“The lifeless tears she shed into a fountain turn,
And, that for her alone the water should not mourn,
The pure vermilion blood that issued from her veins
Unto this very day the pearly gravel stains,
As erst the white and red were mixÈd in her cheek.
And that one part of her might be the other like,
Her hair was turned to moss, whose sweetness doth declare,
In liveliness of youth the natural sweets she bare.”

Michael Drayton.

When but a mere youth, I had a strong and extreme longing to visit Holywell, or Treffynnon, which according to my youthful fancy was the most wonderful place under the sun. This desire had its origin in the following circumstances.

About three miles from my paternal abode there was situate a small village, which had risen into fame and notoriety by reason of its annual May fair. At this fair an immense number of people congregated. Young men and maidens were there. Farmers’ sons and daughters flocked in great numbers; and this being the annual hiring fair, hundreds of men and women servants went to find either new masters or fresh mistresses. Then from the neighbouring towns and villages, people came for the purpose of providing fun, amusement, and entertainment for the holiday seekers. Shows innumerable were there; Mr. Cheap Jack vending his wares, with which he combined interesting stories and flashes of wit, had thousands of willing and enchanted listeners, and a goodly number of ready purchasers. On the roadside from one end of the village to the other was a continuous row of stalls, laden with every conceivable variety of articles. All these marvellous things filled my boyish fancy with amazement and wonder.

But what struck me most, was a person who had a stall situate near the bridge, on which were placed in rows several thousands of small wooden boxes, which in circumference were about the size of a crown piece, and three quarters of an inch deep. These boxes he arranged with great deliberation and care, and when he completed his work, not a single box could be seen out of its proper place.

This person was fantastically dressed. He wore a three-cornered hat, the brim of which was tipped with gold. He had pink velvet breeches, with a waistcoat of similar material; red stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. His frock coat, made of good West of England broadcloth, had, in consequence of many years’ wear, become a dark blood colour. In his hat were placed two rows of feathers, arranged in the form of the Prince of Wales’ plume. He was certainly a most singular looking figure, and from the hour when he commenced to expatiate on the virtues of his wares until the dusk of the evening, attracted an immense audience.

When his preparations were finished, he took in his left hand one of the little boxes, from which he removed the lid, or cover, and commenced to address the crowd in the following fashion. “This box, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “contains wonderful ointment. It will cure the itch, the stitch, and nettle-rash. It is a sure remedy for all diseases of the skin. It will, when applied, remove warts from the fingers, corns from the toes, and bunions from the feet. It is an effectual cure for cuts, bruises, and for every kind of wounds. Time, ladies and gentlemen, would fail me to speak of its wonderful properties, and the history of cases it has cured would fill a dozen large volumes. Every man should therefore possess half a dozen boxes of this valuable salve. They should be placed in the nobleman’s palace, in every farm house, in every poor man’s cottage. The use of this wonderful ointment will save you many a long doctor’s bill, and, between you and me, doctors are doing their best to stop its sale, because one box of this salve is worth a hundred visits of the physician. People have paid lots of money to doctors without getting any benefit; they then came to me, and by using one box only, were made perfectly whole. This ointment is the grandest discovery of the age. It was found out, not by man’s skill, oh, no; but an angel came from distant worlds and directed my sainted mother how to make it. The secret is with me, and it must remain with me; for were it known, its efficacy would disappear.

“You, ladies and gentlemen, would doubtless like to know the several constituent parts of this justly renowned ointment, but as I have already said, I dare not reveal the secret. The spirit of one who when on this earth was as pure as she was comely and beautiful, told the secret to my sainted mother. I refer to Saint Winifred, who was murdered twelve hundred years ago. From the spot on which she was beheaded, her head rolled down the declivity, and did not stop until it reached the altar of the church, and immediately there sprang up a spring of water, which in volume is unequalled in the world. The wonderful salve is not called after the saint, this her spirit forbade, but Eli Treffynnon, or Holywell salve. As I make it myself, I can offer to sell it at twopence per box, though doctors charge sixpence for a far inferior article. Twopence per box being the price, for which I charge no more nor will I take less. Who will buy? who will buy? Now is your time, for I shall not visit these parts for twelve months.”

The people then rushed to the vendor of Eli Treffynnon, and in less than an hour he had disposed of more than a thousand boxes of the ointment.

“A wonderful man that, is he not?” said I to my companion.

“Yes, truly.”

Myself. Can you tell me where Treffynnon is?

“Not exactly,” replied my companion; “but it is in the north.”

Myself. In the north of England or Scotland, which?

“Oh, no, in neither; but in North Wales.”

Myself. Is it a town or a village?

“A town, I believe; but it is not a large place.”

Myself. Have you ever heard of the remarkable well before?

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen an account of it in an old book.”Myself. If I knew the way, I would go and see this wonderful fountain.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Go two hundred miles to see a spring!”

Myself. Why not?

“Why? Because you can see plenty of fountains nearer home.”

Myself. But this is a well.

“Yes; a well to be sure. But don’t the waters of all rivers come from wells?”

Myself. Of course they do. But it requires a hundred wells to make up the Severn, the Wye, and the Ithon, but here is a large river from one well, one spring. I’ll certainly go one of these days and see it.

Many, many years, however, came, and passed away, before the design I then formed was carried out.

* * * * *

My first visit to Holywell, or Treffynnon, took place just about the close of the Crimean War. I arrived in the town late one evening in mid winter, but as the night was extremely dark, while the rain descended in torrents, I refrained from leaving my hotel, the name of which I do not at present remember. It was then the principal inn of the town, with a first rate bill of fare.

Being a private gentleman, and therefore debarred from joining the commercials, breakfast was prepared for me in a snug little parlour which was generally used by the landlady as her private sitting-room. Before I had taken my seat at the breakfast, the waitress came into the room, all smiles, and asked me if I had any objection to a gentleman joining me at the morning meal.

“Who is the gentleman?” I asked the waitress.

“Oh, Squire Eli, of Ffynnon Hall.”

Myself. What kind of a person is he? Is he old or young, has he a hump on his back, and does he wear spectacles? is he a nice, good-tempered fellow, or sour as crab beer? Tell me, gentle maid, the kind of companion I am to be honoured with.

“Oh, sir, how you do talk. Squire is a nice, well-spoken gentleman; and I am sure you’ll like him.”Myself. Show the gentleman up; but tell your mistress that she will be a loser by his introduction, because I generally eat twice as much in company as when alone.

Presently Mr. Eli made his appearance, and I expressed to him how greatly pleased I was at his honouring me with his presence.

He replied to my remarks in a very neat speech, and said he was delighted in the opportunity of making my acquaintance, having heard of me from a common friend.

Before rising from the table I said, “What a beautiful name you have selected for your seat!”

“Then do you know Welsh?”

Myself. I know a little; I wish I knew more. It is the grandest language under the sun.

“For expressiveness and eloquence and poetry, you are right.”

Myself. I presume you selected the name because you have a crystal fountain by the Hall?

“Oh, dear, no. There is a fountain it is true, but its existence in no way determined me to select the name; and, between us, I don’t think there is a similar designation for a house in North or South Wales.”

Myself. Have you visited the south, Mr. Eli?

“Visited the South! Why, there is not a town or village in the six counties I’ve not been in. I know the country well.”

“Have you ever been at Bridgend, in the county of R.?”

“At Bridgend! Of course I have; many and many a time.”

Myself. If I’m not mistaken, I have seen you there.

“Probably you have; that is, if you ever attended its annual May fair.”

Myself. Then you are the man, the veritable vendor of Eli Treffynnon?

“Of course I am. I thought the waitress had duly informed you of that.”

Myself. No, no; but never mind. I’m delighted to see you. Your speech on your ointment awoke in my bosom an intense longing to see this place; and I’ve come almost specially to see for myself its wonders. I hope, therefore, Mr. Eli, you have no special engagement this morning.

“And suppose I have not?”

Myself. In that case I trust you will be my cicerone. I am extremely anxious to know the history and traditions of the wonderful well.

“I’ll accompany you with pleasure, and tell its wondrous history. When shall we start?”

Myself. Now, if you please.

Just as we reached the lower part of the principal street, we saw a man with measured steps approaching us. The man had a leathern strap fastened round his neck, at the other end of which was suspended a large bell, a cushion being buckled to the right knee. Every time the cushioned knee came forward the bell jingled, and it being of considerable size its tones could be heard a long distance from the scene of the man’s perambulations. When he came up to the place where we were standing, I asked Mr. Eli the question,—

“Is that man mad?”

“By no means: he is in his right mind.”Myself. No sane man, I should think, would be guilty of such folly.

“The man,” replied Mr. Eli, “is doing a Christian duty.”

Myself. I fail to see any act of devotion in carrying a bell about the town. Please, Mr. Eli, explain yourself.

“You, a stranger, very naturally conclude the man is demented. When you know the object of his mission you will come to a different opinion.”

Myself. Pray, Mr. Eli, enlighten me.

“We have a church here, my dear sir.”

Myself. Yes.

“That church is situate in a hole at the head of a deep dell.”

Myself. But what has that to do with this man?

“This,” replied Mr. Eli; “we cannot, up the town, hear the church chimes, though we are not two hundred yards from them.”

Myself. But the man does not carry your church bells on his knee.

“Oh, dear me, no; but this man walks round the town just before divine service, and the ringing of his bell warns the people that it is time for them to go to church.”

Myself. A singular invention, certainly. Pity they built the church in such an outlandish place.

Mr. Eli. Oh, don’t say so. The church was built there by direction. It is close to the well of St. Winifred, the healing waters of which, as you are aware, are celebrated far and near.

Myself. Then the tales you and others tell about the efficacy of the waters of the fountain are really true?

“Yes, of course, they are perfectly true. When all is said and written about the waters, we can truly say that the half is not told.”

Myself. I should like to possess a true and authentic history of the place.

“Doubtless,” replied Mr. Eli, “you would. Its history has yet to be written.”

Myself. There is, then, evidence, Mr. Eli, that people who have bathed in its waters have been made whole?“Yes; plenty of evidence,” replied Mr. Eli; “and if you will now accompany me to the well, I’ll show you some of the many witnesses.”

When we entered the building, my friend conducted me to a spot where we had a good view of the interior. He pointed with his finger to the roof, at the same time remarking, “Up there, look up there, for there is the evidence, the witnesses, to which I referred.”

Myself. Do you mean those barrows, hand carts, crutches, and staves, and other things too numerous to mention, fastened to the ceiling?

“Of course I do. Are they not irresistible witnesses to the healing power of these waters?”

Myself. I really fail to see your point, Mr. Eli. Pray explain yourself more fully.

“People come here,” said my friend, “from all parts of the world. Some come on wheel-barrows, some on crutches, some by the aid of walking-sticks; they bathe in these healing waters, like they did when our Lord was upon earth, and are cleansed. They leave here new men and women, and having no further need of either crutch or barrow, leave them behind as witnesses to the power of this wonderful fountain.”

Myself. You have greatly excited my curiosity, Mr. Eli. Pray furnish me with some information respecting the history of this place.

“You are heartily welcome to the facts and traditions I have been fortunate enough to succeed in collecting, which can be briefly told. They are as follows:—

“Once upon a time, that is, about twelve hundred and twenty-five years ago, this Treffynnon was a royal city, and then the king’s palace was within its precincts. The then reigning sovereign was Allen the First, and his dominion extended over the whole of the hundred of Coleshill, from the royal mines of which he derived a princely income. The king had a son of the name of Cradocus, a name which has led old writers to conclude that his mother was a daughter of some Roman, who, preferring this country to his own, and having espoused a British lady, settled down here.

“At the time of which I speak, there resided in Holywell a potent lord of the Trewith, who married Lady Wento, an only sister of Saint Beuno, descendants of an ancient and illustrious Montgomeryshire family. The only issue of this marriage was a daughter, a beautiful and lovely maiden, who was as pure as she was beautiful, whose name was Winifred.

“When she had grown up to be a young lady, her uncle, Saint Beuno, who resided at Clynnog, in Carnarvonshire, came on one occasion to this royal town to pay a friendly visit to his family. During his stay he obtained a grant of land from Lord Trewith, his brother-in-law, upon which he erected a church. Now the altar of that church was close by yon bubbling fountain.”

Myself. Have you historical proofs of this, Mr. Eli? I asked.

“You will see by-and-by the evidence upon which I rely.”

Myself. Pray proceed; your narrative is deeply interesting.

“After the erection of the church,” Mr. Eli continued, “Saint Beuno took under his charge his niece Winifred, who vowed to remain a virgin, and to devote her life to works of charity, mercy, and religion.

“On a lovely Sunday evening, on the 22nd of June, the Lady Winifred left her parents’ castle for the purpose of taking a walk in the cool of the day. When she attained the summit of the hill her progress was stayed by Prince Cradocus, who, being struck with her extreme beauty, at once made a proposal of marriage.

“‘Prince,’ replied Lady Winifred, ‘I can form no earthly ties. I have already vowed my life and wealth to the work of my Saviour.’

“‘But, noble and beautiful lady, I have sworn you shall be mine, and nothing shall prevent the fulfilment of my oath.’

“‘Your offer, illustrious prince, comes too late; my vow is irrevocable.’

“‘Pray, Lady Winifred, don’t say that. Your hand I am resolved to possess, and you shall share with me the throne of my ancestors.’

“‘For earthly thrones, prince, I care not; my treasures are not here but above.’

“‘If you persist, noble lady, in your refusal, I am resolved to effect my object by force.’“‘You dare not do that, prince. You must not further molest me. Stand by, for I would proceed on my way.’

“Cradocus was vexed at being thus robbed of his prey, and getting into a fearful passion, took his sword from its sheath, and there and then,—oh, horror of horrors! cut off the head of the virgin. For his guilty act, vengeance from on high soon overtook him. On the spot where he committed the crime, he fell down a dead man, and the earth opening, swallowed his impious corpse. [260] There is, however, a tradition, that Cradocus’s master, the devil, carried off his body to the dismal regions of despair.

“Now about the well. I’ve told you, that it was on the hillside above here where Cradocus committed the foul deed. It appears that when the head was severed from the body it commenced to roll down the steep hill by which we descended, and stopped when it reached the altar, before which a number of devout people were kneeling. The very moment the head stopped there came up this fountain, the waters of which possess the same miraculous power as did those waters of the pool of Bethesda referred to in the Gospel of St. John.

“It appears Saint Beuno was the officiating priest at the altar when this sad event took place. Recognising the head as that of his beloved niece, he took it up, and ran with it to where the mangled body lay, to which he rejoined it. To the astonishment of all present, the head at once united itself to the body, the place of separation being only marked by a white ring or line, which extended round the neck. From that hour she was called Saint Winifred, and was always after regarded as a holy person, a special vessel chosen by Christ to do His work. After this event she lived fifteen years, and gained universal fame by her deeds of love and charity. Well, though more than twelve hundred years have come and gone since then, this fountain is as powerful to-day as it was then in healing and in curing diseases. Hundreds, aye, thousands, have blessed the day on which they bathed in this IachÂd Ffynnon—healing fountain. Now, my story is done.”Myself. And a most interesting tale it is, Mr. Eli, for which I thank you very much. There is one more circumstance I wish to be informed of in order to have a complete history of the sainted lady.

“To what do you refer?” asked Mr. Eli.

Myself. I presume the lady died here.

“Oh yes; she died in her father’s mansion.”

Myself. In that case, I presume, her sepulchre is in your churchyard?

“Not so, my friend,” replied Mr. Eli.

Myself. Then she was not buried here?

“No, she was not interred here, and for this reason. Her uncle, Saint Beuno, died on the 21st of April, 660, and his remains were interred in the Abbey Church of Bardsey Island. On his death, Saint Winifred retired to Gwytheriu, and placed herself under the protection of St. Elerius, who at that time was living in devotional seclusion in that sequestered mountain village. At that time there was there a convent of nuns under the superintendence of Theonia. Saint Winifred assumed the veil, and on the death of Theonia became the abbess. On her death, the remains were removed from Treffynnon to Gwytheriu, and interred near the graves of St. Cybi and St. Sannan. After a lapse of five hundred years from the date of her death, the bones of St. Winifred were removed with great pomp to the church of St. Peter and St. Paul, Shrewsbury. The wooden chest in which the remains were preserved is still kept. The translation of the saint’s remains took place in the reign of King Stephen.”

Myself. It’s a pity that no monument to her memory has been erected here. Don’t you think so, Mr. Eli?

“I cannot share your opinion, my friend. This well and its wonderful cures are monuments which will live when Parian marble shall crumble into dust. But there is another monument. Observe,” said Mr. Eli, “the sweet scented moss which grows there by the well-side, the Jungermannia esplenoides of LinnÆus. On each anniversary of the decollation of Saint Winifred, this moss, and the stones of the fountain, assume the colour of blood. This annual change in the tint of the moss is an immortal monument of the dear departed saint, as if it said:—

“For thee, blest maid, my tears, my endless pain,
Shall in immortal monuments remain.
The image of thy death each year renew,
And prove my grief, to distant ages, true.”

After making a general inspection of the well, and examining the grotesque figures of animals and other works of sculpture, my friend and I paid a brief visit to the chapel over the well. During our stay there, he placed in my hand a copy of the following letter, addressed by the queen of James II., to Sir Roger Mostyn.

“Sir Roger Mostyn,—

“It having pleased the king, by his royal grant, to bestow upon me the ancient chapel adjoining St. Winifred’s Well, these are to desire you to give present possession, in my name, of the said chapel, to Mr. Thomas Roberts, who will deliver this letter into your hands. It being also my intention to have the place decently repaired, and put to a good use, I further desire that you will afford him your favour and protection, that he may not be disturbed in the performance thereof. You may rest assured that what you do herein, according to my desire, shall be very kindly remembered by

“Your good friend,
“Mary Regina.

“Whitehall,
May 8th, 1687.”

On leaving the chapel, I cordially thanked my friend for the information he had imparted respecting the Winifred legend; and told him, that some day I would try to make his name and his Eli Treffynnon as immortal as the saint whose history he had so eloquently told. But before my tale sees the light, my entertainer has gone to that bourne from whence no traveller returns; yet it may be,—who knows?—that his spirit still visits our world, and communes with dear ones and friends left behind.

View of Swansea in September, 1748