"Have you seen the clergyman?" said R-.

"No," I replied.

"Then come with me," said he; "I am now going to call upon him. I
know 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.



CHAPTER LXIX



Church of Llan Rhyadr - The Clerk - The Tablet - Stone - First View
of the Cataract.


THE night was both windy and rainy like the preceding one, but the
morning which followed, unlike that of the day before, was dull and
gloomy. After breakfast I walked out to take another view of the
little town. As I stood looking at the church a middle-aged man of
a remarkably intelligent countenance came up and asked me if I
should like to see the inside. I told him I should, whereupon he
said that he was the clerk and would admit me with pleasure.
Taking a key out of his pocket he unlocked the door of the church
and we went in. The inside was sombre, not so much owing to the
gloominess of the day as the heaviness of the architecture. It
presented something in the form of a cross. I soon found the clerk
what his countenance represented him to be, a highly intelligent
person. His answers to my questions were in general ready and
satisfactory.

"This seems rather an ancient edifice," said I; "when was it
built?"

"In the sixteenth century," said the clerk; "in the days of Harry
Tudor."

"Have any remarkable men been clergymen of this church?"

"Several, sir; amongst its vicars was Doctor William Morgan, the
great South Welshman, the author of the old Welsh version of the
Bible, who flourished in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Then there
was Doctor Robert South, an eminent divine, who, though not a
Welshman, spoke and preached Welsh better than many of the native
clergy. Then there was the last vicar, Walter D-, a great preacher
and writer, who styled himself in print Gwalter Mechain."

"Are Morgan and South buried here?" said I.

"They are not, sir," said the clerk; "they had been transferred to
other benefices before they died."

I did not inquire whether Walter D- was buried there, for of him I
had never heard before, but demanded whether the church possessed
any ancient monuments.

"This is the oldest which remains, sir," said the clerk, and he
pointed with his finger to a tablet-stone over a little dark pew on
the right side of the oriel window. There was an inscription upon
it, but owing to the darkness I could not make out a letter. The
clerk, however, read as follows.


1694. 21 Octr.
Hic Sepultus Est
Sidneus Bynner.


"Do you understand Latin?" said I to the clerk.

"I do not, sir; I believe, however, that the stone is to the memory
of one Bynner."

"That is not a Welsh name," said I.

"It is not, sir," said the clerk.

"It seems to be radically the same as Bonner," said I, "the name of
the horrible Popish Bishop of London in Mary's time. Do any people
of the name of Bynner reside in this neighbourhood at present?"

"None, sir," said the clerk; "and if the Bynners are descendants of
Bonner, it is, perhaps, well that there are none."

I made the clerk, who appeared almost fit to be a clergyman, a
small present, and returned to the inn. After paying my bill I
flung my satchel over my shoulder, took my umbrella by the middle
in my right hand, and set off for the Rhyadr.

I entered the narrow glen at the western extremity of the town and
proceeded briskly along. The scenery was romantically beautiful;
on my left was the little brook, the waters of which run through
the town; beyond it a lofty hill; on my right was a hill covered
with wood from the top to the bottom. I enjoyed the scene, and
should have enjoyed it more had there been a little sunshine to
gild it.

I passed through a small village, the name of which I think was
Cynmen, and presently overtook a man and boy. The man saluted me
in English, and I entered into conversation with him in that
language. He told me that he came from Llan Gedwin, and was going
to a place called Gwern something, in order to fetch home some
sheep. After a time he asked me where I was going.

"I am going to see the Pistyll Rhyadr," said I

We had then just come to the top of a rising ground.

"Yonder's the Pistyll!" said he, pointing to the west.

I looked in the direction of his finger, and saw something at a
great distance, which looked like a strip of grey linen hanging
over a crag.

"That is the waterfall," he continued, "which so many of the Saxons
come to see. And now I must bid you good-bye, master; for my way
to the Gwern is on the right"

Then followed by the boy he turned aside into a wild road at the
corner of a savage, precipitous rock.



CHAPTER LXX



Mountain Scenery - The Rhyadr - Wonderful Feat.


AFTER walking about a mile with the cataract always in sight, I
emerged from the glen into an oblong valley extending from south to
north, having lofty hills on all sides, especially on the west,
from which direction the cataract comes. I advanced across the
vale till within a furlong of this object, when I was stopped by a
deep hollow or nether vale into which the waters of the cataract
tumble. On the side of this hollow I sat down, and gazed down
before me and on either side. The water comes spouting over a crag
of perhaps two hundred feet in altitude between two hills, one
south-east and the other nearly north. The southern hill is wooded
from the top, nearly down to where the cataract bursts forth; and
so, but not so thickly, is the northern hill, which bears a
singular resemblance to a hog's back. Groves of pine are on the
lower parts of both; in front of a grove low down on the northern
hill is a small white house of a picturesque appearance. The water
of the cataract, after reaching the bottom of the precipice, rushes
in a narrow brook down the vale in the direction of Llan Rhyadr.
To the north-east, between the hog-backed hill and another strange-
looking mountain, is a wild glen, from which comes a brook to swell
the waters discharged by the Rhyadr. The south-west side of the
vale is steep, and from a cleft of a hill in that quarter a slender
stream rushing impetuously joins the brook of the Rhyadr, like the
rill of the northern glen. The principal object of the whole is of
course the Rhyadr. What shall I liken it to? I scarcely know,
unless to an immense skein of silk agitated and disturbed by
tempestuous blasts, or to the long tail of a grey courser at
furious speed. Through the profusion of long silvery threads or
hairs, or what looked such, I could here and there see the black
sides of the crag down which the Rhyadr precipitated itself with
something between a boom and a roar.

After sitting on the verge of the hollow for a considerable time I
got up, and directed my course towards the house in front of the
grove. I turned down the path which brought me to the brook which
runs from the northern glen into the waters discharged by the
Rhyadr, and crossing it by stepping-stones, found myself on the
lowest spur of the hog-backed hill. A steep path led towards the
house. As I drew near two handsome dogs came rushing to welcome
the stranger. Coming to a door on the northern side of the house I
tapped, and a handsome girl of about thirteen making her
appearance, I inquired in English the nearest way the waterfall;
she smiled, and in her native language said that she had no Saxon.
On my telling her in Welsh that I was come to see the Pistyll she
smiled again, and said that I was welcome, then taking me round the
house, she pointed to a path and bade me follow it. I followed the
path which led downward to a tiny bridge of planks, a little way
below the fall. I advanced to the middle of the bridge, then
turning to the west, looked at the wonderful object before me.

There are many remarkable cataracts in Britain and the neighbouring
isles, even the little Celtic Isle of Man has its remarkable
waterfall; but this Rhyadr, the grand cataract of North Wales, far
exceeds them all in altitude and beauty, though it is inferior to
several of them in the volume of its flood. I never saw water
falling so gracefully, so much like thin beautiful threads, as
here. Yet even this cataract has its blemish. What beautiful
object has not something which more or less mars its loveliness?
There is an ugly black bridge or semi-circle of rock, about two
feet in diameter and about twenty feet high, which rises some
little way below it, and under which the water, after reaching the
bottom, passes, which intercepts the sight, and prevents it from
taking in the whole fall at once. This unsightly object has stood
where it now stands since the day of creation, and will probably
remain there to the day of judgment. It would be a desecration of
nature to remove it by art, but no one could regret if nature in
one of her floods were to sweep it away.

As I was standing on the planks a woman plainly but neatly dressed
came from the house. She addressed me in very imperfect English,
saying that she was the mistress of the house and should be happy
to show me about. I thanked her for her offer, and told her that
she might speak Welsh, whereupon she looked glad, and said in that
tongue that she could speak Welsh much better than Saesneg. She
took me by a winding path up a steep bank on the southern side of
the fall to a small plateau, and told me that was the best place to
see the Pistyll from. I did not think so, for we were now so near
that we were almost blinded by the spray, though, it is true, the
semicircle of rock no longer impeded the sight; this object we now
saw nearly laterally rising up like a spectral arch, spray and foam
above it, and water rushing below. "That is a bridge rather for
ysprydoedd (9) to pass over than men," said I.

"It is," said the woman; "but I once saw a man pass over it."

"How did he get up?" said I. "The sides are quite steep and
slippery."

"He wriggled to the sides like a llysowen, (10) till he got to the
top, when he stood upright for a minute, and then slid down on the
other side."

"Was he any one from these parts?" said I.

"He was not. He was a dyn dieithr, a Russian; one of those with
whom we are now at war."

"Was there as much water tumbling then as now?"

"More, for there had fallen more rain."

"I suppose the torrent is sometimes very dreadful?" said I.

"It is indeed, especially in winter; for it is then like a sea, and
roars like thunder or a mad bull."

After I had seen all I wished of the cataract, the woman asked me
to come to the house and take some refreshment. I followed her to
a neat little room where she made me sit down and handed me a bowl
of butter-milk. On the table was a book in which she told me it
was customary for individuals who visited the cataract to insert
their names. I took up the book which contained a number of names
mingled here and there with pieces of poetry. Amongst these
compositions was a Welsh englyn on the Rhyadr, which, though
incorrect in its prosody, I thought stirring and grand. I copied
it, and subjoin it with a translation which I made on the spot.


"Crychiawg, ewynawg anian - yw y Rhyadr
Yn rhuo mal taran;
Colofn o dwr, gloyw-dwr glan,
Gorwyllt, un lliw ag arian."

Foaming and frothing from mountainous height,
Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls;
Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight,
Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.



CHAPTER LXXI



Wild Moors - The Guide - Scientific Discourse - The Land of Arthur
- The Umbrella - Arrival at Bala.


WHEN I had rested myself and finished the buttermilk, I got up, and
making the good woman a small compensation for her civility,
inquired if I could get to Bala without returning to Llan Rhyadr.

"Oh yes," said she, "if you cross the hills for about five miles
you will find yourself upon a road which will take you straight to
Bala."

"Is there anyone here," said I, "who will guide me over the hills,
provided I pay him for his trouble?"

"Oh yes," said she, "I know one who will be happy to guide you
whether you pay him or not."

She went out and presently returned with a man about thirty-five,
stout and well-looking, and dressed in a waggoner's frock.

"There," said she, "this is the man to show you over the hills; few
know the paths better."

I thanked her, and telling the man I was ready, bade him lead the
way. We set out, the two dogs of which I have spoken attending us,
and seemingly very glad to go. We ascended the side of the hog-
backed hill to the north of the Rhyadr. We were about twenty
minutes in getting to the top, close to which stood a stone or
piece of rock, very much resembling a church altar, and about the
size of one. We were now on an extensive moory elevation, having
the brook which forms the Rhyadr a little way on our left. We went
nearly due west, following no path, for path there was none, but
keeping near the brook. Sometimes we crossed water-courses which
emptied their tribute into the brook, and every now and then
ascended and descended hillocks covered with gorse and whin. After
a little time I entered into conversation with my guide. He had
not a word of English.

"Are you married?" said I.

"In truth I am, sir."

"What family have you?"

"I have a daughter."

"Where do you live?"

"At the house of the Rhyadr."

"I suppose you live there as servant?"

"No, sir, I live there as master."

"Is the good woman I saw there your wife?"

"In truth, sir, she is."

"And the young girl I saw your daughter?"

"Yes, sir, she is my daughter."

"And how came the good woman not to tell me you were her husband?"

"I suppose, sir, you did not ask who I was, and she thought you did
not care to know."

"But can you be spared from home?"

"Oh yes, sir, I was not wanted at home."

"What business are you?"

"I am a farmer, sir."

"A sheep farmer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who is your landlord."

"Sir Watkin."

"Well, it was very kind of you to come with me."

"Not at all, sir; I was glad to come with you, for we are very
lonesome at Rhyadr, except during a few weeks in the summer, when
the gentry come to see the Pistyll. Moreover, I have sheep lying
about here which need to be looked at now and then, and by coming
hither with you I shall have an opportunity of seeing them."

We frequently passed sheep feeding together in small numbers. In
two or three instances my guide singled out individuals, caught
them, and placing their heads between his knees examined the
insides of their eyelids, in order to learn by their colour whether
or not they were infected with the pwd or moor disorder. We had
some discourse about that malady. At last he asked me if there was
a remedy for it.

"Oh yes," said I; "a decoction of hoarhound."

"What is hoarhound?" said he.

"Llwyd y Cwn," said I. "Pour some of that down the sheep's throat
twice a day, by means of a horn, and the sheep will recover, for
the bitterness, do you see, will destroy the worm (11) in the
liver, which learned men say is the cause of the disorder."

We left the brook on our left hand and passed by some ruined walls
which my guide informed me had once belonged to houses but were now
used as sheepfolds. After walking several miles, according to my
computation, we began to ascend a considerable elevation covered
with brown heath and ling. As we went on the dogs frequently put
up a bird of a black colour, which flew away with a sharp whirr.

"What bird is that?" said I.

"Ceiliog y grug, the cock of the heath," replied my guide. "It is
said to be very good eating, but I have never tasted it. The
ceiliog y grug is not food for the like of me. It goes to feed the
rich Saxons in Caer Ludd."

We reached the top of the elevation.

"Yonder," said my guide, pointing to a white bare place a great way
off to the west, "is Bala road."

"Then I will not trouble you to go any further," said I; "I can
find my way thither."

"No, you could not," said my guide; "if you were to make straight
for that place you would perhaps fall down a steep, or sink into a
peat hole up to your middle, or lose your way and never find the
road, for you would soon lose sight of that place. Follow me, and
I will lead you into a part of the road more to the left, and then
you can find your way easily enough to that bare place, and from
thence to Bala." Thereupon he moved in a southerly direction down
the steep and I followed him. In about twenty minutes we came to
the road.

"Now," said my guide, "you are on the road; bear to the right and
you cannot miss the way to Bala."

"How far is it to Bala?" said I.

"About twelve miles," he replied.

I gave him a trifle, asking at the same time if it was sufficient.
"Too much by one-half," he replied; "many, many thanks." He then
shook me by the hand, and accompanied by his dogs departed, not
back over the moor, but in a southerly direction down the road.

Wending my course to the north, I came to the white bare spot which
I had seen from the moor, and which was in fact the top of a
considerable elevation over which the road passed. Here I turned
and looked at the hills I had come across. There they stood,
darkly blue, a rain cloud, like ink, hanging over their summits.
Oh, the wild hills of Wales, the land of old renown and of wonder,
the land of Arthur and Merlin!

The road now lay nearly due west. Rain came on, but it was at my
back, so I expanded my umbrella, flung it over my shoulder and
laughed. Oh, how a man laughs who has a good umbrella when he has
the rain at his back, aye and over his head too, and at all times
when it rains except when the rain is in his face, when the
umbrella is not of much service. Oh, what a good friend to a man
is an umbrella in rain time, and likewise at many other times.
What need he fear if a wild bull or a ferocious dog attacks him,
provided he has a good umbrella? He unfurls the umbrella in the
face of the bull or dog, and the brute turns round quite scared,
and runs away. Or if a footpad asks him for his money, what need
he care provided he has an umbrella? He threatens to dodge the
ferrule into the ruffian's eye, and the fellow starts back and
says, "Lord, sir! I meant no harm. I never saw you before in all
my life. I merely meant a little fun." Moreover, who doubts that
you are a respectable character provided you have an umbrella? You
go into a public-house and call for a pot of beer, and the publican
puts it down before you with one hand without holding out the other
for the money, for he sees that you have an umbrella and
consequently property. And what respectable man, when you overtake
him on the way and speak to him, will refuse to hold conversation
with you, provided you have an umbrella? No one. The respectable
man sees you have an umbrella, and concludes that you do not intend
to rob him, and with justice, for robbers never carry umbrellas.
Oh, a tent, a shield, a lance, and a voucher for character is an
umbrella. Amongst the very best friends of man must be reckoned an
umbrella. (12)

The way lay over dreary, moory hills; at last it began to descend,
and I saw a valley below me with a narrow river running through it,
to which wooded hills sloped down; far to the west were blue
mountains. The scene was beautiful but melancholy; the rain had
passed away, but a gloomy almost November sky was above, and the
mists of night were coming down apace.

I crossed a bridge at the bottom of the valley and presently saw a
road branching to the right. I paused, but after a little time
went straight forward. Gloomy woods were on each side of me and
night had come down. Fear came upon me that I was not on the right
road, but I saw no house at which I could inquire, nor did I see a
single individual for miles of whom I could ask. At last I heard
the sound of hatchets in a dingle on my right, and catching a
glimpse of a gate at the head of a path, which led down into it, I
got over it. After descending some time I hallooed. The noise of
the hatchets ceased. I hallooed again, and a voice cried in Welsh,
"What do you want?" "To know the way to Bala," I replied. There
was no answer, but presently I heard steps, and the figure of a man
drew nigh, half undistinguishable in the darkness, and saluted me.
I returned his salutation, and told him I wanted to know the way to
Bala. He told me, and I found I had been going right. I thanked
him and regained the road. I sped onward, and in about half-an-
hour saw some houses, then a bridge, then a lake on my left, which
I recognised as the lake of Bala. I skirted the end of it, and
came to a street cheerfully lighted up, and in a minute more was in
the White Lion Inn.



CHAPTER LXXII



Cheerful Fire - Immense Man - Doctor Jones - Recognition - A Fast
Young Man - Excellent Remarks - Disappointment.


I WAS conducted into the coffee-room of the White Lion by a little
freckled maid whom I saw at the bar, and whom I told that I was
come to pass the night at the inn. The room presented an agreeable
contrast to the gloomy, desolate places through which I had lately
come. A good fire blazed in the grate, and there were four lights
on the table. Lolling in a chair by one side of the fire was an
individual at the sight of whom I almost started. He was an
immense man, weighing I should say at least eighteen stone, with
brown hair, thinnish whiskers, half-ruddy, half-tallowy complexion,
and dressed in a brown sporting coat, drab breeches, and yellow-
topped boots - in every respect the exact image of the
Wolverhampton gent or hog-merchant who had appeared to me in my
dream at Llangollen, whilst asleep before the fire. Yes, the very
counterpart of that same gent looked this enormous fellow, save and
except that he did not appear to be more than seven or eight and
twenty, whereas the hog-merchant looked at least fifty. Laying my
satchel down I took a seat and ordered the maid to get some dinner
for me, and then asked what had become of the waiter, Tom Jenkins.

"He is not here at present, sir," said the freckled maid; "he is at
his own house."

"And why is he not here?" said I.

"Because he is not wanted, sir; he only comes in summer when the
house is full of people."

And having said this the little freckled damsel left the room.

"Reither a cool night, sir!" said the enormous man after we had
been alone together a few minutes.

I again almost started, for he spoke with the same kind of half-
piping, half-wheezing voice, with which methought the Wolverhampton
gent had spoken to me in my dream.

"Yes," said I; "it is rather cold out abroad, but I don't care as I
am not going any farther to-night."

"That's not my case," said the stout man, "I have got to go ten
miles, as far as Cerrig Drudion, from which place I came this
afternoon in a wehicle."

"Do you reside at Cerrig Drudion?" said I.

"No," said the stout man, whose dialect I shall not attempt further
to imitate, "but I have been staying there some time; for happening
to go there a month or two ago I was tempted to take up my quarters
at the inn. A very nice inn it is, and the landlady a very
agreeable woman, and her daughters very agreeable young ladies."

"Is this the first time you have been at Bala?"

"Yes, the first time. I had heard a good deal about it, and wished
to see it. So to-day, having the offer of a vehicle at a cheap
rate, I came over with two or three other gents, amongst whom is
Doctor Jones."

"Dear me" said I, "is Doctor Jones in Bala?"

"Yes," said the stout man. "Do you know him?"

"Oh yes," said I, "and have a great respect for him; his like for
politeness and general learning is scarcely to be found in
Britain."

"Only think," said the stout man. "Well, I never heard that of him
before."

Wishing to see my sleeping room before I got my dinner, I now rose
and was making for the door, when it opened, and in came Doctor
Jones. He had a muffler round his neck, and walked rather slowly
and disconsolately, leaning upon a cane. He passed without
appearing to recognise me, and I, thinking it would be as well to
defer claiming acquaintance with him till I had put myself a little
to rights, went out without saying anything to him. I was shown by
the freckled maid to a nice sleeping apartment, where I stayed some
time adjusting myself. On my return to the coffee-room I found the
doctor sitting near the fire-place. The stout man had left the
room. I had no doubt that he had told Doctor Jones that I had
claimed acquaintance with him, and that the doctor, not having
recollected me, had denied that he knew anything of me, for I
observed that he looked at me very suspiciously.

I took my former seat, and after a minute's silence said to Doctor
Jones, "I think, sir, I had the pleasure of seeing you some time
ago at Cerrig Drudion?"

"It's possible, sir," said Doctor Jones in a tone of considerable
hauteur, and tossing his head so that the end of his chin was above
his comforter, "but I have no recollection of it."

I held my head down for a little time, then raising it and likewise
my forefinger, I looked Doctor Jones full in the face and said,
"Don't you remember talking to me about Owen Pugh and Coll Gwynfa?"

"Yes, I do," said Doctor Jones in a very low voice, like that of a
person who deliberates; "yes, I do. I remember you perfectly,
sir," he added almost immediately in a tone of some animation; "you
are the gentleman with whom I had a very interesting conversation
one evening last summer in the bar of the inn at Cerrig Drudion. I
regretted very much that our conversation was rather brief, but I
was called away to attend to a case, a professional case, sir, of
some delicacy, and I have since particularly regretted that I was
unable to return that night, as it would have given me much
pleasure to have been present at a dialogue, which I have been told
by my friend the landlady, you held with a certain Italian who was
staying at the house, which was highly agreeable and instructive to
herself and her daughter."

"Well," said I, "I am rejoiced that fate has brought us together
again. How have you been in health since I had the pleasure of
seeing you?"

"Rather indifferent, sir, rather indifferent. I have of late been
afflicted with several ailments, the original cause of which, I
believe, was a residence of several years in the Ynysoedd y
Gorllewin - the West India Islands - where I had the honour of
serving her present gracious Majesty's gracious uncle, George the
Fourth - in a medical capacity, sir. I have likewise been
afflicted with lowness of spirits, sir. It was this same lowness
of spirits which induced me to accept an invitation made by the
individual lately in the room to accompany him in a vehicle with
some other people to Bala. I shall always consider my coming as a
fortunate circumstance, inasmuch as it has given me an opportunity
of renewing my acquaintance with you."

"Pray," said I, "may I take the liberty of asking who that
individual is?"

"Why," said Doctor Jones, "he is what they call a Wolverhampton
gent."

"A Wolverhampton gent," said I to myself; "only think!"

"Were you pleased to make any observation, sir?" said the doctor.

"I was merely saying something to myself," said I. "And in what
line of business may he be? I suppose in the hog line."

"Oh no!" said Doctor Jones. "His father, it is true, is a hog-
merchant, but as for himself he follows no business; he is what is
called a fast young man, and goes about here and there on the
spree, as I think they term it, drawing, whenever he wants money,
upon his father, who is in affluent circumstances. Some time ago
he came to Cerrig Drudion, and was so much pleased with the place,
the landlady, and her daughters, that he has made it his
headquarters ever since. Being frequently at the house I formed an
acquaintance with him, and have occasionally made one in his
parties and excursions, though I can't say I derive much pleasure
from his conversation, for he is a person of little or no
literature."

"The son of a hog-merchant," thought I to myself. "Depend upon it,
that immense fellow whom I saw in my dream purchase the big hog at
Llangollen fair, and who wanted me to give him a poond for his
bargain, was this gent's father. Oh, there is much more in dreams
than is generally dreamt of by philosophy!"

Doctor Jones presently began to talk of Welsh literature, and we
were busily engaged in discussing the subject when in walked the
fast young man, causing the floor to quake beneath his ponderous
tread. He looked rather surprised at seeing the doctor and me
conversing, but Doctor Jones turning to him, said, "Oh, I remember
this gentleman perfectly."

"Oh!" said the fast young man; "very good!" then flinging himself
down in a chair with a force that nearly broke it, and fixing his
eyes upon me, said, "I think I remember the gentleman too. If I am
not much mistaken, sir, you are one of our principal engineers at
Wolverhampton. Oh yes! I remember you now perfectly. The last
time I saw you was at a public dinner given to you at
Wolverhampton, and there you made a speech, and a capital speech it
was."

Just as I was about to reply Doctor Jones commenced speaking Welsh,
resuming the discourse on Welsh literature. Before, however, he
had uttered a dozen words he was interrupted by the Wolverhampton
gent, who exclaimed in a blubbering tone: "O Lord, you are surely
not going to speak Welsh. If I had thought I was to be bothered
with Welsh I wouldn't have asked you to come."

"If I spoke Welsh, sir," said the doctor, "it was out of compliment
to this gentleman, who is a proficient in the ancient language of
my country. As, however, you dislike Welsh, I shall carry on the
conversation with him in English, though peradventure you may not
be more edified by it in that language than if it were held in
Welsh."

He then proceeded to make some very excellent remarks on the
history of the Gwedir family, written by Sir John Wynn, to which
the Wolverhampton gent listened with open mouth and staring eyes.
My dinner now made its appearance, brought in by the little
freckled maid - the cloth had been laid during my absence from the
room. I had just begun to handle my knife and fork, Doctor Jones
still continuing his observations on the history of the Gwedir
family, when I heard a carriage drive up to the inn, and almost
immediately after, two or three young fellows rollicked into the
room: "Come let's be off," said one of them to the Wolverhampton
gent; "the carriage is ready." "I'm glad of it," said the fast
young man, "for it's rather slow work here. Come, doctor! are you
going with us or do you intend to stay here all night?" Thereupon
the doctor got up, and coming towards me leaning on his cane, said:
"Sir! it gives me infinite pleasure that I have met a second time a
gentleman of so much literature. That we shall ever meet a third
time I may wish but can scarcely hope, owing to certain ailments
under which I suffer, brought on, sir, by a residence of many years
in the Occidental Indies. However, at all events, I wish you
health and happiness." He then shook me gently by the hand and
departed with the Wolverhampton gent and his companions; the gent
as he stumped out of the room saying, "Good-night, sir; I hope it
will not be long before I see you at another public dinner at
Wolverhampton, and hear another speech from you as good as the
last." In a minute or two I heard them drive off. Left to myself
I began to discuss my dinner. Of the dinner I had nothing to
complain, but the ale which accompanied it was very bad. This was
the more mortifying, for, remembering the excellent ale I had drunk
at Bala some months previously, I had, as I came along the gloomy
roads the present evening, been promising myself a delicious treat
on my arrival.

"This is very bad ale!" said I to the freckled maid, "very
different from what I drank in the summer, when I was waited on by
Tom Jenkins."

"It is the same ale, sir," said the maid, "but the last in the
cask; and we shan't have any more for six months, when he will come
again to brew for the summer; but we have very good porter, sir,
and first-rate Allsopp."

"Allsopp's ale," said I, "will do for July and August, but scarcely
for the end of October. However, bring me a pint; I prefer it at
all times to porter."

My dinner concluded, I trifled away my time till about ten o'clock,
and then went to bed.



CHAPTER LXXIII



Breakfast - The Freckled Maid - Llan uwch Llyn - The Landlady -
Llewarch Hen - Conversions to the Church.


AWAKING occasionally in the night I heard much storm and rain. The
following morning it was gloomy and lowering. As it was Sunday I
determined to pass the day at Bala, and accordingly took my Prayer
Book out of my satchel, and also my single white shirt, which I put
on.

Having dressed myself I went to the coffee-room and sat down to
breakfast. What a breakfast! - pot of hare; ditto of trout; pot of
prepared shrimps; dish of plain shrimps; tin of sardines; beautiful
beef-steak; eggs, muffin; large loaf, and butter, not forgetting
capital tea. There's a breakfast for you!

As the little freckled maid was removing the breakfast things I
asked her how old she was.

"Eighteen, sir, last Candlemas," said the freckled maid.

"Are your parents alive?"

"My mother is, sir, but my father is dead."

"What was your father?"

"He was an Irishman, sir! and boots to this inn."

"Is your mother Irish?"

"No, sir, she is of this place; my father married her shortly after
he came here."

"Of what religion are you?"

"Church, sir, Church."

"Was your father of the Church?"

"Not always, sir; he was once what is called a Catholic. He turned
to the Church after he came here."

"A'n't there a great many Methodists in Bala?"

"Plenty, sir, plenty."

"How came your father not to go over to the Methodists instead of
the Church?"

"'Cause he didn't like them, sir; he used to say they were a
trumpery, cheating set; that they wouldn't swear, but would lie
through a three-inch board."

"I suppose your mother is a Church-woman?"

"She is now, sir; but before she knew my father she was a
Methodist."

"Of what religion is the master of the house?"

"Church, sir, Church; so is all the family."

"Who is the clergyman of the place?"

"Mr Pugh, sir!"

"Is he a good preacher?"

"Capital, sir! and so is each of his curates; he and they are
converting the Methodists left and right."

"I should like to hear him."

"Well, sir! that you can do. My master, who is going to church
presently, will be happy to accommodate you in his pew."

I went to church with the landlord, a tall gentlemanly man of the
name of Jones - Oh that eternal name of Jones! Rain was falling
fast, and we were glad to hold up our umbrellas. We did not go to
the church at Bala, at which there was no service that morning, but
to that of a little village close by, on the side of the lake, the
living of which is incorporated with that of Bala. The church
stands low down by the lake at the bottom of a little nook. Its
name which is Llan uwch Llyn, is descriptive of its position,
signifying the Church above the Lake. It is a long, low, ancient
edifice, standing north-east by south-west. The village is just
above it on a rising ground, behind which are lofty hills
pleasantly dotted with groves, trees, and houses. The interior of
the edifice has a somewhat dilapidated appearance. The service was
in Welsh. The clergyman was about forty years of age, and had a
highly-intelligent look. His voice was remarkably clear and
distinct. He preached an excellent practical sermon, text, 14th
chapter, 22nd verse of Luke, about sending out servants to invite
people to the supper. After the sermon there was a gathering for
the poor.

As I returned to the inn I had a good deal of conversation with the
landlord on religious subjects. He told me that the Church of
England, which for a long time had been a down-trodden Church in
Wales, had of late begun to raise its head, and chiefly owing to
the zeal and activity of its present ministers; that the former
ministers of the Church were good men, but had not energy enough to
suit the times in which they lived; that the present ministers
fought the Methodist preachers with their own weapons, namely,
extemporary preaching, and beat them, winning shoals from their
congregations. He seemed to think that the time was not far
distant when the Anglican Church would be the popular as well as
the established Church of Wales.

Finding myself rather dull in the inn, I went out again,
notwithstanding that it rained. I ascended the toman or mound
which I had visited on a former occasion. Nothing could be more
desolate and dreary than the scene around. The woods were stripped
of their verdure and the hills were half shrouded in mist. How
unlike was this scene to the smiling, glorious prospect which had
greeted my eyes a few months before. The rain coming down with
redoubled violence, I was soon glad to descend and regain the inn.

Shortly before dinner I was visited by the landlady, a fine tall
woman of about fifty, with considerable remains of beauty in her
countenance. She came to ask me if I was comfortable. I told her
that it was my own fault if I was not. We were soon in very
friendly discourse. I asked her her maiden name.

"Owen," said she, laughing, "which, after my present name of Jones,
is the most common name in Wales."

"They were both one and the same originally," said I, "Owen and
Jones both mean John."

She too was a staunch member of the Church of England, which she
said was the only true Church. She spoke in terms of high respect
and admiration of her minister, and said that a new church was
being built, the old one not being large enough to accommodate the
numbers who thronged to hear him.

I had a noble goose for dinner, to which I did ample justice.
About four o'clock, the weather having cleared up, I took a stroll.
It was a beautiful evening, though rain clouds still hovered about.
I wandered to the northern end of Llyn Tegid, which I had passed in
the preceding evening. The wind was blowing from the south, and
tiny waves were beating against the shore, which consisted of small
brown pebbles. The lake has certainly not its name, which
signifies Lake of Beauty, for nothing. It is a beautiful sheet of
water, and beautifully situated. It is oblong and about six miles
in length. On all sides, except to the north, it is bounded by
hills. Those at the southern end are very lofty, the tallest of
which is Arran, which lifts its head to the clouds like a huge
loaf. As I wandered on the strand I thought of a certain British
prince and poet, who in the very old time sought a refuge in the
vicinity of the lake from the rage of the Saxons. His name was
Llewarch Hen, of whom I will now say a few words.

Llewarch Hen, or Llewarch the Aged, was born about the commencement
of the sixth and died about the middle of the seventh century,
having attained to the prodigious age of one hundred and forty or
fifty years, which is perhaps the lot of about forty individuals in
the course of a millennium. If he was remarkable for his years he
was no less so for the number of his misfortunes. He was one of
the princes of the Cumbrian Britons; but Cumbria was invaded by the
Saxons, and a scene of horrid war ensued. Llewarch and his sons,
of whom he had twenty-four, put themselves at the head of their
forces, and in conjunction with the other Cumbrian princes made a
brave but fruitless opposition to the invaders. Most of his sons
were slain, and he himself with the remainder sought shelter in
Powys, in the hall of Cynddylan, its prince. But the Saxon bills
and bows found their way to Powys too. Cynddylan was slain, and
with him the last of the sons of Llewarch, who, reft of his
protector, retired to a hut by the side of the lake of Bala, where
he lived the life of a recluse, and composed elegies on his sons
and slaughtered friends, and on his old age, all of which abound
with so much simplicity and pathos that the heart of him must be
hard indeed who can read them unmoved. Whilst a prince he was
revered for his wisdom and equity, and he is said in one of the
historical triads to have been one of the three consulting warriors
of Arthur.

In the evening I attended service in the old church at Bala. The
interior of the edifice was remarkably plain; no ornament of any
kind was distinguishable; the congregation was overflowing, amongst
whom I observed the innkeeper and his wife, the little freckled
maid and the boots. The entire service was in Welsh. Next to the
pew in which I sat was one filled with young singing women, all of
whom seemed to have voices of wonderful power. The prayers were
read by a strapping young curate at least six feet high. The
sermon was preached by the rector, and was a continuation of the
one which I had heard him preach in the morning. It was a very
comforting discourse, as the preacher clearly proved that every
sinner will be pardoned who comes to Jesus. I was particularly
struck with one part. The preacher said that Jesus' arms being
stretched out upon the cross was emblematic of His surprising love
and His willingness to receive anybody. The service concluded with
the noble anthem Teyrnasa Jesu Mawr, "May Mighty Jesus reign!"

The service over I returned to the parlour of the inn. There I sat
for a long-time, lone and solitary, staring at the fire in the
grate. I was the only guest in the house; a great silence
prevailed both within and without; sometimes five minutes elapsed
without my hearing a sound, and then, perhaps, the silence would be
broken by a footstep at a distance in the street. At length,
finding myself yawning, I determined to go to bed. The freckled
maid as she lighted me to my room inquired how I liked the sermon.
"Very much," said I. "Ah," said she, "did I not tell you that Mr
Pugh was a capital preacher?" She then asked me how I liked the
singing of the gals who sat in the next pew to mine. I told her
that I liked it exceedingly. "Ah," said she, "them gals have the
best voices in Bala. They were once Methody gals, and sang in the
chapels, but were converted, and are now as good Church as myself.
Them gals have been the cause of a great many convarsions, for all
the young fellows of their acquaintance amongst the Methodists - "

"Follow them to church," said I, "and in time become converted.
That's a thing of course. If the Church gets the girls she is
quite sure of the fellows."



CHAPTER LXXIV



Proceed on Journey - The Lad and Dog - Old Bala - The Pass -
Extensive View - The Two Men - The Tap Nyth - The Meeting of the
Waters - The Wild Valley - Dinas Mawddwy.


THE Monday morning was gloomy and misty, but it did not rain, a
circumstance which gave me no little pleasure, as I intended to
continue my journey without delay. After breakfast I bade farewell
to my kind host, and also to the freckled maid, and departed, my
satchel o'er my shoulder and my umbrella in my hand.

I had consulted the landlord on the previous day as to where I had
best make my next halt, and had been advised by him to stop at
Mallwyd. He said that if I felt tired I could put up at Dinas
Mawddwy, about two miles on this side of Mallwyd, but that if I
were not he would advise me to go on, as I should find very poor
accommodation at Dinas. On my inquiring as to the nature of the
road, he told me that the first part of it was tolerably good,
lying along the eastern side of the lake, but that the greater part
of it was very rough, over hills and mountains, belonging to the
great chain of Arran, which constituted upon the whole the wildest
part of all Wales.

Passing by the northern end of the lake I turned to the south, and
proceeded along a road a little way above the side of the lake.
The day had now to a certain extent cleared up, and the lake was
occasionally gilded by beams of bright sunshine. After walking a
little way I overtook a lad dressed in a white greatcoat and
attended by a tolerably large black dog. I addressed him in
English, but finding that he did not understand me I began to talk
to him in Welsh.

"That's a fine dog," said I.

LAD. - Very fine, sir, and a good dog; though young he has been
known to kill rats.

MYSELF. - What is his name?

LAD. - His name is Toby, sir.

MYSELF. - And what is your name?

LAD. - John Jones, sir.

MYSELF. - And what is your father's?

LAD. - Waladr Jones, sir.

MYSELF. - Is Waladr the same as Cadwaladr?

LAD. - In truth, sir, it is.

MYSELF. - That is a fine name.

LAD. - It is, sir; I have heard my father say that it was the name
of a king.

MYSELF. - What is your father?

LAD. - A farmer, sir.

MYSELF. - Does he farm his own land?

LAD. - He does not, sir; he is tenant to Mr Price of Hiwlas.

MYSELF. - Do you live far from Bala?

LAD. - Not very far, sir.

MYSELF. - Are you going home now?

LAD. - I am not, sir; our home is on the other side of Bala. I am
going to see a relation up the road.

MYSELF. - Bala is a nice place.

LAD. - It is, sir; but not so fine as old Bala.

MYSELF. - I never heard of such a place. Where is it?

LAD. - Under the lake, sir.

MYSELF. - What do you mean?

LAD. - It stood in the old time where the lake now is, and a fine
city it was, full of fine houses, towers, and castles, but with
neither church nor chapel, for the people neither knew God nor
cared for Him, and thought of nothing but singing and dancing and
other wicked things. So God was angry with them, and one night,
when they were all busy at singing and dancing and the like, God
gave the word, and the city sank down into Unknown, and the lake
boiled up where it once stood.

MYSELF. - That was a long time ago.

LAD. - In truth, sir, it was.

MYSELF. - Before the days of King Cadwaladr.

LAD. - I daresay it was, sir.

I walked fast, but the lad was a shrewd walker, and though
encumbered with his greatcoat contrived to keep tolerably up with
me. The road went over hill and dale, but upon the whole more
upward than downward. After proceeding about an hour and a half we
left the lake, to the southern extremity of which we had nearly
come, somewhat behind, and bore away to the south-east, gradually
ascending. At length the lad, pointing to a small farm-house on
the side of a hill, told me he was bound thither, and presently
bidding me farewell, turned aside up a footpath which led towards
it.

About a minute afterwards a small delicate furred creature with a
white mark round its neck and with a little tail trailing on the
ground ran swiftly across the road. It was a weasel or something
of that genus; on observing it I was glad that the lad and the dog
were gone, as between them they would probably have killed it. I
hate to see poor wild animals persecuted and murdered, lose my
appetite for dinner at hearing the screams of a hare pursued by
greyhounds, and am silly enough to feel disgust and horror at the
squeals of a rat in the fangs of a terrier, which one of the
sporting tribe once told me were the sweetest sounds in "natur."

I crossed a bridge over a deep gulley which discharged its waters
into a river in a valley on the right. Arran rose in great majesty
on the farther side of this vale, its head partly shrouded in mist.
The day now became considerably overcast. I wandered on over much
rough ground till I came to a collection of houses at the bottom of
a pass leading up a steep mountain. Seeing the door of one of the
houses open I peeped in, and a woman who was sitting knitting in
the interior rose and came out to me. I asked the name of the
place. The name which she told me sounded something like Ty Capel
Saer - the House of the Chapel of the Carpenter. I inquired the
name of the river in the valley. Cynllwyd, hoary-headed, she
seemed to say; but here, as well as with respect to her first
answer, I speak under correction, for her Welsh was what my old
friends, the Spaniards, would call muy cerrado, that is, close or
indistinct. She asked me if I was going up the bwlch. I told her
I was.

"Rather you than I," said she, looking up to the heavens, which had
assumed a very dismal, not to say awful, appearance.

Presently I began to ascend the pass or bwlch, a green hill on my
right intercepting the view of Arran, another very lofty hill on my
left with wood towards the summit. Coming to a little cottage
which stood on the left I went to the door and knocked. A smiling
young woman opened it, of whom I asked the name of the house.

"Ty Nant - the House of the Dingle," she replied.

"Do you live alone?" said I.

"No; mother lives here."

"Any Saesneg?"

"No," said she with a smile, "S'sneg of no use here."

Her face looked the picture of kindness. I was now indeed in Wales
amongst the real Welsh. I went on some way. Suddenly there was a
moaning sound, and rain came down in torrents. Seeing a deserted
cottage on my left I went in. There was fodder in it, and it
appeared to serve partly as a barn, partly as a cow-house. The
rain poured upon the roof, and I was glad I had found shelter.
Close behind this place a small brook precipitated itself down
rocks in four successive falls.

The rain having ceased I proceeded, and after a considerable time
reached the top of the pass. From thence I had a view of the
valley and lake of Bala, the lake looking like an immense sheet of
steel. A round hill, however, somewhat intercepted the view of the
latter. The scene in my immediate neighbourhood was very desolate;
moory hillocks were all about me of a wretched russet colour; on my
left, on the very crest of the hill up which I had so long been
toiling, stood a black pyramid of turf, a pole on the top of it.
The road now wore nearly due west down a steep descent. Arran was
slightly to the north of me. I, however, soon lost sight of it, as
I went down the farther side of the hill, which lies over against
it to the south-east. The sun, now descending, began to shine out.
The pass down which I was now going was yet wilder than the one up
which I had lately come. Close on my right was the steep hill's
side out of which the road or path had been cut, which was here and
there overhung by crags of wondrous forms; on my left was a very
deep glen, beyond which was a black, precipitous, rocky wall, from
a chasm near the top of which tumbled with a rushing sound a
slender brook, seemingly the commencement of a mountain stream,
which hurried into a valley far below towards the west. When
nearly at the bottom of the descent I stood still to look around
me. Grand and wild was the scenery. On my left were noble green
hills, the tops of which were beautifully gilded by the rays of the
setting sun. On my right a black, gloomy, narrow valley or glen
showed itself; two enormous craggy hills of immense altitude, one
to the west and the other to the east of the entrance; that to the
east terminating in a peak. The background to the north was a wall
of rocks forming a semicircle, something like a bent bow with the
head downward; behind this bow, just in the middle, rose the black
loaf of Arran. A torrent tumbled from the lower part of the
semicircle, and after running for some distance to the south turned
to the west, the way I was going.

Observing a house a little way within the gloomy vale I went
towards it, in the hope of finding somebody in it who could give me
information respecting this wild locality. As I drew near the door
two tall men came forth, one about sixty, and the other about half
that age. The elder had a sharp, keen look; the younger a lumpy
and a stupid one. They were dressed like farmers. On my saluting
them in English the elder returned my salutation in that tongue,
but in rather a gruff tone. The younger turned away his head and
said nothing.

"What is the name of this house?" said I, pointing to the building.

"The name of it," said the old man, "is Ty Mawr."

"Do you live in it?" said I.

"Yes, I live in it."

"What waterfall is that?" said I, pointing to the torrent tumbling
down the crag at the farther end of the gloomy vale.

"The fountain of the Royal Dyfi."

"Why do you call the Dyfy royal?" said I.

"Because it is the king of the rivers in these parts."

"Does the fountain come out of a rock?"

"It does not; it comes out of a lake, a llyn."

"Where is the llyn?"

"Over that crag at the foot of Aran Vawr."

"Is it a large lake?"

"It is not; it is small."

"Deep?"

"Very."

"Strange things in it?"

"I believe there are strange things in it." His English now became
broken.

"Crocodiles?"

"I do not know what cracadailes be."

"Efync?"

"Ah! No, I do not tink there be efync dere. Hu Gadarn in de old
time kill de efync dere and in all de lakes in Wales. He draw them
out of the water with his ychain banog his humpty oxen, and when he
get dem out he burn deir bodies on de fire, he good man for dat."

"What do you call this allt?" said I, looking up to the high
pinnacled hill on my right.

"I call that Tap Nyth yr Eryri."

"Is not that the top nest of the eagles?"

"I believe it is. Ha! I see you understand Welsh."

"A little," said I. "Are there eagles there now?"

"No, no eagle now."

"Gone like avanc?"

"Yes, gone like avanc, but not so long. My father see eagle on Tap
Nyth, but my father never see avanc in de llyn."

"How far to Dinas?"

"About three mile."

"Any thieves about?"

"No, no thieves here, but what come from England," and he looked at
me with a strange, grim smile.

"What is become of the red-haired robbers of Mawddwy?"

"Ah," said the old man, staring at me, "I see you are a Cumro. The
red-haired thieves of Mawddwy! I see you are from these parts."

"What's become of them?"

"Oh, dead, hung. Lived long time ago; long before eagle left Tap
Nyth."

He spoke true. The red-haired banditti of Mawddwy were
exterminated long before the conclusion of the sixteenth century,
after having long been the terror not only of these wild regions
but of the greater part of North Wales. They were called the red-
haired banditti because certain leading individuals amongst them
had red foxy hair.

"Is that young man your son?" said I, after a little pause.

"Yes, he my son."

"Has he any English?"

"No, he no English, but he plenty of Welsh - that is if he see
reason."

I spoke to the young man in Welsh, asking him if he had ever been
up to the Tap Nyth, but he made no answer.

"He no care for your question," said the old man; "ask him price of
pig." I asked the young fellow the price of hogs, whereupon his
face brightened up, and he not only answered my question, but told
me that he had fat hog to sell. "Ha, ha," said the old man; "he
plenty of Welsh now, for he see reason. To other question he no
Welsh at all, no more than English, for he see no reason. What
business he on Tap Nyth with eagle? His business down below in sty
with pig. Ah, he look lump, but he no fool; know more about pig
than you or I, or any one 'twixt here and Mahuncleth."

He now asked me where I came from, and on my telling him from Bala,
his heart appeared to warm towards me, and saying that I must be
tired, he asked me to step in and drink buttermilk, but I declined
his offer with thanks, and bidding the two adieu, returned to the
road.

I hurried along and soon reached a valley which abounded with trees
and grass; I crossed a bridge over a brook, not what the old man
had called the Dyfi, but the stream whose source I had seen high up
the bwlch, and presently came to a place where the two waters
joined. Just below the confluence on a fallen tree was seated a
man decently dressed; his eyes were fixed on the rushing stream. I
stopped and spoke to him.

He had no English, but I found him a very sensible man. I talked
to him about the source of the Dyfi. He said it was a disputed
point which was the source. He himself was inclined to believe
that it was the Pistyll up the bwlch. I asked him of what religion
he was. He said he was of the Church of England, which was the
Church of his father and his grandfather, and which he believed to
be the only true Church. I inquired if it flourished. He said it
did, but that it was dreadfully persecuted by all classes of
dissenters, who, though they were continually quarrelling with one
another, agreed in one thing, namely, to persecute the Church. I
asked him if he ever read. He said he read a great deal,
especially the works of Huw Morris, and that reading them had given
him a love for the sights of nature. He added that his greatest
delight was to come to the place where he then was of an evening,
and look at the waters and hills. I asked him what trade he was.
"The trade of Joseph," said he, smiling. "Saer." "Farewell,
brother," said I; "I am not a carpenter, but like you I read the
works of Huw Morris and am of the Church of England." I then shook
him by the hand and departed.

I passed a village with a stupendous mountain just behind it to the
north, which I was told was called Moel Vrith or the party-coloured
moel. I was now drawing near to the western end of the valley.
Scenery of the wildest and most picturesque description was rife
and plentiful to a degree: hills were here, hills were there; some
tall and sharp, others huge and humpy; hills were on every side;
only a slight opening to the west seemed to present itself. "What
a valley!" I exclaimed. But on passing through the opening I found
myself in another, wilder and stranger, if possible. Full to the
west was a long hill rising up like the roof of a barn, an enormous
round hill on its north-east side, and on its south-east the tail
of the range which I had long had on my left - there were trees and
groves and running waters, but all in deep shadow, for night was
now close at hand.

"What is the name of this place?" I shouted to a man on horseback,
who came dashing through a brook with a woman in a Welsh dress
behind him.

"Aber Cowarch, Saxon!" said the man in a deep guttural voice, and
lashing his horse disappeared rapidly in the night.

"Aber Cywarch!" I cried, springing half a yard into the air. "Why,
that's the place where Ellis Wynn composed his immortal 'Sleeping
Bard,' the book which I translated in the blessed days of my youth.
Oh, no wonder that the 'Sleeping Bard' is a wild and wondrous work,
seeing that it was composed amidst the wild and wonderful scenes
which I here behold."

I proceeded onwards up an ascent; after some time I came to a
bridge across a stream, which a man told me was called Avon Gerres.
It runs into the Dyfi, coming down with a rushing sound from a wild
vale to the north-east between the huge barn-like hill and Moel
Vrith. The barn-like hill I was informed was called Pen Dyn. I
soon reached Dinas Mawddwy, which stands on the lower part of a
high hill connected with the Pen Dyn. Dinas, trough at one time a
place of considerable importance, if we may judge from its name,
which signifies a fortified city, is at present little more than a
collection of filthy huts. But though a dirty squalid place, I
found it anything but silent and deserted. Fierce-looking, red-
haired men, who seemed as if they might be descendants of the red-
haired banditti of old, were staggering about, and sounds of
drunken revelry echoed from the huts. I subsequently learned that
Dinas was the head-quarters of miners, the neighbourhood abounding
with mines both of lead and stone. I was glad to leave it behind
me. Mallwyd is to the south of Dinas - the way to it is by a
romantic gorge down which flows the Royal Dyfi. As I proceeded
along this gorge the moon rising above Moel Vrith illumined my
path. In about half-an-hour I found myself before the inn at
Mallwyd.



CHAPTER LXXV



Inn at Mallwyd - A Dialogue - The Cumro.


I ENTERED the inn, and seeing a comely-looking damsel at the bar, I
told her that I was in need of supper and a bed. She conducted me
into a neat sanded parlour, where a good fire was blazing, and
asked me what I would have for supper. "Whatever you can most
readily provide," said I; "I am not particular." The maid retired,
and taking off my hat, and disencumbering myself of my satchel, I
sat down before the fire and fell into a doze, in which I dreamed
of some of the wild scenes through which I had lately passed.

I dozed and dozed till I was roused by the maid touching me on the
shoulder and telling me that supper was ready. I got up and
perceived that during my doze she had laid the cloth and put supper
upon the table. It consisted of bacon and eggs. During supper I
had some conversation with the maid.

MYSELF. - Are you a native of this place?

MAID. - I am not, sir; I come from Dinas.

MYSELF. - Are your parents alive?

MAID. - My mother is alive, sir, but my father is dead.

MYSELF. - Where does your mother live?

MAID. - At Dinas, sir.

MYSELF. - How does she support herself?

MAID. - By letting lodgings to miners, sir.

MYSELF. - Are the miners quiet lodgers?

MAID. - Not always, sir; sometimes they get up at night and fight
with each other.

MYSELF. - What does your mother do on those occasions?

MAID. - She draws the quilt over her head, and says her prayers,
sir.

MYSELF. - Why doesn't she get up and part them?

MAID. - Lest she should get a punch or a thwack for her trouble,
sir.

MYSELF. - Of what religion are the miners?

MAID. - They are Methodists, if they are anything; but they don't
trouble their heads much about religion.

MYSELF. - Of what religion are you?

MAID. - I am of the Church, sir.

MYSELF. - Did you always belong to the Church?

MAID. - Not always. When I was at Dinas I used to hear the
preacher, but since I have been here I have listened to the
clergyman.

MYSELF. - Is the clergyman here a good man?

MAID. - A very good man indeed, sir. He lives close by. Shall I
go and tell him you want to speak to him?

MYSELF. - Oh dear me, no! He can employ his time much more
usefully than in waiting upon me.

After supper I sat quiet for about an hour. Then ringing the bell,
I inquired of the maid whether there was a newspaper in the house.
She told me there was not, but that she thought she could procure
me one. In a little time she brought me a newspaper, which she
said she had borrowed at the parsonage. It was the CUMRO, an
excellent Welsh journal written in the interest of the Church. In
perusing its columns I passed a couple of hours very agreeably, and
then went to bed.



CHAPTER LXXVI



Mallwyd and its Church - Sons of Shoemakers - Village Inn -
Dottings.


THE next day was the thirty-first of October, and was rather fine
for the season. As I did not intend to journey farther this day
than Machynlleth, a principal town in Montgomeryshire, distant only
twelve miles, I did not start from Mallwyd till just before noon.

Mallwyd is a small but pretty village. The church is a long
edifice standing on a slight elevation on the left of the road.
Its pulpit is illustrious from having for many years been occupied
by one of the very celebrated men of Wales, namely Doctor John
Davies, author of the great Welsh and Latin dictionary, an
imperishable work. An immense yew tree grows in the churchyard,
and partly overshadows the road with its branches. The parsonage
stands about a hundred yards to the south of the church, near a
grove of firs. The village is overhung on the north by the
mountains of the Arran range, from which it is separated by the
murmuring Dyfi. To the south for many miles the country is not
mountainous, but presents a pleasant variety of hill and dale.

After leaving the village a little way behind me I turned round to
take a last view of the wonderful region from which I had emerged
on the previous evening. Forming the two sides of the pass down
which comes "the royal river" stood the Dinas mountain and Cefn
Coch, the first on the left, and the other on the right. Behind,
forming the background of the pass, appearing, though now some
miles distant, almost in my proximity, stood Pen Dyn. This hill
has various names, but the one which I have noted here, and which
signifies the head of a man, perhaps describes it best. From where
I looked at it on that last day of October it certainly looked like
an enormous head, and put me in mind of the head of Mambrino,
mentioned in the master work which commemorates the achievements of
the Manchegan knight. This mighty mountain is the birthplace of
more than one river. If the Gerres issues from its eastern side,
from its western springs the Maw, that singularly picturesque
stream, which enters the ocean at the place which the Saxons
corruptly call Barmouth and the Cumry with great propriety Aber
Maw, or the disemboguement of the Maw.

Just as I was about to pursue my journey two boys came up, bound in
the same direction as myself. One was a large boy dressed in a
waggoner's frock, the other was a little fellow in a brown coat and
yellowish trowsers. As we walked along together I entered into
conversation with them. They came from Dinas Mawddwy. The large
boy told me that he was the son of a man who carted mwyn or lead
ore, and the little fellow that he was the son of a shoemaker. The
latter was by far the cleverest, and no wonder, for the son of
shoemakers are always clever, which assertion should anybody doubt
I beg him to attend the examinations at Cambridge, at which he will
find that in three cases out of four the senior wranglers are the
sons of shoemakers. From this little chap I got a great deal of
information about Pen Dyn, every part of which he appeared to have
traversed. He told me amongst other things that there was a castle
upon it. Like a true son of a shoemaker, however, he was an arch
rogue. Coming to a small house with a garden attached to it in
which there were apple-trees, he stopped, whilst I went on with the
other boy, and after a minute or two came up running with a couple
of apples in his hand.

"Where did you get those apples?" said I; "I hope you did not steal
them."

He made no reply, but bit one, then making a wry face he flung it
away, and so he served the other. Presently afterwards, coming to
a side lane, the future senior wrangler, for a senior wrangler he
is destined to be, always provided he finds his way to Cambridge,
darted down it like an arrow, and disappeared.

I continued my way with the other lad, occasionally asking him
questions about the mines of Mawddwy. The information, however,
which I obtained from him was next to nothing, for he appeared to
be as heavy as the stuff which his father carted. At length we
reached a village forming a kind of semicircle on a green which
looked something like a small English common. To the east were
beautiful green hills; to the west the valley with the river
running through it, beyond which rose other green hills yet more
beautiful than the eastern ones. I asked the lad the name of the
place, but I could not catch what he said, for his answer was
merely an indistinct mumble, and before I could question him again
he left me, without a word of salutation, and trudged away across
the green.

Descending a hill I came to a bridge, under which ran a beautiful
river, which came foaming down from a gulley between two of the
eastern hills. From a man whom I met I learned that the bridge was
called Pont Coomb Linau, and that the name of the village I had
passed was Linau. The river carries an important tribute to the
Dyfi, at least it did when I saw it, though perhaps in summer it is
little more than a dry water-course.

Half-an-hour's walking brought me from this place to a small town
or large village, with a church at the entrance and the usual yew
tree in the churchyard. Seeing a kind of inn I entered it, and was
shown by a lad-waiter into a large kitchen, in which were several
people. I had told him in Welsh that I wanted some ale, and as he
opened the door he cried with a loud voice, "Cumro!" as much as to
say, Mind what you say before this chap, for he understands Cumraeg
- that word was enough. The people, who were talking fast and
eagerly as I made my appearance, instantly became silent and stared
at me with most suspicious looks. I sat down, and when my ale was
brought I took a hearty draught, and observing that the company
were still watching me suspiciously and maintaining the same
suspicious silence, I determined to comport myself in a manner
which should to a certain extent afford them ground for suspicion.
I therefore slowly and deliberately drew my note-book out of my
waistcoat pocket, unclasped it, took my pencil from the loops at
the side of the book, and forthwith began to dot down observations
upon the room and company, now looking to the left, now to the
right, now aloft, now alow, now skewing at an object, now leering
at an individual, my eyes half closed and my mouth drawn
considerably aside. Here follow some of my dottings:-

"A very comfortable kitchen with a chimney-corner on the south side
- immense grate and brilliant fire - large kettle hanging over it
by a chain attached to a transverse iron bar - a settle on the
left-hand side of the fire - seven fine large men near the fire -
two upon the settle, two upon chairs, one in the chimney-corner
smoking a pipe, and two standing up - table near the settle with
glasses, amongst which is that of myself, who sit nearly in the
middle of the room a little way on the right-hand side of the fire.

"The floor is of slate; a fine brindled greyhound lies before it on
the hearth, and a shepherd's dog wanders about, occasionally going
to the door and scratching as if anxious to get out. The company
are dressed mostly in the same fashion, brown coats, broad-brimmed
hats, and yellowish corduroy breeches with gaiters. One who looks
like a labouring man has a white smock and a white hat, patched
trowsers, and highlows covered with gravel - one has a blue coat.

"There is a clock on the right-hand side of the kitchen; a warming-
pan hangs close by it on the projecting side of the chimney-corner.
On the same side is a large rack containing many plates and dishes
of Staffordshire ware. Let me not forget a pair of fire-irons
which hang on the right-hand side of the chimney-corner!"

I made a great many more dottings, which I shall not insert here.
During the whole time I was dotting the most marvellous silence
prevailed in the room, broken only by the occasional scratching of
the dog against the inside of the door, the ticking of the clock,
and the ruttling of the smoker's pipe in the chimney-corner. After
I had dotted to my heart's content I closed my book, put the pencil
into the loops, then the book into my pocket, drank what remained
of my ale, got up, and, after another look at the apartment and its
furniture, and a leer at the company, departed from the house
without ceremony, having paid for the ale when I received it.
After walking some fifty yards down the street I turned half round
and beheld, as I knew I should, the whole company at the door
staring after me. I leered sideways at them for about half a
minute, but they stood my leer stoutly. Suddenly I was inspired by
a thought. Turning round I confronted them, and pulling my note-
book out of my pocket, and seizing my pencil, I fell to dotting
vigorously. That was too much for them. As if struck by a panic,
my quondam friends turned round and bolted into the house; the
rustic-looking man with the smock-frock and gravelled highlows
nearly falling down in his eagerness to get in.

The name of the place where this adventure occurred was Cemmaes.



CHAPTER LXXVII



The Deaf Man - Funeral Procession - The Lone Family - The Welsh and
their Secrets - The Vale of the Dyfi - The Bright Moon.


A LITTLE way from Cemmaes I saw a respectable-looking old man like
a little farmer, to whom I said:

"How far to Machynlleth?"

Looking at me in a piteous manner in the face he pointed to the
side of his head, and said - "Dim clywed."

It was no longer no English, but no hearing.

Presently I met one yet more deaf. A large procession of men came
along the road. Some distance behind them was a band of women and
between the two bands was a kind of bier drawn by a horse with
plumes at each of the four corners. I took off my hat and stood
close against the hedge on the right-hand side till the dead had
passed me some way to its final home.

Crossed a river, which like that on the other side of Cemmaes
streamed down from a gulley between two hills into the valley of
the Dyfi. Beyond the bridge on the right-hand side of the road was
a pretty cottage, just as there was in the other locality. A fine
tall woman stood at the door, with a little child beside her. I
stopped and inquired in English whose body it was that had just
been borne by.

"That of a young man, sir, the son of a farmer, who lives a mile or
so up the road."

MYSELF. - He seems to have plenty of friends.

WOMAN. - Oh yes, sir, the Welsh have plenty of friends both in life
and death.

MYSELF. - A'n't you Welsh, then?

WOMAN. - Oh no, sir, I am English, like yourself, as I suppose.

MYSELF. - Yes, I am English. What part of England do you come
from?

WOMAN. - Shropshire, sir.

MYSELF. - Is that little child yours?

WOMAN. - Yes, sir, it is my husband's child and mine.

MYSELF. - I suppose your husband is Welsh.

WOMAN. - Oh no, sir, we are all English.

MYSELF. - And what is your husband?

WOMAN. - A little farmer, sir, he farms about forty acres under Mrs
-.

MYSELF. - Well, are you comfortable here?

WOMAN. - Oh dear me, no, sir, we are anything but comfortable.
Here we are three poor lone creatures in a strange land, without a
soul to speak to but one another. Every day of our lives we wish
we had never left Shropshire.

MYSELF. - Why don't you make friends amongst your neighbours?

WOMAN. - Oh, sir, the English cannot make friends amongst the
Welsh. The Welsh won't neighbour with them, or have anything to do
with them, except now and then in the way of business.

MYSELF. - I have occasionally found the Welsh very civil.

WOMAN. - Oh yes, sir, they can be civil enough to passers-by,
especially those who they think want nothing from them - but if you
came and settled amongst them you would find them, I'm afraid,
quite the contrary.

MYSELF. - Would they be uncivil to me if I could speak Welsh?

WOMAN. - Most particularly, sir; the Welsh don't like any
strangers, but least of all those who speak their language.

MYSELF. - Have you picked up anything of their language?

WOMAN. - Not a word, sir, nor my husband neither. They take good
care that we shouldn't pick up a word of their language. I stood
the other day and listened whilst two women were talking just where
you stand now, in the hope of catching a word, and as soon as they
saw me they passed to the other side of the bridge, and began
buzzing there. My poor husband took it into his head that he might
possibly learn a word or two at the public-house, so he went there,
called for a jug of ale and a pipe, and tried to make himself at
home just as he might in England, but it wouldn't do. The company
instantly left off talking to one another and stared at him, and
before he could finish his pot and pipe took themselves off to a
man, and then came the landlord, and asked him what he meant by
frightening away his customers. So my poor husband came home as
pale as a sheet, and sitting down in a chair said, "Lord, have
mercy upon me!"

MYSELF. - Why are the Welsh afraid that strangers should pick up
their language?

WOMAN. - Lest, perhaps, they should learn their secrets, sir!

MYSELF. - What secrets have they?

WOMAN. - The Lord above only knows, sir!

MYSELF. - Do you think they are hatching treason against Queen
Victoria?

WOMAN. - Oh dear no, sir.

MYSELF. - Is there much murder going on amongst them?

WOMAN. - Nothing of the kind, sir.

MYSELF. - Cattle-stealing?

WOMAN. - Oh no, sir!

MYSELF. - Pig-stealing?

WOMAN. - No, sir!

MYSELF. - Duck or hen stealing?

WOMAN. - Haven't lost a duck or hen since I have been here, sir.

MYSELF. - Then what secrets can they possibly have?

WOMAN. - I don't know, sir! perhaps none at all, or at most only a
pack of small nonsense that nobody would give three farthings to
know. However, it is quite certain they are as jealous of
strangers hearing their discourse as if they were plotting
gunpowder treason or something worse.

MYSELF. - Have you been long here?

WOMAN. - Only since last May, sir! and we hope to get away by next,
and return to our own country, where we shall have some one to
speak to.

MYSELF. - Good-bye!

WOMAN. - Good-bye, sir, and thank you for your conversation; I
haven't had such a treat of talk for many a weary day.

The Vale of the Dyfi became wider and more beautiful as I advanced.
The river ran at the bottom amidst green and seemingly rich
meadows. The hills on the farther side were cultivated a great way
up, and various neat farm-houses were scattered here and there on
their sides. At the foot of one of the most picturesque of these
hills stood a large white village. I wished very much to know its
name, but saw no one of whom I could inquire. I proceeded for
about a mile, and then perceiving a man wheeling stones in a barrow
for the repairing of the road I thought I would inquire of him. I
did so, but the village was then out of sight, and though I pointed
in its direction and described its situation I could not get its
name out of him. At last I said hastily, "Can you tell me your own
name?"

"Dafydd Tibbot, sir," said he.

"Tibbot, Tibbot," said I; "why, you are a Frenchman."

"Dearie me, sir," said the man, looking very pleased, "am I,
indeed?"

"Yes, you are," said I, rather repenting of my haste, and giving
him sixpence, I left him.

"I'd bet a trifle," said I to myself, as I walked away, that this
poor creature is the descendant of some desperate Norman Tibault
who helped to conquer Powisland under Roger de Montgomery or Earl
Baldwin. How striking that the proud old Norman names are at
present only borne by people in the lowest station. Here's a
Tibbot or Tibault harrowing stones on a Welsh road, and I have
known a Mortimer munching poor cheese and bread under a hedge on an
English one. How can we account for this save by the supposition
that the descendants of proud, cruel, and violent men - and who so