"Sir Richard," said she. "I Sir Richard yw yn perthyn y tir. Mr
Williams, however, possesses some part of Mount Eilio."

"And who is Mr Williams?" said I.

"Who is Mr Williams?" said the miller's wife. "Ho, ho! what a
stranger you must be to ask me who is Mr Williams."

I smiled and passed on. The mill was below the level of the road,
and its wheel was turned by the water of a little conduit supplied
by the brook at some distance above the mill. I had observed
similar conduits employed for similar purposes in Cornwall. A
little below the mill was a weir, and a little below the weir the
river ran frothing past the extreme end of the elephant's snout.
Following the course of the river I at last emerged with it from
the pass into a valley surrounded by enormous mountains. Extending
along it from west to east, and occupying its entire southern part
lay an oblong piece of water, into which the streamlet of the pass
discharged itself. This was one of the many beautiful lakes, which
a few days before I had seen from the Wyddfa. As for the Wyddfa I
now beheld it high above me in the north-east looking very grand
indeed, shining like a silver helmet whilst catching the glories of
the setting sun.

I proceeded slowly along the road, the lake below me on my right
hand, whilst the shelvy side of Snowdon rose above me on the left.
The evening was calm and still, and no noise came upon my ear save
the sound of a cascade falling into the lake from a black mountain,
which frowned above it on the south, and cast a gloomy shadow far
over it.

This cataract was in the neighbourhood of a singular-looking rock,
projecting above the lake from the mountain's side. I wandered a
considerable way without meeting or seeing a single human being.
At last when I had nearly gained the eastern end of the valley I
saw two men seated on the side of the hill, on the verge of the
road, in the vicinity of a house which stood a little way up the
hill. The lake here was much wider than I had hitherto seen it,
for the huge mountain on the south had terminated and the lake
expanded considerably in that quarter, having instead of the black
mountain a beautiful hill beyond it.

I quickened my steps and soon came up to the two individuals. One
was an elderly man, dressed in a smock frock and with a hairy cap
on his head. The other was much younger, wore a hat, and was
dressed in a coarse suit of blue nearly new, and doubtless his
Sunday's best. He was smoking a pipe. I greeted them in English
and sat down near them. They responded in the same language, the
younger man with considerable civility and briskness, the other in
a tone of voice denoting some reserve.

"May I ask the name of this lake?" said I, addressing myself to the
young man who sat between me and the elderly one.

"Its name is Llyn Cwellyn, sir," said he, taking the pipe out of
his mouth. "And a fine lake it is."

"Plenty of fish in it?" I demanded.

"Plenty, sir; plenty of trout and pike and char."

"Is it deep?" said I.

"Near the shore it is shallow, sir, but in the middle and near the
other side it is deep, so deep that no one knows how deep it is."

"What is the name," said I, "of the great black mountain there on
the other side?"

"It is called Mynydd Mawr or the Great Mountain. Yonder rock,
which bulks out from it, down the lake yonder, and which you passed
as you came along, is called Castell Cidwm, which means Wolf's rock
or castle."

"Did a wolf ever live there?" I demanded.

"Perhaps so," said the man, "for I have heard say that there were
wolves of old in Wales."

"And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us
across the water?"

"That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed," said the man.

"The stone heap of the gate of the wood," said I.

"Are you Welsh, sir?" said the man.

"No," said I, "but I know something of the language of Wales. I
suppose you live in that house?"

"Not exactly, sir, my father-in-law here lives in that house, and
my wife with him. I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at
my mine, but every Sunday I come here and pass the day with my wife
and him."

"And what profession does he follow?" said I; "is he a fisherman?"

"Fisherman!" said the elderly man contemptuously, "not I. I am the
Snowdon Ranger."

"And what is that?" said I.

The elderly man tossed his head proudly, and made no reply.

"A ranger means a guide, sir," said the younger man; "my father-in-
law is generally termed the Snowdon Ranger because he is a tip-top
guide, and he has named the house after him the Snowdon Ranger. He
entertains gentlemen in it who put themselves under his guidance in
order to ascend Snowdon and to see the country."

"There is some difference in your professions," said "he deals in
heights, you in depths, both, however, are break-necky trades."

"I run more risk from gunpowder than anything else," said the
younger man. "I am a slate-miner, and am continually blasting. I
have, however, had my falls. Are you going far to-night, sir?"

"I am going to Beth Gelert," said I.

"A good six miles, sir, from here. Do you come from Caernarvon?"

"Farther than that," said I. "I come from Bangor."

"To-day, sir, and walking?"

"To-day, and walking."

"You must be rather tired, sir, you came along the valley very
slowly."

"I am not in the slightest degree tired," said I; "when I start
from here, I shall put on my best pace, and soon get to Beth
Gelert."

"Anybody can get along over level ground," said the old man,
laconically.

"Not with equal swiftness," said I. "I do assure you, friend, to
be able to move at a good swinging pace over level ground is
something not to be sneezed at. Not," said I, lifting up my voice,
"that I would for a moment compare walking on the level ground to
mountain ranging, pacing along the road to springing up crags like
a mountain goat, or assert that even Powell himself, the first of
all road walkers, was entitled to so bright a wreath of fame as the
Snowdon Ranger."

"Won't you walk in, sir?" said the elderly man.

"No, I thank you," said I, "I prefer sitting out here gazing on the
lake and the noble mountains."

"I wish you would, sir," said the elderly man, "and take a glass of
something; I will charge you nothing."

"Thank you," said I, "I am in want of nothing, and shall presently
start. Do many people ascend Snowdon from your house?"

"Not so many as I could wish," said the ranger; "people in general
prefer ascending Snowdon from that trumpery place Beth Gelert; but
those who do are fools - begging your honour's pardon. The place
to ascend Snowdon from is my house. The way from my house up
Snowdon is wonderful for the romantic scenery which it affords;
that from Beth Gelert can't be named in the same day with it for
scenery; moreover, from my house you may have the best guide in
Wales; whereas the guides of Beth Gelert - but I say nothing. If
your honour is bound for the Wyddfa, as I suppose you are, you had
better start from my house to-morrow under my guidance."

"I have already been up the Wyddfa from Llanberis," said I, "and am
now going through Beth Gelert to Llangollen, where my family are;
were I going up Snowdon again I should most certainly start from
your house under your guidance, and were I not in a hurry at
present, I would certainly take up my quarters here for a week, and
every day snake excursions with you into the recesses of Eryri. I
suppose you are acquainted with all the secrets of the hills?"

"Trust the old ranger for that, your honour. I would show your
honour the black lake in the frightful hollow in which the fishes
have monstrous heads and little bodies, the lake on which neither
swan, duck nor any kind of wildfowl was ever seen to light. Then I
would show your honour the fountain of the hopping creatures,
where, where - "

"Were you ever at that Wolf's crag, that Castell y Cidwm?" said I.

"Can't say I ever was, your honour. You see it lies so close by,
just across the lake, that - "

"You thought you could see it any day, and so never went," said I.
"Can you tell me whether there are any ruins upon it?"

"I can't, your honour."

"I shouldn't wonder," said I, "if in old times it was the
stronghold of some robber-chieftain; cidwm in the old Welsh is
frequently applied to a ferocious man. Castell Cidwm, I should
think, rather ought to be translated the robber's castle than the
wolf's rock. If I ever come into these parts again you and I will
visit it together, and see what kind of place it is. Now farewell!
It is getting late." I then departed.

"What a nice gentleman!" said the younger man, when I was a few
yards distant.

"I never saw a nicer gentleman," said the old ranger.

I sped along, Snowdon on my left, the lake on my right, and the tip
of a mountain peak right before me in the east. After a little
time I looked back; what a scene! The silver lake and the shadowy
mountain over its southern side looking now, methought, very much
like Gibraltar. I lingered and lingered, gazing and gazing, and at
last only by an effort tore myself away. The evening had now
become delightfully cool in this land of wonders. On I sped,
passing by two noisy brooks coming from Snowdon to pay tribute to
the lake. And now I had left the lake and the valley behind, and
was ascending a hill. As I gained its summit, up rose the moon to
cheer my way. In a little time, a wild stony gorge confronted me,
a stream ran down the gorge with hollow roar, a bridge lay across
it. I asked a figure whom I saw standing by the bridge the place's
name. "Rhyd du" - the black ford - I crossed the bridge. The
voice of the Methodist was yelling from a little chapel on my left.
I went to the door and listened: "When the sinner takes hold of
God, God takes hold of the sinner." The voice was frightfully
hoarse. I passed on: night fell fast around me, and the mountain
to the south-east, towards which I was tending, looked blackly
grand. And now I came to a milestone on which I read with
difficulty: "Three miles to Beth Gelert." The way for some time
had been upward, but now it was downward. I reached a torrent,
which coming from the north-west rushed under a bridge, over which
I passed. The torrent attended me on my right hand the whole way
to Beth Gelert. The descent now became very rapid. I passed a
pine wood on my left, and proceeded for more than two miles at a
tremendous rate. I then came to a wood - this wood was just above
Beth Gelert - proceeding in the direction of a black mountain, I
found myself amongst houses, at the bottom of a valley. I passed
over a bridge, and inquiring of some people whom I met the way to
the inn, was shown an edifice brilliantly lighted up, which I
entered.



CHAPTER XLV



Inn at Beth Gelert - Delectable Company - Lieutenant P-.


THE inn or hotel at Beth Gelert was a large and commodious
building, and was anything but thronged with company; what company,
however, there was, was disagreeable enough, perhaps more so than
that in which I had been the preceding evening, which was composed
of the scum of Manchester and Liverpool; the company amongst which
I now was, consisted of seven or eight individuals, two of them
were military puppies, one a tallish fellow, who though evidently
upwards of thirty, affected the airs of a languishing girl, and
would fain have made people believe that he was dying of ENNUI and
lassitude. The other was a short spuddy fellow, with a broad ugly
face and with spectacles on his nose, who talked very
consequentially about "the service" and all that, but whose tone of
voice was coarse and his manner that of an under-bred person; then
there was an old fellow about sixty-five, a civilian, with a red
carbuncled face; he was father of the spuddy military puppy, on
whom he occasionally cast eyes of pride and almost adoration, and
whose sayings he much applauded, especially certain DOUBLES
ENTENDRES, to call them by no harsher term, directed to a fat girl,
weighing some fifteen stone, who officiated in the coffee-room as
waiter. Then there was a creature to do justice to whose
appearance would require the pencil of a Hogarth. He was about
five feet three inches and a quarter high, and might have weighed,
always provided a stone weight had been attached to him, about half
as much as the fat girl. His countenance was cadaverous and was
eternally agitated by something between a grin and a simper. He
was dressed in a style of superfine gentility, and his skeleton
fingers were bedizened with tawdry rings. His conversation was
chiefly about his bile and his secretions, the efficacy of licorice
in producing a certain effect, and the expediency of changing one's
linen at least three times a day; though had he changed his six, I
should have said that the purification of the last shirt would have
been no sinecure to the laundress. His accent was decidedly
Scotch: he spoke familiarly of Scott and one or two other Scotch
worthies, and more than once insinuated that he was a member of
Parliament. With respect to the rest of the company I say nothing,
and for the very sufficient reason that, unlike the above described
batch, they did not seem disposed to be impertinent towards me.

Eager to get out of such society I retired early to bed. As I left
the room the diminutive Scotch individual was describing to the old
simpleton, who on the ground of the other's being a "member," was
listening to him with extreme attention, how he was labouring under
an access of bile owing to his having left his licorice somewhere
or other. I passed a quiet night, and in the morning breakfasted,
paid my bill, and departed. As I went out of the coffee-room the
spuddy, broad-faced military puppy with spectacles was vociferating
to the languishing military puppy, and to his old simpleton of a
father, who was listening to him with his usual look of undisguised
admiration, about the absolute necessity of kicking Lieutenant P-
out of the army for having disgraced "the service." Poor P-, whose
only crime was trying to defend himself with fist and candlestick
from the manual attacks of his brutal messmates.



CHAPTER XLVI



The Valley of Gelert - Legend of the Dog - Magnificent Scenery -
The Knicht - Goats in Wales - The Frightful Crag - Temperance House
- Smile and Curtsey.


BETH GELERT is situated in a valley surrounded by huge hills, the
most remarkable of which are Moel Hebog and Cerrig Llan; the former
fences it on the south, and the latter, which is quite black and
nearly perpendicular, on the east. A small stream rushes through
the valley, and sallies forth by a pass at its south-eastern end.
The valley is said by some to derive its name of Beddgelert, which
signifies the grave of Celert, from being the burial-place of
Celert, a British saint of the sixth century, to whom Llangeler in
Carmarthenshire is believed to have been consecrated, but the
popular and most universally received tradition is that it has its
name from being the resting-place of a faithful dog called Celert
or Gelert, killed by his master, the warlike and celebrated
Llywelyn ab Jorwerth, from an unlucky misapprehension. Though the
legend is known to most people, I shall take the liberty of
relating it.

Llywelyn during his contests with the English had encamped with a
few followers in the valley, and one day departed with his men on
an expedition, leaving his infant son in a cradle in his tent,
under the care of his hound Gelert, after giving the child its fill
of goat's milk. Whilst he was absent a wolf from the neighbouring
mountains, in quest of prey, found its way into the tent, and was
about to devour the child, when the watchful dog interfered, and
after a desperate conflict, in which the tent was torn down,
succeeded in destroying the monster. Llywelyn returning at evening
found the tent on the ground, and the dog, covered with blood,
sitting beside it. Imagining that the blood with which Gelert was
besmeared was that of his own son devoured by the animal to whose
care he had confided him, Llywelyn in a paroxysm of natural
indignation forthwith transfixed the faithful creature with his
spear. Scarcely, however, had he done so when his ears were
startled by the cry of a child from beneath the fallen tent, and
hastily removing the canvas he found the child in its cradle, quite
uninjured, and the body of an enormous wolf, frightfully torn and
mangled, lying near. His breast was now filled with conflicting
emotions, joy for the preservation of his son, and grief for the
fate of his dog, to whom he forthwith hastened. The poor animal
was not quite dead, but presently expired, in the act of licking
his master's hand. Llywelyn mourned over him as over a brother,
buried him with funeral honours in the valley, and erected a tomb
over him as over a hero. From that time the valley was called Beth
Gelert.

Such is the legend, which, whether true or fictitious, is
singularly beautiful and affecting.

The tomb, or what is said to be the tomb, of Gelert, stands in a
beautiful meadow just below the precipitous side of Cerrig Llan:
it consists of a large slab lying on its side, and two upright
stones. It is shaded by a weeping willow, and is surrounded by a
hexagonal paling. Who is there acquainted with the legend, whether
he believes that the dog lies beneath those stones or not, can
visit them without exclaiming with a sigh, "Poor Gelert!"

After wandering about the valley for some time, and seeing a few of
its wonders, I inquired my way for Festiniog, and set off for that
place. The way to it is through the pass at the south-east end of
the valley. Arrived at the entrance of the pass I turned round to
look at the scenery I was leaving behind me; the view which
presented itself to my eyes was very grand and beautiful. Before
me lay the meadow of Gelert with the river flowing through it
towards the pass. Beyond the meadow the Snowdon range; on the
right the mighty Cerrig Llan; on the left the equally mighty, but
not quite so precipitous, Hebog. Truly, the valley of Gelert is a
wondrous valley - rivalling for grandeur and beauty any vale either
in the Alps or Pyrenees. After a long and earnest view I turned
round again and proceeded on my way.

Presently I came to a bridge bestriding the stream, which a man
told me was called Pont Aber Glas Lyn, or the bridge of the
debouchement of the grey lake. I soon emerged from the pass, and
after proceeding some way stopped again to admire the scenery. To
the west was the Wyddfa; full north was a stupendous range of
rocks; behind them a conical peak seemingly rivalling the Wyddfa
itself in altitude; between the rocks and the road, where I stood,
was beautiful forest scenery. I again went on, going round the
side of a hill by a gentle ascent. After a little time I again
stopped to look about me. There was the rich forest scenery to the
north, behind it were the rocks and behind the rocks rose the
wonderful conical hill impaling heaven; confronting it to the
south-east, was a huge lumpish hill. As I stood looking about me I
saw a man coming across a field which sloped down to the road from
a small house. He presently reached me, stopped and smiled. A
more open countenance than his I never saw in all the days of my
life.

"Dydd dachwi, sir," said the man of the open countenance, "the
weather is very showy."

"Very showy, indeed," said I; "I was just now wishing for somebody,
of whom I might ask a question or two."

"Perhaps I can answer those questions, sir?"

"Perhaps you can. What is the name of that wonderful peak sticking
up behind the rocks to the north?"

"Many people have asked that question, sir, and I have given them
the answer which I now give you. It is called the 'Knicht,' sir;
and a wondrous hill it is."

"And what is the name of yonder hill opposite to it, to the south,
rising like one big lump."

"I do not know the name of that hill, sir, farther than that I have
heard it called the Great Hill."

"And a very good name for it," said I; "do you live in that house?"

"I do, sir, when I am at home."

"And what occupation do you follow?"

"I am a farmer, though a small one."

"Is your farm your own?"

"It is not, sir: I am not so far rich."

"Who is your landlord?"

"Mr Blicklin, sir. He is my landlord."

"Is he a good landlord?"

"Very good, sir, no one can wish for a better landlord."

"Has he a wife?"

"In truth, sir, he has; and a very good wife she is."

"Has he children?"

"Plenty, sir; and very fine children they are."

"Is he Welsh?"

"He is, sir! Cumro pur iawn."

"Farewell," said I; "I shall never forget you; you are the first
tenant I ever heard speak well of his landlord, or any one
connected with him."

"Then you have not spoken to the other tenants of Mr Blicklin, sir.
Every tenant of Mr Blicklin would say the same of him as I have
said, and of his wife and his children too. Good-day, sir!"

I wended on my way; the sun was very powerful; saw cattle in a pool
on my right, maddened with heat and flies, splashing and fighting.
Presently I found myself with extensive meadows on my right, and a
wall of rocks on my left, on a lofty bank below which I saw goats
feeding; beautiful creatures they were, white and black, with long
silky hair, and long upright horns. They were of large size, and
very different in appearance from the common race. These were the
first goats which I had seen in Wales; for Wales is not at present
the land of goats, whatever it may have been.

I passed under a crag exceedingly lofty, and of very frightful
appearance. It hung menacingly over the road. With this crag the
wall of rocks terminated; beyond it lay an extensive strath,
meadow, or marsh bounded on the cast by a lofty hill. The road lay
across the marsh. I went forward, crossed a bridge over a
beautiful streamlet, and soon arrived at the foot of the hill. The
road now took a turn to the right, that is to the south, and seemed
to lead round the hill. Just at the turn of the road stood a small
neat cottage. There was a board over the door with an inscription.
I drew nigh and looked at it, expecting that it would tell me that
good ale was sold within, and read: "Tea made here, the draught
which cheers but not inebriates." I was before what is generally
termed a temperance house.

"The bill of fare does not tempt you, sir," said a woman who made
her appearance at the door, just as I was about to turn away with
an exceedingly wry face.

"It does not," said I, "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to
have nothing better to offer to a traveller than a cup of tea. I
am faint; and I want good ale to give me heart, not wishy-washy tea
to take away the little strength I have."

"What would you have me do, sir? Glad should I be to have a cup of
ale to offer you, but the magistrates, when I applied to them for a
licence, refused me one; so I am compelled to make a cup of tea, in
order to get a crust of bread. And if you choose to step in, I
will make you a cup of tea, not wishy-washy, I assure you, but as
good as ever was brewed."

"I had tea for my breakfast at Beth Gelert," said I, "and want no
more till to-morrow morning. What's the name of that strange-
looking crag across the valley?"

"We call it Craig yr hyll ddrem, sir; which means - I don't know
what it means in English."

"Does it mean the crag of the frightful look?"

"It does, sir," said the woman; "ah, I see you understand Welsh.
Sometimes it's called Allt Traeth."

"The high place of the sandy channel," said I; "did the sea ever
come up here?"

"I can't say, sir; perhaps it did; who knows?"

"I shouldn't wonder," said I, "if there was once an arm of the sea
between that crag and this hill. Thank you! Farewell."

"Then you won't walk in, sir?

"Not to drink tea," said I, "tea is a good thing at a proper time,
but were I to drink it now, it would make me ill."

"Pray, sir, walk in," said the woman, "and perhaps I can
accommodate you."

"Then you have ale?" said I.

"No, sir; not a drop, but perhaps I can set something before you
which you will like as well."

"That I question," said I, "however, I will walk in."

The woman conducted me into a nice little parlour, and, leaving me,
presently returned with a bottle and tumbler on a tray.

"Here, sir," said she, "is something, which though not ale, I hope
you will be able to drink."

"What is it?" said I.

"It is -, sir; and better never was drunk."

I tasted it; it was terribly strong. Those who wish for either
whisky or brandy far above proof, should always go to a temperance
house.

I told the woman to bring me some water, and she brought me a jug
of water cold from the spring. With a little of the contents of
the bottle, and a deal of the contents of the jug, I made myself a
beverage tolerable enough; a poor substitute, however, to a genuine
Englishman for his proper drink, the liquor which, according to the
Edda, is called by men ale, and by the gods beer.

I asked the woman whether she could read; she told me that she
could, both Welsh and English; she likewise informed me that she
had several books in both languages. I begged her to show me some,
whereupon she brought me some half dozen, and placing them on the
table left me to myself. Amongst the books was a volume of poems
in Welsh, written by Robert Williams of Betws Fawr, styled in
poetic language, Gwilym Du O Eifion. The poems were chiefly on
religious subjects. The following lines which I copied from
"Pethau a wnaed mewn Gardd," or things written in a garden,
appeared to me singularly beautiful:-


"Mewn gardd y cafodd dyn ei dwyllo;
Mewn gardd y rhoed oddewid iddo;
Mewn gardd bradychwyd Iesu hawddgar;
Mewn gardd amdowyd ef mewn daear."

"In a garden the first of our race was deceived;
In a garden the promise of grace he received;
In a garden was Jesus betrayed to His doom;
In a garden His body was laid in the tomb."


Having finished my glass of "summut" and my translation, I called
to the woman and asked her what I had to pay.

"Nothing," said she, "if you had had a cup of tea I should have
charged sixpence."

"You make no charge," said I, "for what I have had?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing."

"But suppose," said I, "I were to give you something by way of
present would you - " and here I stopped. The woman smiled.

"Would you fling it in my face?" said I.

"Oh dear, no, sir," said the woman, smiling more than before.

I gave her something - it was not a sixpence - at which she not
only smiled but curtseyed; then bidding her farewell I went out of
the door.

I was about to take the broad road, which led round the hill, when
she inquired of me where I was going, and on my telling her to
Festiniog, she advised me to go by a by-road behind the house which
led over the hill.

"If you do, sir," said she, "you will see some of the finest
prospects in Wales, get into the high road again, and save a mile
and a half of way."

I told the temperance woman I would follow her advice, whereupon
she led me behind the house, pointed to a rugged path, which with a
considerable ascent seemed to lead towards the north, and after
giving certain directions, not very intelligible, returned to her
temperance temple.



CHAPTER XLVII



Spanish Proverb - The Short Cut - Predestinations - Rhys Goch - Old
Crusty - Undercharging - The Cavalier.


THE Spaniards have a proverb: "No hay atajo sin trabajo," there is
no short cut without a deal of labour. This proverb is very true,
as I know by my own experience, for I never took a short cut in my
life, and I have taken many in my wanderings, without falling down,
getting into a slough, or losing my way. On the present occasion I
lost my way, and wandered about for nearly two hours amidst rocks,
thickets, and precipices, without being able to find it. The
temperance woman, however, spoke nothing but the truth when she
said I should see some fine scenery. From a rock I obtained a
wonderful view of the Wyddfa towering in sublime grandeur in the
west, and of the beautiful, but spectral, Knicht shooting up high
in the north; and from the top of a bare hill I obtained a prospect
to the south, noble indeed - waters, forests, hoary mountains, and
in the far distance the sea. But all these fine prospects were a
poor compensation for what I underwent: I was scorched by the sun,
which was insufferably hot, and my feet were bleeding from the
sharp points of the rocks which cut through my boots like razors.
At length coming to a stone wall I flung myself down under it, and
almost thought that I should give up the ghost. After some time,
however, I recovered, and getting up tried to find my way out of
the anialwch. Sheer good fortune caused me to stumble upon a path,
by following which I came to a lone farm-house, where a good-
natured woman gave me certain directions by means of which I at
last got out of the hot stony wilderness, for such it was, upon a
smooth royal road.

"Trust me again taking any short cuts," said I, "after the specimen
I have just had." This, however, I had frequently said before, and
have said since after taking short cuts - and probably shall often
say again before I come to my great journey's end.

I turned to the east which I knew to be my proper direction, and
being now on smooth ground put my legs to their best speed. The
road by a rapid descent conducted me to a beautiful valley with a
small town at its southern end. I soon reached the town, and on
inquiring its name found I was in Tan y Bwlch, which interpreted
signifieth "Below the Pass." Feeling much exhausted I entered the
Grapes Inn.

On my calling for brandy and water I was shown into a handsome
parlour. The brandy and water soon restored the vigour which I had
lost in the wilderness. In the parlour was a serious-looking
gentleman, with a glass of something before him. With him, as I
sipped my brandy and water, I got into discourse. The discourse
soon took a religious turn, and terminated in a dispute. He told
me he believed in divine predestination; I told him I did not, but
that I believed in divine prescience. He asked me whether I hoped
to be saved; I told him I did, and asked him whether he hoped to be
saved. He told me he did not, and as he said so, he tapped with a
silver tea-spoon on the rim of his glass. I said that he seemed to
take very coolly the prospect of damnation; he replied that it was
of no use taking what was inevitable otherwise than coolly. I
asked him on what ground he imagined he should be lost; he replied
on the ground of being predestined to be lost. I asked him how he
knew he was predestined to be lost; whereupon he asked me how I
knew I was to be saved. I told him I did not know I was to be
saved, but trusted I should be so by belief in Christ, who came
into the world to save sinners, and that if he believed in Christ
he might be as easily saved as myself, or any other sinner who
believed in Him. Our dispute continued a considerable time longer.
At last, finding him silent, and having finished my brandy and
water, I got up, rang the bell, paid for what I had had, and left
him looking very miserable, perhaps at finding that he was not
quite so certain of eternal damnation as he had hitherto supposed.
There can be no doubt that the idea of damnation is anything but
disagreeable to some people; it gives them a kind of gloomy
consequence in their own eyes. We must be something particular
they think, or God would hardly think it worth His while to torment
us for ever.

I inquired the way to Festiniog, and finding that I had passed by
it on my way to the town, I went back, and as directed turned to
the east up a wide pass, down which flowed a river. I soon found
myself in another and very noble valley, intersected by the river
which was fed by numerous streams rolling down the sides of the
hills. The road which I followed in the direction of the east lay
on the southern side of the valley and led upward by a steep
ascent. On I went, a mighty hill close on my right. My mind was
full of enthusiastic fancies; I was approaching Festiniog the
birthplace of Rhys Goch, who styled himself Rhys Goch of Eryri or
Red Rhys of Snowdon, a celebrated bard, and a partisan of Owen
Glendower, who lived to an immense age, and who, as I had read, was
in the habit of composing his pieces seated on a stone which formed
part of a Druidical circle, for which reason the stone was called
the chair of Rhys Goch; yes, my mind was full of enthusiastic
fancies all connected with this Rhys Goch, and as I went along
slowly, I repeated stanzas of furious war songs of his exciting his
countrymen to exterminate the English, and likewise snatches of an
abusive ode composed by him against a fox who had run away with his
favourite peacock, a piece so abounding with hard words that it was
termed the Drunkard's chokepear, as no drunkard was ever able to
recite it, and ever and anon I wished I could come in contact with
some native of the region with whom I could talk about Rhys Goch,
and who could tell me whereabouts stood his chair.

Strolling along in this manner I was overtaken by an old fellow
with a stick in his hand, walking very briskly. He had a crusty
and rather conceited look. I spoke to him in Welsh, and he
answered in English, saying that I need not trouble myself by
speaking Welsh, as he had plenty of English, and of the very best.
We were from first to last at cross purposes. I asked him about
Rhys Goch and his chair. He told me that he knew nothing of
either, and began to talk of Her Majesty's ministers and the fine
sights of London. I asked him the name of a stream which,
descending a gorge on our right, ran down the side of a valley, to
join the river at its bottom. He told me that he did not know, and
asked me the name of the Queen's eldest daughter. I told him I did
not know, and remarked that it was very odd that he could not tell
me the name of a stream in his own vale. He replied that it was
not a bit more odd than that I could not tell him the name of the
eldest daughter of the Queen of England: I told him that when I
was in Wales I wanted to talk about Welsh matters, and he told me
that when he was with English he wanted to talk about English
matters. I returned to the subject of Rhys Goch and his chair, and
he returned to the subject of Her Majesty's ministers, and the fine
folks of London. I told him that I cared not a straw about Her
Majesty's ministers and the fine folks of London, and he replied
that he cared not a straw for Rhys Goch, his chair or old women's
stories of any kind.

Regularly incensed against the old fellow, I told him he was a bad
Welshman, and he retorted by saying I was a bad Englishman. I said
he appeared to know next to nothing. He retorted by saying I knew
less than nothing, and almost inarticulate with passion added that
he scorned to walk in such illiterate company, and suiting the
action to the word sprang up a steep and rocky footpath on the
right, probably a short cut to his domicile, and was out of sight
in a twinkling. We were both wrong: I most so. He was crusty and
conceited, but I ought to have humoured him and then I might have
got out of him anything he knew, always supposing that he knew
anything.

About an hour's walk from Tan y Bwlch brought me to Festiniog,
which is situated on the top of a lofty hill looking down from the
south-east, on the valley which I have described, and which as I
know not its name I shall style the Valley of the numerous streams.
I went to the inn, a large old-fashioned house standing near the
church; the mistress of it was a queer-looking old woman,
antiquated in her dress and rather blunt in her manner. Of her,
after ordering dinner, I made inquiries respecting the chair of
Rhys Goch, but she said that she had never heard of such a thing,
and after glancing at me askew, for a moment, with a curiously-
formed left eye which she had, went away muttering chair, chair;
leaving me in a large and rather dreary parlour, to which she had
shown me. I felt very fatigued, rather I believe from that unlucky
short cut than from the length of the way, for I had not come more
than eighteen miles. Drawing a chair towards a table I sat down,
and placing my elbows upon the board I leaned my face upon my
upturned hands, and presently fell into a sweet sleep, from which I
awoke exceedingly refreshed just as a maid opened the room door to
lay the cloth.

After dinner I got up, went out and strolled about the place. It
was small, and presented nothing very remarkable. Tired of
strolling I went and leaned my back against the wall of the
churchyard and enjoyed the cool of the evening, for evening with
its coolness and shadows had now come on.

As I leaned against the wall, an elderly man came up and entered
into discourse with me. He told me he was a barber by profession,
had travelled all over Wales, and had seen London. I asked him
about the chair of Rhys Goch. He told me that he had heard of some
such chair a long time ago, but could give me no information as to
where it stood. I know not how it happened that he came to speak
about my landlady, but speak about her he did. He said that she
was a good kind of woman, but totally unqualified for business, as
she knew not how to charge. On my observing that that was a piece
of ignorance with which few landladies or landlords either were
taxable, he said that however other publicans might overcharge,
undercharging was her foible, and that she had brought herself very
low in the world by it - that to his certain knowledge she might
have been worth thousands instead of the trifle which she was
possessed of, and that she was particularly notorious for
undercharging the English, a thing never before dreamt of in Wales.
I told him that I was very glad that I had come under the roof of
such a landlady; the old barber, however, said that she was setting
a bad example, that such goings on could not last long, that he
knew how things would end, and finally working himself up into a
regular tiff left me abruptly without wishing me good-night.

I returned to the inn, and called for lights; the lights were
placed upon the table in the old-fashioned parlour, and I was left
to myself. I walked up and down the room some time. At length,
seeing some old books lying in a corner, I laid hold of them,
carried them to the table, sat down and began to inspect them; they
were the three volumes of Scott's "Cavalier" - I had seen this work
when a youth, and thought it a tiresome trashy publication.
Looking over it now when I was grown old I thought so still, but I
now detected in it what from want of knowledge I had not detected
in my early years, what the highest genius, had it been manifested
in every page, could not have compensated for, base fulsome
adulation of the worthless great, and most unprincipled libelling
of the truly noble ones of the earth, because they the sons of
peasants and handycraftsmen, stood up for the rights of outraged
humanity, and proclaimed that it is worth makes the man and not
embroidered clothing. The heartless, unprincipled son of the
tyrant was transformed in that worthless book into a slightly-
dissipated, it is true, but upon the whole brave, generous and
amiable being; and Harrison, the English Regulus, honest, brave,
unflinching Harrison, into a pseudo-fanatic, a mixture of the rogue
and fool. Harrison, probably the man of the most noble and
courageous heart that England ever produced, who when all was lost
scorned to flee, like the second Charles from Worcester, but,
braved infamous judges and the gallows, who when reproached on his
mock trial with complicity in the death of the king, gave the noble
answer that "It was a thing not done in a corner," and when in the
cart on the way to Tyburn, on being asked jeeringly by a lord's
bastard in the crowd, "Where is the good old cause now?" thrice
struck his strong fist on the breast which contained his courageous
heart, exclaiming, "Here, here, here!" Yet for that "Cavalier,"
that trumpery publication, the booksellers of England, on its first
appearance, gave an order to the amount of six thousand pounds.
But they were wise in their generation; they knew that the book
would please the base, slavish taste of the age, a taste which the
author of the work had had no slight share in forming.

Tired after a while with turning over the pages of the trashy
"Cavalier" I returned the volumes to their place in the corner,
blew out one candle, and taking the other in my hand marched off to
bed.



CHAPTER XLVIII



The Bill - The Two Mountains - Sheet of Water - The Afanc-Crocodile
- The Afanc-Beaver - Tai Hirion - Kind Woman - Arenig Vawr - The
Beam and Mote - Bala.


AFTER breakfasting I demanded my bill. I was curious to see how
little the amount would be, for after what I had heard from the old
barber the preceding evening about the utter ignorance of the
landlady in making a charge, I naturally expected that I should
have next to nothing to pay. When it was brought, however, and the
landlady brought it herself, I could scarcely believe my eyes.
Whether the worthy woman had lately come to a perception of the
folly of undercharging, and had determined to adopt a different
system; whether it was that seeing me the only guest in the house
she had determined to charge for my entertainment what she usually
charged for that of two or three - strange by-the-bye that I should
be the only guest in a house notorious for undercharging - I know
not, but certain it is the amount of the bill was far, far from the
next to nothing which the old barber had led me to suppose I should
have to pay, who perhaps after all had very extravagant ideas with
respect to making out a bill for a Saxon. It was, however, not a
very unconscionable bill, and merely amounted to a trifle more than
I had paid at Beth Gelert for somewhat better entertainment.

Having paid the bill without demur and bidden the landlady
farewell, who displayed the same kind of indifferent bluntness
which she had manifested the day before, I set off in the direction
of the east, intending that my next stage should be Bala. Passing
through a tollgate I found myself in a kind of suburb consisting of
a few cottages. Struck with the neighbouring scenery, I stopped to
observe it. A mighty mountain rises in the north almost abreast of
Festiniog; another towards the east divided into two of unequal
size. Seeing a woman of an interesting countenance seated at the
door of a cottage I pointed to the hill towards the north, and
speaking the Welsh language, inquired its name.

"That hill, sir," said she, "is called Moel Wyn."

Now Moel Wyn signifies the white, bare hill.

"And how do you call those two hills towards the east?"

"We call one, sir, Mynydd Mawr, the other Mynydd Bach."

Now Mynydd Mawr signifies the great mountain and Mynydd Bach the
little one.

"Do any people live in those hills?"

"The men who work the quarries, sir, live in those hills. They and
their wives and their children. No other people."

"Have you any English?"

"I have not, sir. No people who live on this side the talcot
(tollgate) for a long way have any English."

I proceeded on my journey. The country for some way eastward of
Festiniog is very wild and barren, consisting of huge hills without
trees or verdure. About three miles' distance, however, there is a
beautiful valley, which you look down upon from the southern side
of the road, after having surmounted a very steep ascent. This
valley is fresh and green and the lower parts of the hills on its
farther side are, here and there, adorned with groves. At the
eastern end is a deep, dark gorge, or ravine, down which tumbles a
brook in a succession of small cascades. The ravine is close by
the road. The brook after disappearing for a time shows itself
again far down in the valley, and is doubtless one of the
tributaries of the Tan y Bwlch river, perhaps the very same brook
the name of which I could not learn the preceding day in the vale.

As I was gazing on the prospect an old man driving a peat cart came
from the direction in which I was going. I asked him the name of
the ravine and he told me it was Ceunant Coomb or hollow-dingle
coomb. I asked the name of the brook, and he told me that it was
called the brook of the hollow-dingle coomb, adding that it ran
under Pont Newydd, though where that was I knew not. Whilst he was
talking with me he stood uncovered. Yes, the old peat driver stood
with his hat in his hand whilst answering the questions of the
poor, dusty foot-traveller. What a fine thing to be an Englishman
in Wales!

In about an hour I came to a wild moor; the moor extended for miles
and miles. It was bounded on the east and south by immense hills
and moels. On I walked at a round pace, the sun scorching me sore,
along a dusty, hilly road, now up, now down. Nothing could be
conceived more cheerless than the scenery around. The ground on
each side of the road was mossy and rushy - no houses - instead of
them were neat stacks, here and there, standing in their blackness.
Nothing living to be seen except a few miserable sheep picking the
wretched herbage, or lying panting on the shady side of the peat
clumps. At length I saw something which appeared to be a sheet of
water at the bottom of a low ground on my right. It looked far off
- "Shall I go and see what it is?" thought I to myself. "No,"
thought I. "It is too far off" - so on I walked till I lost sight
of it, when I repented and thought I would go and see what it was.
So I dashed down the moory slope on my right, and presently saw the
object again - and now I saw that it was water. I sped towards it
through gorse and heather, occasionally leaping a deep drain. At
last I reached it. It was a small lake. Wearied and panting I
flung myself on its bank and gazed upon it.

There lay the lake in the low bottom, surrounded by the heathery
hillocks; there it lay quite still, the hot sun reflected upon its
surface, which shone like a polished blue shield. Near the shore
it was shallow, at least near that shore upon which I lay. But
farther on, my eye, practised in deciding upon the depths of
waters, saw reason to suppose that its depth was very great. As I
gazed upon it my mind indulged in strange musings. I thought of
the afanc, a creature which some have supposed to be the harmless
and industrious beaver, others the frightful and destructive
crocodile. I wondered whether the afanc was the crocodile or the
beaver, and speedily had no doubt that the name was originally
applied to the crocodile.

"Oh, who can doubt," thought I, "that the word was originally
intended for something monstrous and horrible? Is there not
something horrible in the look and sound of the word afanc,
something connected with the opening and shutting of immense jaws,
and the swallowing of writhing prey? Is not the word a fitting
brother of the Arabic timsah, denoting the dread horny lizard of
the waters? Moreover, have we not the voice of tradition that the
afanc was something monstrous? Does it not say that Hu the Mighty,
the inventor of husbandry, who brought the Cumry from the summer-
country, drew the old afanc out of the lake of lakes with his four
gigantic oxen? Would he have had recourse to them to draw out the
little harmless beaver? Oh, surely not. Yet have I no doubt that
when the crocodile had disappeared from the lands, where the Cumric
language was spoken, the name afanc was applied to the beaver,
probably his successor in the pool, the beaver now called in Cumric
Llostlydan, or the broad-tailed, for tradition's voice is strong
that the beaver has at one time been called the afanc." Then I
wondered whether the pool before me had been the haunt of the
afanc, considered both as crocodile and beaver. I saw no reason to
suppose that it had not. "If crocodiles," thought I, "ever existed
in Britain, and who shall say that they have not, seeing that there
remains have been discovered, why should they not have haunted this
pool? If beavers ever existed in Britain, and do not tradition and
Giraldus say that they have, why should they not have existed in
this pool?

"At a time almost inconceivably remote, when the hills around were
covered with woods, through which the elk and the bison and the
wild cow strolled, when men were rare throughout the lands and
unlike in most things to the present race - at such a period - and
such a period there has been - I can easily conceive that the
afanc-crocodile haunted this pool, and that when the elk or bison
or wild cow came to drink of its waters the grim beast would
occasionally rush forth, and seizing his bellowing victim, would
return with it to the deeps before me to luxuriate at his ease upon
its flesh. And at a time less remote, when the crocodile was no
more, and though the woods still covered the hills, and wild cattle
strolled about, men were more numerous than before, and less unlike
the present race, I can easily conceive this lake to have been the
haunt of the afanc-beaver, that he here built cunningly his house
of trees and clay, and that to this lake the native would come with
his net and his spear to hunt the animal for his precious fur.
Probably if the depths of that pool were searched relics of the
crocodile and the beaver might be found, along with other strange
things connected with the periods in which they respectively lived.
Happy were I if for a brief space I could become a Cingalese that I
might swim out far into that pool, dive down into its deepest part
and endeavour to discover any strange things which beneath its
surface may lie." Much in this guise rolled my thoughts as I lay
stretched on the margin of the lake.

Satiated with musing I at last got up and endeavoured to regain the
road. I found it at last, though not without considerable
difficulty. I passed over moors, black and barren, along a dusty
road till I came to a valley; I was now almost choked with dust and
thirst, and longed for nothing in the world so much as for water;
suddenly I heard its blessed sound, and perceived a rivulet on my
left hand. It was crossed by two bridges, one immensely old and
terribly dilapidated, the other old enough, but in better repair -
went and drank under the oldest bridge of the two. The water
tasted of the peat of the moors, nevertheless I drank greedily of
it, for one must not be over-delicate upon the moors.

Refreshed with my draught I proceeded briskly on my way, and in a
little time saw a range of white buildings, diverging from the road
on the right hand, the gable of the first abutting upon it. A kind
of farm-yard was before them. A respectable-looking woman was
standing in the yard. I went up to her and inquired the name of
the place.

"These houses, sir," said she, "are called Tai Hirion Mignaint.
Look over that door and you will see T. H. which letters stand for
Tai Hirion. Mignaint is the name of the place where they stand."

I looked, and upon a stone which formed the lintel of the
middlemost door I read "T. H 1630."

The words Tai Hirion it will be as well to say signify the long
houses.

I looked long and steadfastly at the inscription, my mind full of
thoughts of the past.

"Many a year has rolled by since these houses were built," said I,
as I sat down on a stepping-stone.

"Many indeed, sir," said the woman, "and many a strange thing has
happened."

"Did you ever hear of one Oliver Cromwell?" said I.

"Oh, yes, sir, and of King Charles too. The men of both have been
in this yard and have baited their horses; aye, and have mounted
their horses from the stone on which you sit."

"I suppose they were hardly here together?" said I.

"No, no, sir," said the woman, "they were bloody enemies, and could
never set their horses together."

"Are these long houses," said I, "inhabited by different families?"

"Only by one, sir, they make now one farm-house."

"Are you the mistress of it," said I.

"I am, sir, and my husband is the master. Can I bring you
anything, sir?"

"Some water," said I, "for I am thirsty, though I drank under the
old bridge."

The good woman brought me a basin of delicious milk and water.

"What are the names of the two bridges," said I, "a little way from
here?"

"They are called, sir, the old and new bridge of Tai Hirion; at
least we call them so."

"And what do you call the ffrwd that runs beneath them?"

"I believe, sir, it is called the river Twerin."

"Do you know a lake far up there amidst the moors?"

"I have seen it, sir; they call it Llyn Twerin."

"Does the river Twerin flow from it?"

"I believe it does, sir, but I do not know."

"Is the lake deep?"

"I have heard that it is very deep, sir, so much so that nobody
knows it's depth."

"Are there fish in it?"

"Digon, sir, digon iawn, and some very large. I once saw a Pen-
hwyad from that lake which weighed fifty pounds."

After a little farther conversation I got up, and thanking the kind
woman departed. I soon left the moors behind me and continued
walking till I came to a few houses on the margin of a meadow or
fen in a valley through which the way trended to the east. They
were almost overshadowed by an enormous mountain which rose beyond
the fen on the south. Seeing a house which bore a sign, and at the
door of which a horse stood tied, I went in, and a woman coming to
meet me in a kind of passage, I asked her if I could have some ale.

"Of the best, sir," she replied, and conducted me down the passage
into a neat room, partly kitchen, partly parlour, the window of
which looked out upon the fen. A rustic-looking man sat smoking at
a table with a jug of ale before him. I sat down near him, and the
good woman brought me a similar jug of ale, which on tasting I
found excellent. My spirits which had been for some time very
flagging presently revived, and I entered into conversation with my
companion at the table. From him I learned that he was a farmer of
the neighbourhood, that the horse tied before the door belonged to
him, that the present times were very bad for the producers of
grain, with very slight likelihood of improvement; that the place
at which we were was called Rhyd y fen, or the ford across the fen;
that it was just half way between Festiniog and Bala, that the
clergyman of the parish was called Mr Pughe, a good kind of man,
but very purblind in a spiritual sense; and finally that there was
no safe religion in the world, save that of the Calvinistic-
Methodists, to which my companion belonged.

Having finished my ale I paid for it, and leaving the Calvinistic
farmer still smoking, I departed from Rhyd y fen. On I went along
the valley, the enormous hill on my right, a moel of about half its
height on my left, and a tall hill bounding the prospect in the
east, the direction in which I was going. After a little time,
meeting two women, I asked them the name of the mountain to the
south.

"Arenig Vawr," they replied, or something like it.

Presently meeting four men I put the same question to the foremost,
a stout, burly, intelligent-looking fellow, of about fifty. He
gave me the same name as the women. I asked if anybody lived upon
it.

"No," said he, "too cold for man."

"Fox?" said I.

"No! too cold for fox."

"Crow?" said I.

"No, too cold for crow; crow would be starved upon it." He then
looked me in the face, expecting probably that I should smile.

I, however, looked at him with all the gravity of a judge,
whereupon he also observed the gravity of a judge, and we continued
looking at each other with all the gravity of judges till we both
simultaneously turned away, he followed by his companions going his
path, and I going mine.

I subsequently remembered that Arenig is mentioned in a Welsh poem,
though in anything but a flattering and advantageous manner. The
writer calls it Arenig ddiffaith or barren Arenig, and says that it
intercepts from him the view of his native land. Arenig is
certainly barren enough, for there is neither tree nor shrub upon
it, but there is something majestic in its huge bulk. Of all the
hills which I saw in Wales none made a greater impression upon me.

Towards evening I arrived at a very small and pretty village in the
middle of which was a tollgate. Seeing an old woman seated at the
door of the gate-house I asked her the name of the village. "I
have no Saesneg!" she screamed out.

"I have plenty of Cumraeg," said I, and repeated my question.
Whereupon she told me that it was called Tref y Talcot - the
village of the tollgate. That it was a very nice village, and that
she was born there. She then pointed to two young women who were
walking towards the gate at a very slow pace and told me they were
English. "I do not know them," said I. The old lady, who was
somewhat deaf, thinking that I said I did not know English, leered
at me complacently, and said that in that case, I was like herself,
for she did not speak a word of English, adding that a body should
not be considered a fool for not speaking English. She then said
that the young women had been taking a walk together, and that they
were much in each other's company for the sake of conversation, and
no wonder, as the poor simpletons could not speak a word of Welsh.
I thought of the beam and mote mentioned in Scripture, and then
cast a glance of compassion on the two poor young women. For a
moment I fancied myself in the times of Owen Glendower, and that I
saw two females, whom his marauders had carried off from Cheshire
or Shropshire to toil and slave in the Welshery, walking together
after the labours of the day were done, and bemoaning their
misfortunes in their own homely English.

Shortly after leaving the village of the tollgate I came to a
beautiful valley. On my right hand was a river the farther bank of
which was fringed with trees; on my left was a gentle ascent, the
lower part of which was covered with rich grass, and the upper with
yellow luxuriant corn; a little farther on was a green grove,
behind which rose up a moel. A more bewitching scene I never
beheld. Ceres and Pan seemed in this place to have met to hold
their bridal. The sun now descending shone nobly upon the whole.
After staying for some time to gaze, I proceeded, and soon met
several carts, from the driver of one of which I learned that I was
yet three miles from Bala. I continued my way and came to a
bridge, a little way beyond which I overtook two men, one of whom,
an old fellow, held a very long whip in his hand, and the other, a
much younger man with a cap on his head, led a horse. When I came
up the old fellow took off his hat to me, and I forthwith entered
into conversation with him. I soon gathered from him that he was a
horsedealer from Bala, and that he had been out on the road with
his servant to break a horse. I astonished the old man with my
knowledge of Welsh and horses, and learned from him - for
conceiving I was one of the right sort, he was very communicative -
two or three curious particulars connected with the Welsh mode of
breaking horses. Discourse shortened the way to both of us, and we
were soon in Bala. In the middle of the town he pointed to a large
old-fashioned house on the right hand, at the bottom of a little
square, and said, "Your honour was just asking me about an inn.
That is the best inn in Wales, and if your honour is as good a
judge of an inn as of a horse, I think you will say so when you
leave it. Prydnawn da 'chwi!"



CHAPTER XLIX



Tom Jenkins - Ale of Bala - Sober Moments - Local Prejudices - The
States - Unprejudiced Man - Welsh Pensilvanian Settlers - Drapery
Line - Evening Saunter.


SCARCELY had I entered the door of the inn when a man presented
himself to me with a low bow. He was about fifty years of age,
somewhat above the middle size, and had grizzly hair and a dark,
freckled countenance, in which methought I saw a considerable dash
of humour. He wore brown clothes, had no hat on his head, and held
a napkin in his hand. "Are you the master of this hotel?" said I.

"No, your honour," he replied, "I am only the waiter, but I
officiate for my master in all things; my master has great
confidence in me, sir."

"And I have no doubt," said I, "that he could not place his
confidence in any one more worthy."

With a bow yet lower than the preceding one the waiter replied with
a smirk and a grimace, "Thanks, your honour, for your good opinion.
I assure your honour that I am deeply obliged."

His air, manner, and even accent, were so like those of a
Frenchman, that I could not forbear asking him whether he was one.

He shook his head and replied, "No, your honour, no, I am not a
Frenchman, but a native of this poor country, Tom Jenkins by name."

"Well," said I, "you really look and speak like a Frenchman, but no
wonder; the Welsh and French are much of the same blood. Please
now to show me into the parlour."

He opened the door of a large apartment, placed a chair by a table
which stood in the middle, and then, with another bow, requested to
know my farther pleasure. After ordering dinner I said that as I
was thirsty I should like to have some ale forthwith.

"Ale you shall have, your honour," said Tom, "and some of the best
ale that can be drunk. This house is famous for ale."

"I suppose you get your ale from Llangollen," said I, "which is
celebrated for its ale over Wales."

"Get our ale from Llangollen?" said Tom, with sneer of contempt,
"no, nor anything else. As for the ale it was brewed in this house
by your honour's humble servant."

"Oh," said I, "if you brewed it, it must of course be good. Pray
bring me some immediately, for I am anxious to drink ale of your
brewing."

"Your honour shall be obeyed," said Tom, and disappearing returned
in a twinkling with a tray on which stood a jug filled with liquor
and a glass. He forthwith filled the glass, and pointing to its
contents said:

"There, your honour, did you ever see such ale? Observe its
colour! Does it not look for all the world as pale and delicate as
cowslip wine?"

"I wish it may not taste like cowslip wine," said I; "to tell you
the truth, I am no particular admirer of ale that looks pale and
delicate; for I always think there is no strength in it."

"Taste it, your honour," said Tom, "and tell me if you ever tasted
such ale."

I tasted it, and then took a copious draught. The ale was indeed
admirable, equal to the best that I had ever before drunk - rich
and mellow, with scarcely any smack of the hop in it, and though so
pale and delicate to the eye nearly as strong as brandy. I
commended it highly to the worthy Jenkins, who exultingly
exclaimed:

"That Llangollen ale indeed! no, no! ale like that, your honour,
was never brewed in that trumpery hole Llangollen."

"You seem to have a very low opinion of Llangollen?" said I.

"How can I have anything but a low opinion of it, your honour? A
trumpery hole it is, and ever will remain so."

"Many people of the first quality go to visit it," said I.

"That is because it lies so handy for England, your honour. If it
did not, nobody would go to see it. What is there to see in
Llangollen?"

"There is not much to see in the town, I admit," said I, "but the
scenery about it is beautiful: what mountains!"

"Mountains, your honour, mountains! well, we have mountains too,
and as beautiful as those of Llangollen. Then we have our lake,
our Llyn Tegid, the lake of beauty. Show me anything like that
near Llangollen?"

"Then," said I, "there is your mound, your Tomen Bala. The
Llangollen people can show nothing like that."

Tom Jenkins looked at me for a moment with some surprise, and then
said: "I see you have been here before, sir."

"No," said I, "never, but I have read about the Tomen Bala in
books, both Welsh and English."

"You have, sir," said Tom. "Well, I am rejoiced to see so book-
learned a gentleman in our house. The Tomen Bala has puzzled many
a head. What do the books which mention it say about it, your
honour?"

"Very little," said I, "beyond mentioning it; what do the people
here say of it?"

"All kinds of strange things, your honour."

"Do they say who built it?"

"Some say the Tylwyth Teg built it, others that it was cast up over
a dead king by his people. The truth is, nobody here knows who
built it, or anything about it, save that it is a wonder. Ah,
those people of Llangollen can show nothing like it."

"Come," said I, "you must not be so hard upon the people of
Llangollen. They appear to me upon the whole to be an eminently
respectable body."

The Celtic waiter gave a genuine French shrug. "Excuse me, your
honour, for being of a different opinion. They are all drunkards."

"I have occasionally seen drunken people at Llangollen," said I,
"but I have likewise seen a great many sober."

"That is, your honour, you have seen them in their sober moments;
but if you had watched, your honour, if you had kept your eye on
them, you would have seen them reeling too."

"That I can hardly believe," said I.

"Your honour can't! but I can who know them. They are all
drunkards, and nobody can live among them without being a drunkard.
There was my nephew - "

"What of him?" said I.

"Why he went to Llangollen, your honour, and died of a drunken
fever in less than a month."

"Well, but might he not have died of the same, if he had remained
at home?"

"No, your honour, no! he lived here many a year, and never died of
a drunken fever; he was rather fond of liquor, it is true, but he
never died at Bala of a drunken fever; but when he went to
Llangollen he did. Now, your honour, if there is not something
more drunken about Llangollen than about Bala, why did my nephew
die at Llangollen of a drunken fever?"

"Really," said I, "you are such a close reasoner, that I do not
like to dispute with you. One observation however, I wish to make:
I have lived at Llangollen, without, I hope, becoming a drunkard."

"Oh, your honour is out of the question," said the Celtic waiter
with a strange grimace. "Your honour is an Englishman, an English
gentleman, and of course could live all the days of your life at
Llangollen without being a drunkard, he, he! Who ever heard of an
Englishman, especially an English gentleman, being a drunkard, he,
he, he. And now, your honour, pray excuse me, for I must go and
see that your honour's dinner is being got ready in a suitable
manner."

Thereupon he left me with a bow yet lower than any I had previously
seen him make. If his manners put me in mind of those of a
Frenchman, his local prejudices brought powerfully to my
recollection those of a Spaniard. Tom Jenkins swears by Bala and
abuses Llangollen, and calls its people drunkards, just as a
Spaniard exalts his own village and vituperates the next and its
inhabitants, whom, though he will not call them drunkards, unless
indeed he happens to be a Gallegan, he will not hesitate to term
"una caterva de pillos y embusteros."

The dinner when it appeared was excellent, and consisted of many
more articles than I had ordered. After dinner, as I sat
"trifling" with my cold brandy and water, an individual entered, a
short thick dumpy man about thirty, with brown clothes and a broad
hat, and holding in his hand a large leather bag. He gave me a
familiar nod, and passing by the table at which I sat, to one near
the window, he flung the bag upon it, and seating himself in a
chair with his profile towards me, he untied the bag, from which he
poured a large quantity of sovereigns upon the table and fell to
counting them. After counting them three times he placed them
again in the bag which he tied up, then taking a small book,
seemingly an account-book, out of his pocket, he wrote something in
it with a pencil, then putting it in his pocket he took the bag and
unlocking a beaufet which stood at some distance behind him against
the wall, he put the bag into a drawer; then again locking the
beaufet he sat down in the chair, then tilting the chair back upon
its hind legs he kept swaying himself backwards and forwards upon
it, his toes sometimes upon the ground, sometimes mounting until
they tapped against the nether side of the table, surveying me all
the time with a queer kind of a side glance, and occasionally
ejecting saliva upon the carpet in the direction of place where I
sat.

"Fine weather, sir," said I, at last, rather tired of being skewed
and spit at in this manner.

"Why yaas," said the figure; "the day is tolerably fine, but I have
seen a finer."

"Well, I don't remember to have seen one," said I; "it is as fine a
day as I have seen during the present season, and finer weather
than I have seen during this season I do not think I ever saw
before."

"The weather is fine enough for Britain," said the figure, "but
there are other countries besides Britain."

"Why," said I, "there's the States, 'tis true."

"Ever been in the States, Mr?" said the figure quickly.

"Have I ever been in the States," said I, "have I ever been in the
States?"

"Perhaps you are of the States, Mr; I thought so from the first."

"The States are fine countries," said I.

"I guess they are, Mr."

"It would be no easy matter to whip the States."

"So I should guess, Mr."

"That is, single-handed," said I.

"Single-handed, no nor double-handed either. Let England and
France and the State which they are now trying to whip without
being able to do it, that's Russia, all unite in a union to whip
the Union, and if instead of whipping the States they don't get a
whipping themselves, call me a braying jackass - "

"I see, Mr," said I, "that you are a sensible man, because you
speak very much my own opinion. However, as I am an unprejudiced
person, like yourself, I wish to do justice to other countries -
the States are fine countries - but there are other fine countries
in the world. I say nothing of England; catch me saying anything
good of England; but I call Wales a fine country; gainsay it who
may, I call Wales a fine country."

"So it is, Mr."

"I'll go farther," said I; "I wish to do justice to everything: I
call the Welsh a fine language."

"So it is, Mr. Ah, I see you are an unprejudiced man. You don't
understand Welsh, I guess."

"I don't understand Welsh," said I; "I don't understand Welsh.
That's what I call a good one."

"Medrwch siarad Cumraeg?" said the short figure spitting on the
carpet.

"Medraf," said I.

"You can, Mr! Well, if that don't whip the Union. But I see: you
were born in the States of Welsh parents."

"No harm in being born in the States of Welsh parents," said I.

"None at all, Mr; I was myself, and the first language I learnt to
speak was Welsh. Did your people come from Bala, Mr?"

"Why no! Did yourn?"

"Why yaas - at least from the neighbourhood. What State do you
come from? Virginny?"

"Why no!"

"Perhaps Pensilvany country?"

"Pensilvany is a fine State," said I.

"So it is, Mr. Oh, that is your State, is it? I come from
Varmont."

"You do, do you? Well, Varmont is not a bad state, but not equal
to Pensilvany, and I'll tell you two reasons why; first it has not
been so long settled, and second there is not so much Welsh blood
in it as there is in Pensilvany."

"Is there much Welsh blood in Pensilvany then?"

"Plenty, Mr, plenty. Welsh flocked over to Pensilvany even as far
back as the time of William Pen, who as you know, Mr, was the first
founder of the Pensilvany State. And that puts me in mind that
there is a curious account extant of the adventures of one of the
old Welsh settlers in Pensilvania. It is to be found in a letter
in an old Welsh book. The letter is dated 1705, and is from one
Huw Jones, born of Welsh parents in Pensilvany country, to a cousin
of his of the same name residing in the neighbourhood of this very
town of Bala in Merionethshire, where you and I, Mr, now are. It
is in answer to certain inquiries made by the cousin, and is
written in pure old Welsh language. It gives an account of how the
writer's father left this neighbourhood to go to Pensilvania; how
he embarked on board the ship WILLIAM PEN; how he was thirty weeks
on the voyage from the Thames to the Delaware. Only think, Mr, of
a ship now-a-days being thirty weeks on the passage from the Thames
to the Delaware river; how he learnt the English language on the
voyage; how he and his companions nearly perished with hunger in
the wild wood after they landed; how Pensilvania city was built;
how he became a farmer and married a Welsh woman, the widow of a
Welshman from shire Denbigh, by whom he had the writer and several
other children; how the father used to talk to his children about
his native region and the places round about Bala, and fill their
breasts with longing for the land of their fathers; and finally how
the old man died leaving his children and their mother in
prosperous circumstances. It is a wonderful letter, Mr, all
written in the pure old Welsh language."

"I say, Mr, you are a cute one and know a thing or two. I suppose
Welsh was the first language you learnt, like myself?"

"No, it wasn't - I like to speak the truth - never took to either
speaking or reading the Welsh language till I was past sixteen."

"'Stonishing! but see the force of blood at last. In any line of
business?"

"No, Mr, can't say I am."

"Have money in your pocket, and travel for pleasure. Come to see
father's land."

"Come to see old Wales. And what brings you here, Hiraeth?"

"That's longing. No, not exactly. Came over to England to see
what I could do. Got in with house at Liverpool in the drapery
business. Travel for it hereabouts, having connections and
speaking the language. Do branch business here for a banking-house
besides. Manage to get on smartly."

"You look a smart 'un. But don't you find it sometimes hard to
compete with English travellers in the drapery line?"

"I guess not. English travellers! set of nat'rals. Don't know the
language and nothing else. Could whip a dozen any day. Regularly
flummox them."

"You do, Mr? Ah, I see you're a cute 'un. Glad to have met you."

"I say, Mr, you have not told me from what county your forefathers
were."

"From Norfolk and Cornwall counties."

"Didn't know there were such counties in Wales."

"But there are in England."

"Why, you told me you were of Welsh parents."

"No, I didn't. You told yourself so."

"But how did you come to know Welsh?"

"Why, that's my bit of a secret."

"But you are of the United States?"

"Never knew that before."

"Mr, you flummox me."

"Just as you do the English drapery travellers. Ah, you're a cute
'un - but do you think it altogether a cute trick to stow all those
sovereigns in that drawer?"

"Who should take them out, Mr?"

"Who should take them out? Why, any of the swell mob that should
chance to be in the house might unlock the drawer with their flash
keys as soon as your back is turned, and take out all the coin."

"But there are none of the swell mob here."

"How do you know, that?" said I, "the swell mob travel wide about -
how do you know that I am not one of them?"

"The swell mob don't speak Welsh, I guess."

"Don't be too sure of that," said I - "the swell coves spare no
expense for their education - so that they may be able to play
parts according to circumstances. I strongly advise you, Mr, to
put that bag somewhere else lest something should happen to it."

"Well, Mr, I'll take your advice. These are my quarters, and I was
merely going to keep the money here for convenience' sake. The
money belongs to the bank, so it is but right to stow it away in
the bank safe. I certainly should be loth to leave it here with
you in the room, after what you have said." He then got up,
unlocked the drawer, took out the bag, and with a "Goodnight, Mr,"
left the room.

I "trifled" over my brandy and water till I finished it, and then
walked forth to look at the town. I turned up a street, which led
to the east, and soon found myself beside the lake at the north-
west extremity of which Bala stands. It appeared a very noble
sheet of water stretching from north to south for several miles.
As, however, night was fast coming on I did not see it to its full
advantage. After gazing upon it for a few minutes I sauntered back
to the square, or marketplace, and leaning my back against a wall,
listened to the conversation of two or three groups of people who
were standing near, my motive for doing so being a desire to know
what kind of Welsh they spoke. Their language as far as I heard it
differed in scarcely any respect from that of Llangollen. I,
however, heard very little of it, for I had scarcely kept my
station a minute when the good folks became uneasy, cast side-
glances at me, first dropped their conversation to whispers, next
held their tongues altogether, and finally moved off, some going to
their homes, others moving to a distance and then grouping together
- even certain ragged boys who were playing and chattering near me
became uneasy, first stood still, then stared at me, and then took
themselves off and played and chattered at a distance. Now what
was the cause of all this? Why, suspicion of the Saxon. The Welsh
are afraid lest an Englishman should understand their language,
and, by hearing their conversation, become acquainted with their
private affairs, or by listening to it, pick up their language
which they have no mind that he should know - and their very
children sympathise with them. All conquered people are suspicious
of their conquerors, The English have forgot that they ever
conquered the Welsh, but some ages will elapse before the Welsh
forget that the English have conquered them.



CHAPTER L



The Breakfast - The Tomen Bala - El Punto de la Vana.


I SLEPT soundly that night, as well I might, my bed being good and
my body weary. I arose about nine, dressed and went down to the
parlour which was vacant. I rang the bell, and on Tom Jenkins
making his appearance I ordered breakfast, and then asked for the
Welsh American, and learned that he had breakfasted very early and
had set out in a gig on a journey to some distance. In about
twenty minutes after I had ordered it my breakfast made its
appearance. A noble breakfast it was; such indeed as I might have
read of, but had never before seen. There was tea and coffee, a
goodly white loaf and butter; there were a couple of eggs and two
mutton chops. There was broiled and pickled salmon - there was
fried trout - there were also potted trout and potted shrimps.
Mercy upon me! I had never previously seen such a breakfast set
before me, nor indeed have I subsequently. Yes, I have
subsequently, and at that very house when I visited it some months
after.

After breakfast I called for the bill. I forget the exact amount
of the bill, but remember that it was very moderate. I paid it and
gave the noble Thomas a shilling, which he received with a bow and
truly French smile, that is a grimace. When I departed the
landlord and landlady, highly respectable-looking elderly people,
were standing at the door, one on each side, and dismissed me with
suitable honour, he with a low bow, she with a profound curtsey.

Having seen little of the town on the preceding evening, I
determined before setting out for Llangollen to become better
acquainted with it, and accordingly took another stroll about it.

Bala is a town containing three or four thousand inhabitants,
situated near the northern end of an oblong valley, at least two-
thirds of which are occupied by Llyn Tegid. It has two long
streets, extending from north to south, a few narrow cross ones, an
ancient church, partly overgrown with ivy, with a very pointed
steeple, and a town-hall of some antiquity, in which Welsh
interludes used to be performed. After gratifying my curiosity
with respect to the town, I visited the mound - the wondrous Tomen
Bala.

The Tomen Bala stands at the northern end of the town. It is
apparently formed of clay, is steep and of difficult ascent. In
height it is about thirty feet, and in diameter at the top about
fifty. On the top grows a gwern or alder-tree, about a foot thick,
its bark terribly scotched with letters and uncouth characters,
carved by the idlers of the town who are fond of resorting to the
top of the mound in fine weather, and lying down on the grass which
covers it. The Tomen is about the same size as Glendower's Mount
on the Dee, which it much resembles in shape. Both belong to that
brotherhood of artificial mounds of unknown antiquity, found
scattered, here and there, throughout Europe and the greater part
of Asia, the most remarkable specimen of which is, perhaps, that
which stands on the right side of the way from Adrianople to
Stamboul, and which is called by the Turks Mourad Tepehsi, or the
tomb of Mourad. Which mounds seem to have been originally intended
as places of sepulture, but in many instances were afterwards used
as strongholds, bonhills or beacon-heights, or as places on which
adoration was paid to the host of heaven.

From the Tomen there is a noble view of the Bala valley, the Lake
of Beauty up to its southern extremity, and the neighbouring and
distant mountains. Of Bala, its lake and Tomen, I shall have
something to say on a future occasion.

Leaving Bala I passed through the village of Llanfair and found
myself by the Dee, whose course I followed for some way. Coming to
the northern extremity of the Bala valley, I entered a pass tending
due north. Here the road slightly diverged from the river. I sped
along, delighted with the beauty of the scenery. On my left was a
high bank covered with trees, on my right a grove, through openings
in which I occasionally caught glimpses of the river, over whose
farther side towered noble hills. An hour's walking brought me
into a comparatively open country, fruitful and charming. At about
one o'clock I reached a large village, the name of which, like
those of most Welsh villages, began with Llan. There I refreshed
myself for an hour or two in an old-fashioned inn, and then resumed
my journey.

I passed through Corwen; again visited Glendower's monticle upon
the Dee, and reached Llangollen shortly after sunset, where I found
my beloved two well and glad to see me.

That night, after tea, Henrietta played on the guitar the old
muleteer tune of "El Punto de la Vana," or the main point at the
Havanna, whilst I sang the words -


"Never trust the sample when you go your cloth to buy:
The woman's most deceitful that's dressed most daintily.
The lasses of Havanna ride to mass in coaches yellow,
But ere they go they ask if the priest's a handsome fellow.
The lasses of Havanna as mulberries are dark,
And try to make them fairer by taking Jesuit's bark."



CHAPTER LI



The Ladies of Llangollen - Sir Alured - Eisteddfodau - Pleasure and
Care.


SHORTLY after my return I paid a visit to my friends at the
Vicarage, who were rejoiced to see me back, and were much
entertained with the account I gave of my travels. I next went to
visit the old church clerk of whom I had so much to say on a former
occasion. After having told him some particulars of my expedition,
to all of which he listened with great attention, especially to
that part which related to the church of Penmynydd and the tomb of
the Tudors, I got him to talk about the ladies of Llangollen, of
whom I knew very little save what I had heard from general report.
I found he remembered their first coming to Llangollen, their
living in lodgings, their purchasing the ground called Pen y maes,
and their erecting upon it the mansion to which the name of Plas
Newydd was given. He said they were very eccentric, but good and
kind, and had always shown most particular favour to himself; that
both were highly connected, especially Lady Eleanor Butler, who was
connected by blood with the great Duke of Ormond who commanded the
armies of Charles in Ireland in the time of the great rebellion,
and also with the Duke of Ormond who succeeded Marlborough in the
command of the armies in the Low Countries in the time of Queen
Anne, and who fled to France shortly after the accession of George
the First to the throne, on account of being implicated in the
treason of Harley and Bolingbroke; and that her ladyship was
particularly fond of talking of both these dukes, and relating
anecdotes concerning them. He said that the ladies were in the
habit of receiving the very first people in Britain, "amongst
whom," said the old church clerk, "was an ancient gentleman of most
engaging appearance and captivating manners, called Sir Alured C-.
He was in the army, and in his youth, owing to the beauty of his
person, was called , 'the handsome captain.' It was said that one
of the royal princesses was desperately in love with him, and that
on that account George the Third insisted on his going to India.
Whether or not there was truth in the report, to India he went,
where he served with distinction for a great many years. On his
return, which was not till he was upwards of eighty, he was
received with great favour by William the Fourth, who amongst other
things made him a field-marshal. As often as October came round
did this interesting and venerable gentleman make his appearance at
Llangollen to pay his respects to the ladies, especially to Lady
Eleanor, whom he had known at Court as far back they say as the
American war. It was rumoured at Llangollen that Lady Eleanor's
death was a grievous blow to Sir Alured, and that he would never be
seen there again. However, when October came round he made his
appearance at the Vicarage, where he had always been in the habit
of taking up his quarters, and called on and dined with Miss
Ponsonby at Plas Newydd, but it was observed that he was not so gay
as he had formerly been. In the evening, on his taking leave of
Miss Ponsonby, she said that he had used her ill. Sir Alured
coloured, and asked her what she meant, adding that he had not to
his knowledge used any person ill in the course of his life. 'But
I say you have used me ill, very ill,' said Miss Ponsonby, raising
her voice, and the words 'very ill' she repeated several times. At