“To the Pont y Gwr Drwg,” said I.
He then asked me if I was an Englishman.
“O yes!” said I, “I am Carn Sais;” whereupon with a strange mixture in his face of malignity and contempt, he answered in English that he didn’t understand me.
“You understood me very well,” said I, without changing my language, “till I told you I was an Englishman. Harkee, man with the broken hat, you are one of the bad Welsh, who don’t like the English to know the language, lest they should discover your lies and rogueries.” He evidently understood what I said, for he gnashed his teeth though he said nothing. “Well,” said I, “I shall go down to those children and inquire the name of the house,” and I forthwith began to descend the path, the fellow uttering a contemptuous “humph” behind me, as much as to say, much you’ll make out down there. I soon reached the bottom, and advanced towards the house. The dogs had all along been barking violently; as I drew near to them, however, they ceased, and two of the largest came forward wagging their tails. “The dogs were not barking at me,” said I, “but at that vagabond above.” I went up to the children; they were four in number, two boys and two girls, all red-haired, but tolerably good-looking. They had neither shoes nor stockings. “What is the name of this house?” said I to the eldest, a boy about seven years old. He looked at me, but made no answer. I repeated my question; still there was no answer, but methought I heard a humph of triumph from the hill. “Don’t crow quite yet, old chap,” thought I to myself, and putting my hand into my pocket, I took out a penny; and offering it to the child, said, “Now, small man, Peth wy y enw y lle hwn?” Instantly the boy’s face became intelligent, and putting out the fat little hand, he took the ceiniog, and said in an audible whisper, “Waen y Bwlch.” “I am all right,” said I to myself, “that is one of the names of the places which the old ostler said I must go through.” Then addressing myself to the child, I said, “Where’s your father and mother?”
“Out on the hill,” whispered the child.
“What’s your father?”
“A shepherd.”
“Good,” said I. “Now can you tell me the way to the bridge of the evil man?” But the features became blank, the finger was put to the mouth, and the head was hung down. That question was evidently beyond the child’s capacity. “Thank you!” said I, and turning round, I regained the path on the top of the bank. The fellow and his donkey were still there. “I had no difficulty,” said I, “in obtaining information; the place’s name is Waen y Bwlch. But oes genoch dim Cumraeg—you have no Welsh.” Thereupon I proceeded along the path in the direction of the east. Forthwith the fellow said something to his animal, and both came following fast behind. I quickened my pace, but the fellow and his beast were close in my rear. Presently I came to a place where another path branched off to the south. I stopped, looked at it, and then went on, but scarcely had done so when I heard another exulting “humph” behind. “I am going wrong,” said I to myself; “that other path is the way to the Devil’s Bridge, and the scamp knows it, or he would not have grunted.” Forthwith I faced round, and brushing past the fellow without a word turned into the other path and hurried along it. By a side glance which I cast I could see him staring after me; presently, however, he uttered a sound very much like a Welsh curse, and kicking his beast proceeded on his way, and I saw no more of him. In a little time I came to a slough which crossed the path. I did not like the look of it at all; and to avoid it ventured upon some green mossy-looking ground to the left, and had scarcely done so when I found myself immersed to the knees in a bog. I, however, pushed forward, and with some difficulty got to the path on the other side of the slough. I followed the path, and in about half-an-hour saw what appeared to be houses at a distance. “God grant that I may be drawing near some inhabited place,” said I. The path now grew very miry, and there were pools of water on either side. I moved along slowly. At length I came to a place where some men were busy in erecting a kind of building. I went up to the nearest and asked him the name of the place. He had a crow-bar in his hand, was half-naked, had awry mouth and only one eye. He made me no answer, but moved and gibbered at me.
“For God’s sake,” said I, “don’t do so, but tell me where I am!” He still uttered no word, but mowed and gibbered yet more frightfully than before. As I stood staring at him another man came to me and said in broken English, “It is of no use speaking to him, sir, he is deaf and dumb.”
“I am glad he is no worse,” said I, “for I really thought he was possessed with the evil one. My good person, can you tell me the name of this place?”
“Esgyrn Hirion, sir,” said he.
“Esgyrn Hirion,” said I to myself; “Esgyrn means bones, and Hirion means long. I am doubtless at the place which the old ostler called Long Bones. I shouldn’t wonder if I get to the Devil’s Bridge to-night after all.” I then asked the man if he could tell me the way to the bridge of the evil man, but he shook his head and said that he had never heard of such a place, adding, however, that he would go with me to one of the overseers, who could perhaps direct me. He then proceeded towards a row of buildings, which were in fact those objects which I had guessed to be houses in the distance. He led me to a corner house, at the door of which stood a middle-aged man, dressed in a grey coat, and saying to me, “This person is an overseer,” returned to his labour. I went up to the man, and saluting him in English, asked whether he could direct me to the devil’s bridge, or rather to Pont Erwyd.
“It would be of no use directing you, sir,” said he, “for with all the directions in the world it would be impossible for you to find the way. You would not have left these premises five minutes before you would be in a maze, without knowing which way to turn. Where do you come from?”
“From Machynlleth,” I replied.
“From Machynlleth!” said he. “Well, I only wonder you ever got here, but it would be madness to go further alone.”
“Well,” said I, “can I obtain a guide?”
“I really don’t know,” said he; “I am afraid all the men are engaged.”
As we were speaking a young man made his appearanceat the door from the interior of the house. He was dressed in a brown short coat, had a glazed hat on his head, and had a pale but very intelligent countenance.
“What is the matter?” said he to the other man.
“This gentleman,” replied the latter, “is going to Pont Erwyd, and wants a guide.”
“Well,” said the young man, “we must find him one. It will never do to let him go by himself.”
“If you can find me a guide,” said I, “I shall be happy to pay him for his trouble.”
“O, you can do as you please about that,” said the young man; “but, pay or not, we would never suffer you to leave this place without a guide, and as much for our own sake as yours, for the directors of the company would never forgive us if they heard we had suffered a gentleman to leave these premises without a guide, more especially if he were lost, as it is a hundred to one you would be if you went by yourself.”
“Pray,” said I, “what company is this, the directors of which are so solicitous about the safety of strangers?”
“The Potosi Mining Company,” said he, “the richest in all Wales. But pray walk in and sit down, for you must be tired.”
The Mining Compting Room—Native of Aberystwyth—Story of a Bloodhound—The Young Girls—The Miner’s Tale—Gwen Frwd—The Terfyn.
I followed the young man with the glazed hat into a room, the other man following behind me. He of the glazed hat made me sit down before a turf fire, apologising for its smoking very much. The room seemed half compting room, half apartment. There was a wooden desk with a ledger upon it by the window which looked to the west, and a camp bedstead extended from the southern wall nearly up to the desk. After I had sat for about a minute the young man askedme if I would take any refreshment. I thanked him for his kind offer, which I declined, saying, however, that if he would obtain me a guide I should feel much obliged. He turned to the other man and told him to go and inquire whether there was any one who would be willing to go. The other nodded, and forthwith went out.
“You think, then,” said I, “that I could not find the way by myself?”
“I am sure of it,” said he, “for even the people best acquainted with the country frequently lose their way. But I must tell you that if we do find you a guide it will probably be one who has no English.”
“Never mind,” said I, “I have enough Welsh to hold a common discourse.”
A fine girl about fourteen now came in, and began bustling about.
“Who is this young lady?” said I.
“The daughter of a captain of a neighbouring mine,” said he; “she frequently comes here with messages, and is always ready to do a turn about the house, for she is very handy.”
“Has she any English?” said I.
“Not a word,” he replied. “The young people of these hills have no English, except they go abroad to learn it.”
“What hills are these?” said I.
“Part of the Plynlimmon range,” said he.
“Dear me,” said I, “am I near Plynlimmon?”
“Not very far from it,” said the young man, “and you will be nearer when you reach Pont Erwyd.”
“Are you a native of these parts?” said I.
“I am not,” he replied. “I am a native of Aberystwyth, a place on the sea-coast about a dozen miles from here.”
“This seems to be a cold, bleak spot,” said I; “is it healthy?”
“I have reason to say so,” said he; “for I came here from Aberystwyth about four months ago very unwell, and am now perfectly recovered. I do not believe there is a healthier spot in all Wales.”
We had some further discourse. I mentioned to him the adventure which I had on the hill with the fellowwith the donkey. The young man said that he had no doubt that he was some prowling thief.
“The dogs of the shepherd’s house,” said I, “didn’t seem to like him, and dogs generally know an evil customer. A long time ago I chanced to be in a posada, or inn, at Valladolid in Spain. One hot summer’s afternoon I was seated in a corridor which ran round a large, open court in the middle of the inn; a fine yellow, three-parts-grown bloodhound was lying on the ground beside me, with whom I had been playing a little time before. I was just about to fall asleep, when I heard a ‘hem’ at the outward door of the posada, which was a long way below at the end of a passage which communicated with the court. Instantly the hound started upon his legs, and with a loud yell, and with eyes flashing fire, ran nearly round the corridor down a flight of steps and through the passage to the gate. There was then a dreadful noise, in which the cries of a human being and the yells of the hound were blended. I forthwith started up and ran down, followed by several other guests who came rushing out of their chambers round the corridor. At the gate we saw a man on the ground, and the hound trying to strangle him. It was with the greatest difficulty, and chiefly through the intervention of the master of the dog, who happened to be present, that the animal could be made to quit his hold. The assailed person was a very powerful man, but had an evil countenance, was badly dressed, and had neither hat, shoes nor stockings. We raised him up and gave him wine, which he drank greedily, and presently without saying a word disappeared. The guests said they had no doubt that he was a murderer flying from justice, and that the dog by his instinct, even at a distance, knew him to be such. The master said that it was the first time the dog had ever attacked any one or shown the slightest symptom of ferocity. Not the least singular part of the matter was, that the dog did not belong to the house, but to one of the guests from a distant village; the creature therefore could not consider itself the house’s guardian.”
I had scarcely finished my tale when the other man came in and said that he had found a guide, a young man from Pont Erwyd, who would be glad of such anopportunity to go and see his parents; that he was then dressing himself and would shortly make his appearance. In about twenty minutes he did so. He was a stout young fellow with a coarse blue coat, and coarse white felt hat; he held a stick in his hand. The kind young book-keeper now advised us to set out without delay as the day was drawing to a close, and the way was long. I shook him by the hand, told him that I should never forget his civility, and departed with the guide.
The fine young girl, whom I have already mentioned, and another about two years younger, departed with us. They were dressed in the graceful female attire of old Wales.
We bore to the south down a descent, and came to some moory quaggy ground intersected with watercourses. The agility of the young girls surprised me; they sprang over the water-courses, some of which were at least four feet wide, with the ease and alacrity of fawns. After a short time we came to a road, which, however, we did not long reap the benefit of as it only led to a mine. Seeing a house on the top of a hill, I asked my guide whose it was.
“Ty powdr,” said he, “a powder house,” by which I supposed he meant a magazine of powder used for blasting in the mines. He had not a word of English.
If the young girls were nimble with their feet, they were not less so with their tongues, as they kept up an incessant gabble with each other and with the guide. I understood little of what they said, their volubility preventing me from catching more than a few words. After we had gone about two miles and a half they darted away with surprising swiftness down a hill towards a distant house, where as I learned from my guide the father of the eldest lived. We ascended a hill, passed between two craggy elevations, and then wended to the south-east over a strange miry place, in which I thought any one at night not acquainted with every inch of the way would run imminent risk of perishing. I entered into conversation with my guide. After a little time he asked me if I was a Welshman. I told him no.
“You could teach many a Welshman,” said he.
“Why do you think so?” said I.
“Because many of your words are quite above my comprehension,” said he.
“No great compliment,” thought I to myself, but putting a good face upon the matter, I told him that I knew a great many old Welsh words.
“Is Potosi an old Welsh word?” said he.
“No,” said I; “it is the name of a mine in the Deheubarth of America.”
“Is it a lead mine?”
“No!” said I; “it is a silver mine.”
“Then why do they call our mine, which is a lead mine, by the name of a silver mine?”
“Because they wish to give people to understand,” said I, “that it is very rich, as rich in lead as Potosi in silver. Potosi is, or was, the richest silver mine in the world, and from it has come at least one-half of the silver which we use in the shape of money and other things.”
“Well,” said he, “I have frequently asked, but could never learn before, why our mine was called Potosi.”
“You did not ask at the right quarter,” said I; “the young man with the glazed hat could have told you as well as I.” I inquired why the place where the mine was bore the name of Esgyrn Hirion, or Long Bones. He told me that he did not know, but believed that the bones of a cawr, or giant, had been found there in ancient times. I asked him if the mine was deep.
“Very deep,” he replied.
“Do you like the life of a miner?” said I.
“Very much,” said he, “and should like it more, but for the noises of the hill.”
“Do you mean the powder blasts?” said I.
“O no!” said he; “I care nothing for them, I mean the noises made by the spirits of the hill in the mine. Sometimes they make such noises as frighten the poor fellow who works underground out of his senses. Once on a time I was working by myself very deep underground, in a little chamber to which a very deep shaft led. I had just taken up my light to survey my work, when all of a sudden I heard a dreadful rushing noise,as if an immense quantity of earth had come tumbling down. ‘O God!’ said I, and fell backwards, letting the light fall, which instantly went out. I thought the whole shaft had given way, and that I was buried alive. I lay for several hours half stupefied, thinking now and then what a dreadful thing it was to be buried alive. At length I thought I would get up, go to the mouth of the shaft, feel the mould with which it was choked up, and then come back, lie down and die. So I got up and tottered to the mouth of the shaft, put out my hand and felt—nothing. All was clear. I went forward and presently felt the ladder. Nothing had fallen; all was just the same as when I came down. I was dreadfully afraid that I should never be able to get up in the dark without breaking my neck; however, I tried, and at last, with a great deal of toil and danger, got to a place where other men were working. The noise was caused by the spirits of the hill in the hope of driving the miner out of his senses. They very nearly succeeded. I shall never forget how I felt when I thought I was buried alive. If it were not for those noises in the hill the life of a miner would be quite heaven below.”
We came to a cottage standing under a hillock, down the side of which tumbled a streamlet close by the northern side of the building. The door was open, and inside were two or three females and some children. “Have you any enwyn?” said the lad, peeping in.
“O yes!” said a voice—“digon! digon!” Presently a buxom laughing girl brought out two dishes of buttermilk, one of which she handed to me and the other to the guide. I asked her the name of the place.
“Gwen Frwd: the Fair Rivulet,” said she.
“Who lives here?”
“A shepherd.”
“Have you any English?”
“Nagos!” said she, bursting into a loud laugh. “What should we do with English here?” After we had drunk the buttermilk I offered the girl some money, but she drew back her hand angrily, and said, “We don’t take money from tired strangers for two drops of buttermilk; there’s plenty within, and there are a thousand ewes on the hill. Farvel!”
“Dear me!” thought I to myself as I walked away,“that I should once in my days have found shepherd life something as poets have represented it!”
I saw a mighty mountain at a considerable distance on the right, the same I believe which I had noted some hours before. I inquired of my guide whether it was Plynlimmon.
“O no!” said he, “that is Gaverse; Pumlimmon is to the left.”
“Plynlimmon is a famed hill,” said I; “I suppose it is very high.”
“Yes!” said he, “it is high, but it is not famed because it is high, but because the three grand rivers of the world issue from its breast; the Hafren, the Rheidol, and the Gwy.”
Night was now coming rapidly on, attended with a drizzling rain. I inquired if we were far from Pont Erwyd. “About a mile,” said my guide; “we shall soon be there.” We quickened our pace. After a little time he asked me if I was going farther than Pont Erwyd.
“I am bound for the bridge of the evil man,” said I; “but I dare say I shall stop at Pont Erwyd tonight.”
“You will do right,” said he; “it is only three miles from Pont Erwydd to the bridge of the evil man, but I think we shall have a stormy night.”
“When I get to Pont Erwyd,” said I, “how far shall I be from South Wales?”
“From South Wales!” said he; “you are in South Wales now; you passed the Terfyn of North Wales a quarter of an hour ago.”
The rain now fell fast, and there was so thick a mist that I could only see a few yards before me. We descended into a valley, at the bottom of which I heard a river roaring.
“That’s the Rheidol,” said my guide, “coming from Pumlimmon, swollen with rain.”
Without descending to the river we turned aside up a hill, and after passing by a few huts came to a large house, which my guide told me was the inn of Pont Erwyd.
Consequential Landlord—Cheek—Darfel Gatherel—Dafydd Nanmor—Sheep Farms—Wholesome Advice—The Old Postman—The Plant de Bat—The Robber’s Cavern.
My guide went to a side door, and opening it without ceremony, went in. I followed, and found myself in a spacious and comfortable-looking kitchen; a large fire blazed in a huge grate, on one side of which was a settle; plenty of culinary utensils, both pewter and copper, hung around on the walls, and several goodly rows of hams and sides of bacon were suspended from the roof. There were several people present, some on the settle, and others on chairs in the vicinity of the fire. As I advanced a man arose from a chair and came towards me. He was about thirty-five years of age, well and strongly made, with a fresh complexion, a hawk nose and a keen grey eye. He wore top boots and breeches, a half-jockey coat, and had a round cap made of the skin of some animal on his head.
“Servant, sir!” said he in rather a sharp tone, and surveying me with something of a supercilious air.
“Your most obedient humble servant!” said I; “I presume you are the landlord of this house.”
“Landlord!” said he, “landlord! It is true I receive guests sometimes into my house, but I do so solely with the view of accommodating them; I do not depend upon innkeeping for a livelihood. I hire the principal part of the land in this neighbourhood.”
“If that be the case,” said I, “I had better continue my way to the Devil’s Bridge; I am not at all tired, and I believe it is not very far distant.”
“O, as you are here,” said the farmer-landlord, “I hope you will stay. I should be very sorry if any gentleman should leave my house at night after coming with an intention of staying, more especially in a night like this. Martha!” said he, turning to a female between thirty and forty, who I subsequently learned was the mistress—“prepare the parlour instantly for this gentleman, and don’t fail to make up a good fire.”
Martha forthwith hurried away, attended by a much younger female.
“Till your room is prepared, sir,” said he, “perhaps you will have no objection to sit down before our fire?”
“Not in the least,” said I; “nothing gives me greater pleasure than to sit before a kitchen fire. First of all, however, I must settle with my guide, and likewise see that he has something to eat and drink.”
“Shall I interpret for you?” said the landlord; “the lad has not a word of English; I know him well.”
“I have not been under his guidance for the last three hours,” said I, “without knowing that he cannot speak English; but I want no interpreter.”
“You do not mean to say, sir,” said the landlord, with a surprised and dissatisfied air, “that you understand Welsh?”
I made no answer, but turning to the guide, thanked him for his kindness, and giving him some money, asked him if that was enough.
“More than enough, sir,” said the lad; “I did not expect half as much. Farewell!”
He was then about to depart, but I prevented him, saying:
“You must not go till you have eaten and drunk. What will you have?”
“Merely a cup of ale, sir,” said the lad.
“That won’t do,” said I; “you shall have bread and cheese and as much ale as you can drink. Pray,” said I to the landlord, “let this young man have some bread and cheese and a large quart of ale.”
The landlord looked at me for a moment, then turning to the lad he said:
“What do you think of that, Shon? It is some time since you had a quart of ale to your own cheek.”
“Cheek,” said I, “cheek! Is that a Welsh word? Surely it is an importation from the English, and not a very genteel one.”
“O come, sir!” said the landlord, “we can dispense with your criticisms. A pretty thing indeed for you, on the strength of knowing half-a-dozen words of Welsh, to set up for a Welsh critic in the house of a person who knows the ancient British language perfectly.”
“Dear me!” said I, “how fortunate I am! a person thoroughly versed in the ancient British language is what I have long wished to see. Pray what is the meaning of Darfel Gatherel?”
“O sir,” said the landlord, “you must answer that question yourself; I don’t pretend to understand gibberish!”
“Darfel Gatherel,” said I, “is not gibberish; it was the name of the great wooden image at Ty Dewi, or Saint David’s, in Pembrokeshire, to which thousands of pilgrims in the days of popery used to repair for the purpose of adoring it, and which at the time of the Reformation was sent up to London as a curiosity, where it eventually served as firewood to burn the monk Forrest upon, who was sentenced to the stake by Henry the Eighth for denying his supremacy. What I want to know is, the meaning of the name, which I could never get explained, but which you who know the ancient British language perfectly can doubtless interpret.”
“O sir,” said the landlord, “when I said I knew the British language perfectly, I perhaps went too far; there are of course some obsolete terms in the British tongue, which I don’t understand. Dar, Dar—what is it? Darmod Cotterel amongst the rest, but to a general knowledge of the Welsh language I think I may lay some pretensions; were I not well acquainted with it I should not have carried off the prize at various eisteddfodau, as I have done. I am a poet, sir, a prydydd.”
“It is singular enough,” said I, “that the only two Welsh poets I have seen have been innkeepers—one is yourself, the other a person I met in Anglesey. I suppose the Muse is fond of cwrw da.”
“You would fain be pleasant, sir,” said the landlord; “but I beg leave to inform you that I am not fond of pleasantries; and now as my wife and the servant are returned, I will have the pleasure of conducting you to the parlour.”
“Before I go,” said I, “I should like to see my guide provided with what I ordered.” I stayed till the lad was accommodated with bread and cheese and a foaming tankard of ale, and then bidding him farewell,I followed the landlord into the parlour, where I found a fire kindled, which, however, smoked exceedingly. I asked my host what I could have for supper, and was told that he did not know, but that if I would leave the matter to him he would send the best he could. As he was going away, I said, “So you are a poet. Well, I am very glad to hear it, for I have been fond of Welsh poetry from my boyhood. What kind of verse do you employ in general? Did you ever write an awdl in the four-and-twenty measures? What are the themes of your songs? The deeds of the ancient heroes of South Wales, I suppose, and the hospitality of the great men of the neighbourhood who receive you as an honoured guest at their tables. I’ll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be you never sang anything in praise of your landlord’s housekeeping equal to what Dafydd Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago:
‘For Ryce if hundred thousands plough’d,The lands around his fair abode;Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed,Still corn and wine great Ryce would need;If all the earth had bread’s sweet savour,And water all had cyder’s flavour,Three roaring feasts in Ryce’s hallWould swallow earth and ocean all.’
‘For Ryce if hundred thousands plough’d,The lands around his fair abode;Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed,Still corn and wine great Ryce would need;If all the earth had bread’s sweet savour,And water all had cyder’s flavour,Three roaring feasts in Ryce’s hallWould swallow earth and ocean all.’
Hey?”
“Really, sir,” said the landlord, “I don’t know how to reply to you, for the greater part of your discourse is utterly unintelligible to me. Perhaps you are a better Welshman than myself; but however that may be, I shall take the liberty of retiring in order to give orders about your supper.”
In about half-an-hour the supper made its appearance in the shape of some bacon and eggs; on tasting them I found them very good, and calling for some ale I made a very tolerable supper. After the things had been removed I drew near to the fire, but, as it still smoked, I soon betook myself to the kitchen. My guide had taken his departure, but the others whom I had left were still there. The landlord was talking in Welsh to a man in a rough great-coat about sheep. Setting myself down near the fire I called for a glass of whiskey-and-water,and then observing that the landlord and his friend had suddenly become silent, I said, “Pray go on with your discourse! Don’t let me be any hindrance to you.”
“Yes, sir,” said the landlord snappishly, “go on with our discourse; for your edification, I suppose?”
“Well,” said I, “suppose it is for my edification, surely you don’t grudge a stranger a little edification which will cost you nothing?”
“I don’t know that, sir,” said the landlord; “I don’t know that. Really, sir, the kitchen is not the place for a gentleman.”
“Yes, it is,” said I, “provided the parlour smokes. Come, come, I am going to have a glass of whiskey-and-water; perhaps you will take one with me.”
“Well, sir!” said the landlord in rather a softened tone, “I have no objection to take a glass with you.”
Two glasses of whiskey-and-water were presently brought, and the landlord and I drank to each other’s health.
“Is this a sheep district?” said I, after a pause of a minute or two.
“Yes, sir!” said the landlord; “it may to a certain extent be called a sheep district.”
“I suppose the Southdown and Norfolk breeds would not do for these here parts,” said I with a regular Norfolk whine.
“No, sir! I don’t think they would exactly,” said the landlord, staring at me. “Do you know anything about sheep?”
“Plenty, plenty,” said I; “quite as much indeed as about Welsh words and poetry.” Then in a yet more whining tone than before, I said, “Do you think that a body with money in his pocket could hire a comfortable sheep farm hereabouts?”
“O sir!” said the landlord in a furious tone, “you have come to look out for a farm, I see, and to outbid us poor Welshmen; it is on that account you have studied Welsh; but, sir, I would have you know—”
“Come,” said I, “don’t be afraid; I wouldn’t have all the farms in your country, provided you would tie them in a string and offer them to me. If I talked about a farm it was because I am in the habit of talking abouteverything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting to be so, which comes much to the same thing. My real business in this neighbourhood is to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery about it.”
“Very good, sir!” said the landlord; “I thought so at first. A great many English go to see the Devil’s Bridge and the scenery near it, though I really don’t know why, for there is nothing so very particular in either. We have a bridge here too quite as good as the Devil’s Bridge; and as for scenery, I’ll back the scenery about this house against anything of the kind in the neighbourhood of the Devil’s Bridge. Yet everybody goes to the Devil’s Bridge and nobody comes here.”
“You might easily bring everybody here,” said I, “if you would but employ your talent. You should celebrate the wonders of your neighbourhood in cowydds, and you would soon have plenty of visitors; but you don’t want them, you know, and prefer to be without them.”
The landlord looked at me for a moment, then taking a sip of his whiskey-and-water, he turned to the man with whom he had previously been talking, and recommenced the discourse about sheep. I made no doubt, however, that I was a restraint upon them; they frequently glanced at me, and soon fell to whispering. At last both got up and left the room; the landlord finishing his glass of whiskey-and-water before he went away.
“So you are going to the Devil’s Bridge, sir!” said an elderly man, dressed in a grey coat with a broad-brimmed hat, who sat on the settle smoking a pipe in company with another elderly man with a leather hat, with whom I had heard him discourse, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in English, the Welsh which he spoke being rather broken.
“Yes!” said I, “I am going to have a sight of the bridge and the neighbouring scenery.”
“Well, sir, I don’t think you will be disappointed, for both are wonderful.”
“Are you a Welshman?” said I.
“No, sir! I am not; I am an Englishman from Durham, which is the best county in England.”
“So it is,” said I; “for some things, at any rate. For example, where do you find such beef as in Durham?”
“Ah, where indeed, sir? I have always said that neither the Devonshire nor the Lincolnshire beef is to be named in the same day with that of Durham.”
“Well,” said I, “what business do you follow in these parts? I suppose you farm?”
“No, sir! I do not; I am what they call a mining captain.”
“I suppose that gentleman,” said I, motioning to the man in the leather hat, “is not from Durham?”
“No, sir, he is not; he is from the neighbourhood.”
“And does he follow mining?”
“No, sir, he does not; he carries about the letters.”
“Is your mine near this place?” said I.
“Not very, sir; it is nearer the Devil’s Bridge.”
“Why is the bridge called the Devil’s Bridge?” said I.
“Because, sir, ’tis said that the Devil built it in the old time, though that I can hardly believe, for the Devil, do ye see, delights in nothing but mischief, and it is not likely that such being the case he would have built a thing which must have been of wonderful service to people by enabling them to pass in safety over a dreadful gulf.”
“I have heard,” said the old postman with the leather hat, “that the Devil had no hand in de work at all, but that it was built by a Mynach, or monk, on which account de river over which de bridge is built is called Afon y Mynach—dat is de Monk’s River.”
“Did you ever hear,” said I, “of three creatures who lived a long time ago near the Devil’s Bridge called the Plant de Bat?”
“Ah, master!” said the old postman, “I do see that you have been in these parts before; had you not you would not know of the Plant de Bat.”
“No,” said I, “I have never been here before; but I heard of them when I was a boy from a Cumro who taught me Welsh, and had lived for some time in these parts. Well, what do they say here about the Plant de Bat? for he who mentioned them to me could give me no further information about them than that they werehorrid creatures who lived in a cave near the Devil’s Bridge several hundred years ago.”
“Well, master,” said the old postman, thrusting his forefinger twice or thrice into the bowl of his pipe, “I will tell you what they says here about the Plant de Bat. In de old time two, three hundred year ago, a man lived somewhere about here called Bat, or Bartholomew; this man had three children, two boys and one girl, who, because their father’s name was Bat, were generally called Plant de Bat, or Bat’s children. Very wicked children they were from their cradle, giving their father and mother much trouble and uneasiness; no good in any one of them, neither in the boys nor the girl. Now the boys, once when they were rambling idly about, lighted by chance upon a cave near the Devil’s Bridge. Very strange cave it was, with just one little hole at top to go in by. So the boys said to one another, ‘Nice cave this for thief to live in. Suppose we come here when we are a little more big and turn thief ourselves.’ Well, they waited till they were a little more big, and then leaving their father’s house they came to de cave and turned thief, lying snug there all day, and going out at night to rob upon the roads. Well, there was soon much talk in the country about the robberies which were being committed, and people often went out in search of de thieves, but all in vain; and no wonder, for they were in a cave very hard to light upon, having as I said before merely one little hole at top to go in by. So Bat’s boys went on swimmingly for a long time, lying snug in cave by day and going out at night to rob, letting no one know where they were but their sister, who was as bad as themselves, and used to come to them and bring them food, and stay with them for weeks, and sometimes go out and rob with them. But as de pitcher which goes often to de well comes home broke at last, so it happened with Bat’s children. After robbing people upon the roads by night many a long year and never being found out, they at last met one great gentleman upon the roads by night, and not only robbed but killed him, leaving his body all cut and gashed near to Devil’s Bridge. That job was the ruin of Plant de Bat, for the great gentleman’s friends gathered together and huntedafter his murderers with dogs, and at length came to the cave, and going in found it stocked with riches, and the Plant de Bat sitting upon the riches, not only the boys but the girl also. So they took out the riches and the Plant de Bat, and the riches they did give to churches and spyttys, and the Plant de Bat they did execute, hanging the boys and burning the girl. That, master, is what they says in dese parts about the Plant de Bat.”
“Thank you!” said I. “Is the cave yet to be seen?”
“O yes! it is yet to be seen, or part of it, for it is not now what it was, having been partly flung open to hinder other thieves from nestling in it. It is on the bank of the river Mynach, just before it joins the Rheidol. Many gentlefolk in de summer go to see the Plant de Bat’s cave.”
“Are you sure?” said I, “that Plant de Bat means Bat’s children?”
“I am not sure, master; I merely says what I have heard other people say. I believe some says that it means the wicked children, or the Devil’s children. And now, master, we may as well have done with them, for should you question me through the whole night I could tell you nothing more about the Plant de Bat.”
After a little farther discourse, chiefly about sheep and the weather, I retired to the parlour, where the fire was now burning brightly; seating myself before it, I remained for a considerable time staring at the embers and thinking over the events of the day. At length I rang the bell and begged to be shown to my chamber, where I soon sank to sleep, lulled by the pattering of rain against the window and the sound of a neighbouring cascade.
Wild Scenery—Awful Chasm—John Greaves—Durham County—Queen Philippa—The Two Aldens—Welsh Wife—The Noblest Business—The Welsh and the Salve—The Lad John.
A rainy and boisterous night was succeeded by a bright and beautiful morning. I arose, and having ordered breakfast, went forth to see what kind of country I hadgot into. I found myself amongst wild, strange-looking hills, not, however, of any particular height. The house, which seemed to front the east, stood on the side of a hill on a wide platform abutting on a deep and awful chasm, at the bottom of which chafed and foamed the Rheidol. This river enters the valley of Pont Erwyd from the north-west, then makes a variety of snake-like turns, and at last bears away to the south-east just below the inn. The banks are sheer walls from sixty to a hundred feet high, and the bed of the river has all the appearance of a volcanic rent. A brook running from the south past the inn, tumbles into the chasm at an angle, and forms the cascade whose sound had lulled me to sleep the preceding night.
After breakfasting, I paid my bill, and set out for the Devil’s Bridge without seeing anything more of that remarkable personage in whom were united landlord, farmer, poet, and mighty fine gentleman—the master of the house. I soon reached the bottom of the valley, where are a few houses, and the bridge from which the place takes its name, Pont Erwyd signifying the Bridge of Erwyd. As I was looking over the bridge near which are two or three small waterfalls, an elderly man in a grey coat, followed by a young lad and dog, came down the road which I had myself just descended.
“Good day, sir,” said he, stopping, when he came upon the bridge. “I suppose you are bound my road?”
“Ah,” said I, recognising the old mining captain with whom I had talked in the kitchen the night before, “is it you? I am glad to see you. Yes! I am bound your way, provided you are going to the Devil’s Bridge.”
“Then, sir, we can go together, for I am bound to my mine, which lies only a little way t’other side of the Devil’s Bridge.”
Crossing the bridge of Erwyd, we directed our course to the south-east.
“What young man is that?” said I, “who is following behind us?”
“The young man, sir, is my son John, and the dog with him is his dog Joe.”
“And what may your name be, if I may take the liberty of asking?”
“Greaves, sir; John Greaves from the county of Durham.”
“Ah! a capital county that,” said I.
“You like the county, sir! God bless you! John!” said he in a loud voice, turning to the lad, “why don’t you offer to carry the gentleman’s knapsack?”
“Don’t let him trouble himself,” said I. “As I was just now saying, a capital county is Durham county.”
“You really had better let the boy carry your bag, sir.”
“No!” said I; “I would rather carry it myself. I question upon the whole whether there is a better county in England.”
“Is it long since your honour was in Durham county?”
“A good long time. A matter of forty years.”
“Forty years! why that’s the life of a man. That’s longer than I have been out of the county myself. I suppose your honour can’t remember much about the county.”
“O yes I can, I remember a good deal.”
“Please your honour tell me what you remember about the county. It would do me good to hear it.”
“Well, I remember it was a very fine county in more respects than one. One part of it was full of big hills and mountains, where there were mines of coal and lead with mighty works with tall chimneys spouting out black smoke, and engines roaring and big wheels going round, some turned by steam, and others by what they called forces, that is brooks of water dashing down steep channels. Another part was a more level country with beautiful woods, happy-looking farmhouses, well-filled fields and rich glorious meadows, in which stood stately with brown sides and short horns the Durham ox.”
“O dear, O dear!” said my companion. “Ah, I see your honour knows everything about Durham county. Forces! none but one who had been in Durham county would have used that word. I haven’t heard it for five-and-thirty years. Forces! there was a forceclose to my village. I wonder if your honour has ever been in Durham city.”
“O yes! I have been there.”
“Does your honour remember anything about Durham city?”
“O yes! I remember a good deal about it.”
“Then, your honour, pray tell us what you remember about it—pray do! perhaps it will do me good.”
“Well, then, I remember that it was a fine old city standing on a hill with a river running under it, and that it had a fine old church, one of the finest in the whole of Britain; likewise a fine old castle; and last, not least, a capital old inn, where I got a capital dinner off roast Durham beef, and a capital glass of ale, which I believe was the cause of my being ever after fond of ale.”
“Dear me! Ah, I see your honour knows all about Durham city. And now let me ask one question. How came your honour to Durham city and county? I don’t think your honour is a Durham man, either of town or field.”
“I am not; but when I was a little boy I passed through Durham county with my mother and brother to a place called Scotland.”
“Scotland! a queer country that, your honour!”
“So it is,” said I; “a queerer country I never saw in all my life.”
“And a queer set of people, your honour.”
“So they are,” said I; “a queerer set of people than the Scotch you would scarcely see in a summer’s day.”
“The Durham folks, neither of town or field, have much reason to speak well of the Scotch, your honour.”
“I dare say not,” said I; “very few people have.”
“And yet the Durham folks, your honour, generally contrived to give them as good as they brought.”
“That they did,” said I; “a pretty licking the Durham folks once gave the Scots under the walls of Durham city, after the scamps had been plundering the country for three weeks—a precious licking they gave them, slaying I don’t know how many thousands, and taking their king prisoner.”
“So they did, your honour, and under the command of a woman too.”
“Very true,” said I; “Queen Philippa.”
“Just so, your honour! the idea that your honour should know so much about Durham, both field and town!”
“Well,” said I, “since I have told you so much about Durham, perhaps you will now tell me something about yourself. How did you come here?”
“I had better begin from the beginning, your honour. I was born in Durham county close beside the Great Force, which no doubt your honour has seen. My father was a farmer and had a bit of a share in a mining concern. I was brought up from my childhood both to farming and mining work, but most to mining, because, do you see, I took most pleasure in it, being the more noble business of the two. Shortly after I had come to man’s estate my father died leaving me a decent little property, whereupon I forsook farming altogether and gave myself up, body, soul and capital, to mining, which at last I thoroughly understood in all its branches. Well, your honour, about five-and-thirty years ago, that was when I was about twenty-eight, a cry went through the north country that a great deal of money might be made by opening Wales, that is, by mining in Wales in the proper fashion, which means the north-country fashion, for there is no other fashion of mining good for much—there had long been mines in Wales, but they had always been worked in a poor, weak, languid manner, very different from that of the north country. So a company was formed, at the head of which were the Aldens, George and Thomas, for opening Wales, and they purchased certain mines in these districts, which they knew to be productive, and which might be made yet more so, and settling down here called themselves the Rheidol United. Well, after they had been here a little time they found themselves in want of a man to superintend their concerns, above all in the smelting department. So they thought of me, who was known to most of the mining gentry in the north country, and they made a proposal to me through George Alden, afterwards Sir George, to come here and superintend. I said no, at first, for I didn’t like the idea of leaving Durham county to come to such an outlandish place as Wales; howsomever, I at lastallowed myself to be overpersuaded by George Alden, afterwards Sir George, and here I came with my wife and family, for I must tell your honour I had married a respectable young woman of Durham county, by whom I had two little ones—here I came and did my best for the service of the Rheidol United. The company was terribly set to it for a long time, spending a mint of money and getting very poor returns. To my certain knowledge the two Aldens, George and Tom, spent between them thirty thousand pounds—the company, however, persevered, chiefly at the instigation of the Aldens, who were in the habit of saying ‘Never say die!’ and at last got the better of all their difficulties and rolled in riches, and had the credit of being the first company that ever opened Wales, which they richly deserved, for I will uphold it that the Rheidol United, particularly the Aldens, George and Thomas, were the first people who really opened Wales. In their service I have been for five-and-thirty years, and dare say shall continue so till I die. I have been tolerably comfortable, your honour, though I have had my griefs, the bitterest of which was the death of my wife, which happened about eight years after I came to this country. I thought I should have gone wild at first, your honour! Having, however, always plenty to do, I at last got the better of my affliction. I continued single till my English family grew up and left me, when feeling myself rather lonely I married a decent young Welshwoman, by whom I had one son, the lad John, who is following behind with his dog Joe. And now your honour knows the whole story of John Greaves, miner from the county of Durham.”
“And a most entertaining and instructive history it is,” said I. “You have not told me, however, how you contrived to pick up Welsh: I heard you speaking it last night with the postman.”
“Why, through my Welsh wife, your honour! Without her I don’t think I should ever have picked up the Welsh manner of discoursing—she is a good kind of woman, my Welsh wife, though—”
“The loss of your Durham wife must have been a great grief to you,” said I.
“It was the bitterest grief, your honour, as I saidbefore, that I ever had—my next worst I think was the death of a dear friend.”
“Who was that?” said I.
“Who was it, your honour? why, the Duke of Newcastle.”
“Dear me!” said I; “how came you to know him?”
“Why, your honour, he lived at a place not far from here, called Hafod, and so—”
“Hafod!” said I; “I have often heard of Hafod and its library; but I thought it belonged to an old Welsh family called Johnes.”
“Well, so it did, your honour! but the family died away, and the estate was put up for sale, and purchased by the Duke, who built a fine house upon it, which he made his chief place of residence—the old family house, I must tell your honour, in which the library was had been destroyed by fire: well, he hadn’t been long settled there before he found me out and took wonderfully to me, discoursing with me and consulting me about his farming and improvements. Many is the pleasant chat and discourse I have had with his Grace for hours and hours together, for his Grace had not a bit of pride, at least he never showed any to me, though, perhaps, the reason of that was that we were both north-country people. Lord! I would have laid down my life for his Grace and have done anything but one which he once asked me to do: ‘Greaves,’ said the Duke to me one day, ‘I wish you would give up mining and become my steward.’ ‘Sorry I can’t oblige your Grace,’ said I; ‘but give up mining I cannot. I will at any time give your Grace all the advice I can about farming and such like, but give up mining I cannot: because why? I conceive mining to be the noblest business in the ‘versal world.’ Whereupon his Grace laughed, and said he dare say I was right, and never mentioned the subject again.”
“Was his Grace very fond of farming and improving?”
“O yes, your honour! like all the great gentry, especially the north-country gentry, his Grace was wonderfully fond of farming and improving—and a wonderful deal of good he did, reclaiming thousands of acres of land which was before good for nothing, andbuilding capital farm-houses and offices for his tenants. His grand feat, however, was bringing the Durham bull into this country, which formed a capital cross with the Welsh cows. Pity that he wasn’t equally fortunate with the north-country sheep.”
“Did he try to introduce them into Wales?”
“Yes; but they didn’t answer, as I knew they wouldn’t. Says I to the Duke, ‘It won’t do, your Grace, to bring the north-country sheep here: because why? the hills are too wet and cold for their constitutions;’ but his Grace, who had sometimes a will of his own, persisted and brought the north-country sheep to these parts, and it turned out as I said: the sheep caught the disease and the wool parted and—”
“But,” said I, “you should have told him about the salve made of bran, butter and oil; you should have done that.”
“Well, so I did, your honour; I told him about the salve, and the Duke listened to me, and the salve was made by these very hands; but when it was made, what do you think? the foolish Welsh wouldn’t put it on, saying that it was against their laws and statties and religion to use it, and talked about Devil’s salves and the Witch of Endor, and the sin against the Holy Ghost, and such-like nonsense. So to prevent a regular rebellion, the Duke gave up the salve and the poor sheep pined away and died, till at last there was not one left.”
“Who holds the estate at present?” said I.
“Why, a great gentleman from Lancashire, your honour, who bought it when the Duke died; but he doesn’t take the same pleasure in it which the Duke did, nor spend so much money about it, the consequence being that everything looks very different from what it looked in the Duke’s time. The inn at the Devil’s Bridge and the grounds look very different from what they looked in the Duke’s time, for you must know that the inn and the grounds form part of the Hafod estate, and are hired from the proprietor.”
By this time we had arrived at a small village, with a toll-bar and a small church or chapel at some little distance from the road, which here made a turn nearly full south. The road was very good, but the country was wild and rugged; there was a deep vale on theright, at the bottom of which rolled the Rheidol in its cleft, rising beyond which were steep, naked hills.
“This village,” said my companion, “is called Ysbytty Cynfyn. Down on the right, past the church, is a strange bridge across the Rheidol, which runs there through a horrid kind of a place. The bridge is called Pont yr Offeiriad, or the Parson’s Bridge, because in the old time the clergyman passed over it every Sunday to do duty in the church here.”
“Why is this place called Ysbytty Cynfyn?” said I, “which means the hospital of the first boundary; is there a hospital of the second boundary near here?”
“I can’t say anything about boundaries, your honour; all I know is, that there is another Spytty farther on beyond Hafod called Ysbytty Ystwyth, or the ’Spytty upon the Ystwyth. But to return to the matter of the Minister’s Bridge: I would counsel your honour to go and see that bridge before you leave these parts. A vast number of gentry go to see it in the summer time. It was the bridge which the landlord was mentioning last night, though it scarcely belongs to his district, being quite as near the Devil’s Bridge inn, as it is to his own, your honour.”
We went on discoursing for about half-a-mile farther, when, stopping by a road which branched off to the hills on the left, my companion said, “I must now wish your honour good day, being obliged to go a little way up here to a mining work on a small bit of business; my son, however, and his dog Joe will show your honour the way to the Devil’s Bridge, as they are bound to a place a little way past it. I have now but one word to say, which is, that should ever your honour please to visit me at my mine, your honour shall receive every facility for inspecting the works, and moreover have a bellyfull of drink and victuals from Jock Greaves, miner from the county of Durham.”
I shook the honest fellow by the hand and went on in company with the lad John and his dog as far as the Devil’s Bridge. John was a highly intelligent lad, spoke Welsh and English fluently, could read, as he told me, both languages, and had some acquaintance with the writings of Twm o’r Nant, as he showed by repeatingthe following lines of the carter poet, certainly not the worst which he ever wrote:—
“Twm o’r Nant mae cant a’m galwTomas Edwards yw fy enw.Tom O Nant is a nickname I’ve got,My name’s Thomas Edwards, I wot.”
“Twm o’r Nant mae cant a’m galwTomas Edwards yw fy enw.
Tom O Nant is a nickname I’ve got,My name’s Thomas Edwards, I wot.”
The Hospice—The Two Rivers—The Devil’s Bridge—Pleasant Recollections.
I arrived at the Devil’s Bridge at about eleven o’clock of a fine but cold day, and took up my quarters at the inn, of which I was the sole guest during the whole time that I continued there, for the inn, standing in a lone, wild district, has very few guests except in summer, when it is thronged with tourists, who avail themselves of that genial season to view the wonders of Wales, of which the region close by is considered amongst the principal.
The inn, or rather hospice, for the sounding name of hospice is more applicable to it than the common one of inn, was built at a great expense by the late Duke of Newcastle. It is an immense lofty cottage with projecting eaves, and has a fine window to the east which enlightens a stately staircase and a noble gallery. It fronts the north and stands in the midst of one of the most remarkable localities in the world, of which it would require a far more vigorous pen than mine to convey an adequate idea.
Far to the west is a tall, strange-looking hill, the top of which bears no slight resemblance to that of a battlemented castle. This hill, which is believed to have been in ancient times a stronghold of the Britons, bears the name of Bryn y Castell or the hill of the castle. To the north-west are russet hills, to the east two brown paps, whilst to the south is a high, swelling mountain. To the north and just below the hospice is a profound hollow with all the appearance of the crater of an extinct volcano; at the bottom of this hollow the waters of two rivers unite; those of the Rheidol from the north,and those of the Afon y Mynach, or the Monks’ River, from the south-east. The Rheidol falling over a rocky precipice at the northern side of the hollow forms a cataract very pleasant to look upon from the middle upper window of the inn. Those of the Mynach which pass under the celebrated Devil’s Bridge are not visible, though they generally make themselves heard. The waters of both, after uniting, flow away through a romantic glen towards the west. The sides of the hollow, and indeed of most of the ravines in the neighbourhood, which are numerous, are beautifully clad with wood.
Penetrate now into the hollow above which the hospice stands. You descend by successive flights of steps, some of which are very slippery and insecure. On your right is the Monks’ River, roaring down its dingle in five successive falls, to join its brother the Rheidol. Each of the falls has its own peculiar basin, one or two of which are said to be of awful depth. The length which these falls with their basins occupy is about five hundred feet. On the side of the basin of the last but one is the cave, or the site of the cave, said to have been occupied in old times by the Wicked Children, the mysterious Plant de Bat, two brothers and a sister, robbers and murderers. At present it is nearly open on every side, having, it is said, been destroyed to prevent its being the haunt of other evil people: there is a tradition in the country that the fall at one time tumbled over its mouth. This tradition, however, is evidently without foundation, as from the nature of the ground the river could never have run but in its present channel. Of all the falls the fifth or last is the most considerable: you view it from a kind of den, to which the last flight of steps, the ruggedest and most dangerous of all, has brought you; your position here is a wild one. The fall, which is split into two, is thundering beside you; foam, foam, foam is flying all about you; the basin or cauldron is boiling frightfully below you; hirsute rocks are frowning terribly above you, and above them forest trees, dank and wet with spray and mist, are distilling drops in showers from their boughs.
But where is the bridge, the celebrated bridge of theEvil Man? From the bottom of the first flight of steps leading down into the hollow you see a modern-looking bridge bestriding a deep chasm or cleft to the southeast, near the top of the dingle of the Monks’ River; over it lies the road to Pont Erwyd. That, however, is not the Devil’s Bridge—but about twenty feet below that bridge and completely overhung by it, don’t you see a shadowy, spectral object, something like a bow, which likewise bestrides the chasm? You do! Well! that shadowy, spectral object is the celebrated Devil’s Bridge, or, as the timorous peasants of the locality call it, the Pont y Gwr Drwg. It is now merely preserved as an object of curiosity, the bridge above being alone used for transit, and is quite inaccessible except to birds, and the climbing wicked boys of the neighbourhood, who sometimes at the risk of their lives contrive to get upon it from the frightfully steep northern bank, and snatch a fearful joy, as, whilst lying on their bellies, they poke their heads over its sides worn by age, without parapet to prevent them from falling into the horrid gulf below. But from the steps in the hollow the view of the Devil’s Bridge, and likewise of the cleft, is very slight and unsatisfactory. To view it properly, and the wonders connected with it, you must pass over the bridge above it, and descend a precipitous dingle on the eastern side till you come to a small platform in a crag. Below you now is a frightful cavity, at the bottom of which the waters of the Monks’ River, which comes tumbling from a glen to the east, whirl, boil and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron, called in the language of the country Twll yn y graig, or the hole in the rock, in a manner truly tremendous. On your right is a slit, probably caused by volcanic force, through which the waters after whirling in the cauldron eventually escape. The slit is wonderfully narrow considering its altitude, which is very great, considerably upwards of a hundred feet—nearly above you, crossing the slit, which is partially wrapped in darkness, is the far-famed bridge, the Bridge of the Evil Man, a work which though crumbling and darkly grey does much honour to the hand which built it, whether it was the hand of Satan or of a monkish architect, for the arch is chaste and beautiful, far superior in every respect,except in safety and utility, to the one above it, which from this place you have not the mortification of seeing. Gaze on these objects, namely, the horrid seething pot or cauldron, the gloomy volcanic slit, and the spectral, shadowy Devil’s Bridge for about three minutes, allowing a minute to each, then scramble up the bank and repair to your inn, and have no more sight-seeing that day, for you have seen enough. And if pleasant recollections do not haunt you through life of the noble falls and the beautiful wooded dingles to the west of the Bridge of the Evil One, and awful and mysterious ones of the monks’ boiling cauldron, the long, savage, shadowy cleft, and the grey, crumbling spectral bridge, I say boldly that you must be a very unpoetical person indeed.