over) but in the 20th century it fell into disuse and later became a warehouse. It was demolished in 1998.

The site was in Llynlloedd Lane, Machynlleth.

Sonnet To Liberty

by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes
See nothing save their own unlovely woe,
Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know, --
But that the roar of thy Democracies,
Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,
Mirror my wildest passions like the sea, --
And give my rage a brother -- ! Liberty!
For this sake only do my dissonant cries
Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings
By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades
Rob nations of their rights inviolate
And I remain unmoved -- and yet, and yet,
These Christs that die on the barricades,
God knows it I am with them, in some things.

On Liberty and Slavery

by George Moses Horton (1797-1884/Northampton, North Carolina)
Alas! and am I born for this,
To wear this slavish chain?
Deprived of all created bliss,
Through hardship, toil and pain!

How long in bondage have I lain,
And languished to be free!
Alas! and must I still complain -
Deprived of liberty.

Oh, Heaven! and is there no relief
This side the silent grave -
To soothe the pain- to quell the grief
And anguish of a slave.

Come Liberty, thou cheerful sound,
Roll through my ravished ears!
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,
And drive away my fears.

Say unto foul oppression, Cease:
Ye tyrants rage no more,
And let the joyful trump of peace,
Now bid the vassal soar.

Soar on the pinions of that dove
Which long has cooed for thee,
And breathed her notes from Afric's grove,
The sound of Liberty.

Oh Liberty! thou golden prize,
So often sought by blood -
We crave thy sacred sun to rise,
The gift of nature's God:

Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,
And bid barbarism fly:
I scorn to see the sad disgrace
In which enslaved I lie.

Dear Liberty! upon thy breast,
I languish to respire;
And like the Swan unto her nest,
I'd to thy smiles retire.

Oh, blest asylum -- heavenly balm!
Unto thy boughs I flee -
And in thy shades the storm shall calm,
With songs of Liberty!

Accurs’d be he that first invented war

Christopher Marlowe (1564‐1593)
Accurs'd be he that first invented war!
They knew not, ah, they knew not, simple men,
How those were hit by pelting cannonshot
Stand staggering like a quivering aspen-leaf
Fearing the force of Boreas's boisterous blasts!
In what a lamentable case where I,
If nature had not given me wisdom's lore!
For kings are clouts that every man shoots at,
Our crown the pin that thousands seek to cleave:
Therefore in policy I think it good, 
To hide it close; a goodly stratagem,
And far from any man that is a fool:
So  shall not I be known; or if I be,
They cannot take away my crown from me. 
Here will I hide it in this simple hole.

A Ballad Maker

by Padraic Colum (1881 – 1972)
Once I loved a maiden fair,
Over the hills and far away,
Land she had and lovers to spare,
Over the hills and far away.
And I was stooped and troubled sore,
And my face was pale, and the coat I wore
Was thin as my supper the night before
Over the hills and far away.

Once I passed in the Autumn late,
Over the hills and far away,
Her bawn and barn and painted gate,
Over the hills and far away.
She was leaning there in the twilight space,
Sweet sorrow was on her fair young face,
And her wistful eyes were away from the place,
Over the hills and far away.

Maybe she thought as she watched me come,
Over the hills and far away,
With my awkward stride and my face so glum,
Over the hills and far away.
Spite of his stoop, he still is young,
They say he goes the Shee among,
Ballads he makes; I've heard them sung
Over the hills and far away.

She gave me good-night in gentle wise,
Over the hills and far away,
Shyly lifting to mine, dark eyes,
Over the hills and far away.
What could I do but stop and speak,
And she no longer proud, but meek?
She plucked me a rose like her wild-rose cheek --
Over the hills and far away.

Tomorrow Mavourneen a sleeveen weds,
Over the hills and far away,
With corn in haggard and cattle in sheds,
Over the hills and far away.
And I who have lost her, the dear, the rare --
Well, I got me this ballad to sing at the fair,
Twill bring me enough money to drown my care,
Over the hills and far away.

A Gentle Touch

by Kairul Ahsan
When you touch me, I can say it's you
Even if my eyes are closed.
For your palms are like text books
That I've read so many times over
And so they appear so familiar.

 When your breath falls on my back,
I can say it's you, without turning around,
For my back has known no other warmth.
All know a soft touch gives goosebumps,
Who knows a silent breath too can do that?

When we hold each other lip locked,
Our tongues do the talking and explore
Like an adventurer to an unknown land.
No force can open your closed eye lids,
Until the tongue talking is over.

A gentle touch, yes a gentle touch!
Can spark two bodies afire.
Neither wants it to remain gentle,
As they want to explode in unison,
And gently cool like an extinguishing fire.

Blackberry Picking

by Seamus Heaney
(13 April 1939-30 August 2013)
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Nature Trail

by Benjamin Zephaniah (b. 1958)
At the bottom of my garden
There's a hedgehog and a frog
And a lot of creepy-crawlies
Living underneath a log,
There's a baby daddy long legs
And an easy-going snail
And a family of wood lice,
All are on my nature trail.

There are caterpillars waiting
For their time to come to fly,
There are worms turning the earth over
As ladybirds fly by,
Birds will visit, cats will visit
But they always choose their time
And I've seen a fox visit
This wild garden of mine.

Squirrels come to nick my nuts
And busy bees come buzzing
And when the night time comes
Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,
My garden mice are very shy
And I've seen bats that growl,
And in my garden I have seen
A very wise owl.

My garden is a lively place
There's always something happening,
There's this constant search for food
And then there's all that flowering,
When you have a garden
You will never be alone
And I believe we all deserve
A garden of our own.

A Soldier

by Robert Frost (1871‐1963)
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.

Little Nell’s Funeral

by Charles Dickens (1812-1870)
And now the bell, -- the bell
She had so often heard by night and day
And listened to with solemn pleasure
E'en as a living voice, --
Rung its remorseless toll for her,
So young, so beautiful, so good.

Decrepit age, and vigorous life,
And blooming youth, and helpless infancy,
Poured forth, -- on crutches, in the pride of strength
And health, in the full blush
Of promise, the mere dawn of life, --
To gather round her tomb. Old men were there,
Whose eyes were dim
And senses failing, --
Grandames, who might have died ten years ago,
And still been old,  the deaf, the blind, the lame,
The palsied,
The living dead in many shapes and forms,
To see the closing of this early grave.
What was the death it would shut in,
To that which still could crawl and keep above it!

Along the crowded path they bore her now;
Pure as the new fallen snow
That covered it; whose day on earth
Had been as fleeting.
Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven
In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot,
She passed again, and the old church
Received her in its quiet shade.

They carried her to one old nook,
Where she had many and many a time sat musing,
And laid their burden softly on the pavement.
The light streamed on it through
The colored window, -- a window where the boughs
Of trees were ever rustling
In the summer, and where the birds
Sang sweetly all day long.