Valle Crucis—The Abbey—Lines written in the ruins—A loquacious porteress—A view of the Abbey—The pillar of Eliseg—A parting—Road to Corwen—Vale of the Dee—The musical pedestrian—War song—Over the hills and far away—An adventure—Corwen—The Church—College—Cross and Circle—Air Llwyn-own—Route to Landrillo—An old soldier and his son—Village of Landrillo—A fair—Vale of Edeyrnion—Arrival at Bala.

“Fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
Nor let the tuneful lips be dry
That warble Owen’s praise;
Whose walls with warlike spoils are hung,
And open wide his gates are flung,
In Cambria’s peaceful days.

“This hour bright is meant for joy,
Then fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
That shineth like the sea,
Whose azure handles, tipt with gold,
Invite the grasp of Britons bold,
The sons of Liberty!”

From the Welsh of Prince Owen Cyveilog, by R. W.

On the following morning, we bade adieu to Llangollen, and proceeded first to Valle Crucis.

Valle Crucis Abbey

Like most abbeys, it is beautifully situated. The monks of old well appreciated the value of rich lands and clear streams. An old woman received us at the gate, and instantly began to retail her information. “Gryffyd ap Madoc, Lord of Bromfield and Yale, founded this abbey in the year 1200.” There are parts of both church and abbey still remaining; the former was cruciform, and exhibits several styles of architecture. The eastern end is the most ancient; it is adorned by three lancet slips, forming one grand window. The entrance was in the west, under a broad and beautiful window, above which is a smaller one, of a marigold form, decorated with tracery and fret-work, and beneath it may be deciphered the following inscription:

A.D.A.M.D.N.S fecit hoc opus, pace beat quiescat Amen.

The cloisters are turned into a farmhouse and offices.

This noble edifice was dismantled by Henry VIII. My companion, feeling desirous to bathe in the clear waters, left me to my contemplations, encompassed by the ruined walls of the abbey, and tall ash trees, which shaded the area of the church. I wandered from thence to the fish pond, which is near to the abbey, and, while my companion was enjoying his ablutions, my muse jogged my arm, and reminded me that some tribute was due from me to this lovely spot. Taking out my pocket book and pencil, I produced the following

LINES WRITTEN AT VALLE CRUCIS.

Monastic Valle Crucis! while I linger in thy shade,
The spirits of the olden time seem moving in the glade;
Rebuilt appear thy ruined walls, and thou art strong again,
As when the organ through those aisles poured forth its solemn strain.

Here reigneth peace and solitude, as if some holy spell
Still charmed the blessed region where religion loved to dwell;
No music, save the streamlet’s voice, disturbs the deep serene,
And breezy sounds sweet murmuring throughout the woodlands green.

Oh fallen Valle Crucis! full six hundred years are gone
Since the warlike lord of Dinas Bean laid thy foundation stone;
And mighty didst thou flourish, till that fell destroyer came,
Than mouldering time more ruthless, and of sacrilegious name.

Then, holy Valle Crucis! was thy sacred roof thrown down,
Thy peaceful inmates scattered, rent the sacerdotal gown;
The mournful ivy clustered o’er thy grey and ruined walls,
And ash trees sprang, where torches blazed, within thy sainted halls.Hushed are the lips of all who dwelt within that cloistered fane;
And holy feet will never press the polished floors again,
At morning prayer and vesper hymn, which thrilled thy very stones—
Forgotten now those pious ones, and whitened are their bones!

Yet ivy’d Valle Crucis! thou art fairer in decay
Than all the splendid structures which adorn our modern day;
In every mouldering fragment of thy consecrated pile
There’s a charm to all who view thy walls, or tread thy broken aisle.

Peace dwell around thee ever! may no heedless hand molest
The solemn bird which builds in thee its ivy-mantled nest,
Whose breathings seem the deep-drawn sighs of bosoms fraught with pain,
Lamenting the departed, who will ne’er return again.

The porteress of this ancient building is Ann Dale, who has lived in this solitary but delightful spot for two years; and, although a Shropshire woman, has made herself, during that period, sufficiently acquainted with the Welsh language to discourse fluently with the country people, in their native tongue; and has moreover committed to memory everything interesting, relative to the spot where she resides. It is evidently her delight to point out to strangers the objects most worthy their attention; and her love of the venerable pile has induced her to take spade in hand, and clear away the rubbish that perhaps had for centuries been accumulating round the columns, leaving them clear to their foundations. Time has been over busy with her features; but her limbs are as active as those of a girl of sixteen, and her spirits are as light as her heels.

“Ah, sir!” said she, after enumerating the good offices she had received from the neighbouring gentry, and the friendly feelings of the more humble classes, “I’ve always made it a rule, throughout my life, to be civil to every body. Civility costs nothing, you know, and I’m always surprised to hear people, when they are asked a simple question, if they chance to have a better coat on their backs than the person who addresses them, give an answer as if they were speaking to cattle, or worse brutes, when you know, sir, (approaching the cottage at the head of the pond) we are all the same flesh and blood, (pausing on the second step.) I don’t say but there ought to be distinctions, for we can’t be all gentlefolks, (entering.) But then, where’s the difference, when we are as them that lie in the abbey there? or like these poor bones that I have in a box here, (opening it and displaying some human relics.) They all comed out of the abbey ground, Sir. Why these might be a bishop’s, or a great warrior’s, for aught we know to the contrary. Well, sir, after all, there’s nothing like good common sense. Solomon prayed for good sense, and he had it; and, thank God, I have it, too. Now, sir, come this way (leading back to the margin of the monks’ pond) and I’ll show you something that shows what a thing Providence is. You see that stone jar there, sir—just there in the water; well, sir, you know there are no flies in the winter; so the poor fish would be sorely put about for food, but for Providence. Well, upon that jar I’ve seen thousands and thousands of things like shells and patches of grey moss; and I’ve seen the trout cluster about it, and feed upon ’em often. And, whenever I thinks of that, sir, it brings to my mind the 104th Psalm.”

“What is the name of that mountain, my good lady, to S.E. of the abbey?” I inquired.

“Why that, sir, is called Fron Fawr. It is 1328 feet above the level of the sea, sir.”

I thanked her for her information; and, prompted by an incontrollable appetite, ventured to ask if she could supply us with anything eatable.“Why, I’m afraid,” said she “that I have nothing that you’ll like, sir; for I’m a poor lone woman, and what suits me, wouldn’t perhaps sit upon your honour’s stomach. But there were a party here this morning, and they left behind ’em a pork-pie, because the dish got broke, and a piece of apple tart; and I have gotten a piece of oatcake, and a piece of cheese; if you could manage to put up with that, sir, you’re quite welcome.”

Talk of Christmas times, of roast beef and plum pudding! Give me June, with cold pork-pie, apple tart, and cheese, in a summer-house overlooking a monk’s pond, and surrounded by waving woods and lofty trees, in view of the ruined abbey,

“Where monks of old
As I’ve been told
Quaffed the merry, merry nut brown ale.”

By the time my travelling friend had returned from his bath, the table was furnished with fare calculated to satisfy his appetite, at the expense of pork-pie, tart, etc. Mixing the contents of our united flasks with the pure cool waters of the refreshing spring, inhaling the perfume of Havannah, and making a sofa out of two wooden chairs, we amused ourselves with a retrospective view of the scenes we had passed through since we met. It was now twelve o’clock, and, as it was my intention to reach Bala by nightfall, we rose to depart; and with many thanks and kind wishes from the old porteress of Valle Crucis, quitted that interesting ruin, and proceeded to

THE PILLAR OF ELISEG.

It stands in a meadow, a short distance from the abbey, and was a memorial of the dead; an improvement on the rude columns of Druidical times, sculptured into form, and surrounded with inscriptions. It is among the first lettered stones that succeed the Meini-Hirion, Meini-Gwyr and Llechan, and stood on a great tumulus, perhaps always environed with wood, according to the custom of the most ancient times, when standing pillars were placed under every green tree.

Pillar of Eliseg

This pillar was erected above a thousand years ago, to the memory of Eliseg, the father of a Prince of Powis, called Rochwel Yscythrog, who met his death at the battle of Chester, in 607. During the civil wars, this pillar was thrown down, and broken, and the shaft which was originally above twelve feet in length, is now only eight. At the suggestion of the Rev. John Price, Bodleian librarian, and great antiquary, Mr. Lloyd, of Trevor Hall, had it placed in its present position.

At this spot, my companion and I were to separate. I felt the approaching loss severely; for where could I expect to find another so amusing and so kind?

“You’ll come and see me at Rhuthyn?” said he. “I have a snug cottage, a good housekeeper, a bed, and as good a glass of port as you will find in the neighbourhood;—promise to visit me at your return.”

I promised not to forget his hospitable invitation, and, with a feeling of regret I never before experienced at quitting a new acquaintance of so short standing, I squeezed his hand—and we parted.

From Valle Crucis Abbey, I proceeded to the banks of the Dee, and crossing the rude bridge over the river struck into the high road to Corwen, and proceeded at a brisk pace. The country became highly interesting. The mountains are lofty; and beneath, upon the right, Glyndwrdwy, the valley of the Dee, discloses its picturesque beauty. This was the property of the celebrated Owen Glyndwr.

The vale is so serpentine that it presents a succession of most exquisite views, and after a walk of three miles, on looking back, Castle Dinas Bran seems placed upon a lower eminence. The valley of Llangollen may be seen likewise from hence for many miles, terminated by the distant mountains.

After passing the fourth mile stone, the road takes a straight direction; and at this spot I came up with a person who, seated upon the road, was extracting some very tolerable music from one end of his walking cane. He was a tall thin man, with sharp features and large blue eyes. He had on a broad brimmed glazed hat, a blue frock coat, with nankeen pantaloons, short gaiters, and shoes. The rest of his wardrobe was wrapped in a pocket handkerchief; and his name, as I afterwards learnt, was Whiffler.

Upon my approaching him, he withdrew his musical cane from his mouth, and observed that it seemed likely to rain; and, by the misty appearance of the atmosphere before us, I concluded he was right in his observations; for in that direction the country was nearly obscured, while behind us, the sun sent forth his brightest beams upon mountain and stream; though the valleys partly slept in shadow, as he slowly journeyed to his western couch.

“Travelling far, sir?” inquired my new companion.“At my leisure,” I replied.

“Fine road, this, sir.”

“Capital.”

“Are you fond of music?”

“Passionately.”

This was sufficient encouragement to make my new acquaintance turn his staff once more into an instrument of sound, and he played a wild kind of march, which he assured me was called “The War Tramp of Owen Glyndwr,” the Welsh chieftain, who was so formidable an enemy to Henry IV.—Taking up the idea, I endeavoured to compose some appropriate lines for the air. (See music plate.) [130]

“Have the kindness, sir,” said my companion, “to step out with your left foot at the beginning of the bar, and you will find it excellent marching time.”

I complied with the whimsical request, and he seemed much pleased at my readiness to oblige his humour; for he blew away unceasingly, and I dare say would never have thought of stopping, had I not pointed out a handsome house to him, upon the opposite hill, and requested him to tell me the name of its proprietor.

“Do you mean that semibreve, in the middle of that forest of demi-semi-quavers?”I laughed at his conceit, and replied in the affirmative.

“Oh! that belongs to Mr. Jones, and is called Llandysilio Hall—a very worthy man. This glen, sir, has been the scene of many sanguinary conflicts.”

Here he struck up “The Battle of Prague,” and we marched on for about a mile further, when he suddenly stopped short before a small public house, upon the road side.

“I have an idea,” said he, “that a small drop of brandy, mixed with a little mulled ale, sugar and nutmeg, would make us get over the next four miles—prestissimo—eh? Con spirito, um?”

I agreed to the con spirito, but assured him a moderato movement would suit my inclination better for the remainder of the walk to Corwen. He then led the way into the house; and certainly, of all the comforts a tourist can experience, that of seeing a neatly sanded room, with shining oaken seats and tables, walls white as snow, pans and pots glittering in well ordered arrangement against them, a fine polished kitchen range enclosing a good fire, and a smiling, civil, hospitable hostess anxious to attend your commands, however trifling they may be, is the most desirable. I never saw any country where so much attention is paid to the cleanliness of the interior of their cottages, if I except Holland, and in this respect the peasantry resemble each other.

Having despatched this agreeable beverage, we resumed our walk, and in about ten minutes, the rain, which had long been threatening us, fell in torrents, and we resembled a couple of half drowned rats as we faced the storm.

My companion, with a half-comic and half melancholy cast of countenance, observed, “I declare, I can hardly make my instrument speak, although I have got a natural shake in my voice, as you may hear. Very cold, sir; isn’t it? Look yonder,” continued he, pointing to a clump of fir trees. “There, sir, once stood the celebrated wooden house, attached to the mansion of that mighty warrior and magician who could

“Call spirits from the vasty deep—”

for the purpose of lodging the guests. The mansion stood upon our left, and was formerly of grand dimensions, they say; though now alas! not a vestige of it remains. The site of the visitor’s lodging rooms commands a fine prospect of the valley. Perhaps you would like to walk up to it?”

“Certainly;” and, accordingly, we jumped over a stile and climbed to the summit of the mound, from which a glorious view of the valley was obtained. Upon reaching the top, the traveller is surprised to find, that what he looked upon as a mere mound, when viewed from the road, assumes the form of a tremendous precipice as he looks down upon the dark waters of the Dee, (which wind around its base), and glances over the fertile valley stretched far beneath, where Glyndwr vanquished the oppressor Grey. I had fallen into a reverie, from which I was awakened by the shrill sounds of the musician’s fife stick, which startled me with its discordant notes, and brought me back from the fourteenth century to the nineteenth, with a celerity far from pleasing.

As we resumed our walk, we heard the rumbling of wheels, and the tramp of horses behind us, and pausing to see what vehicle was approaching, we beheld a kind of van, drawn by two enormous animals, as large as any of the breed employed in some of the London breweries. They were driven by a young man, of about nineteen years of age.“Will you ride as far as Corwen?” said he, at the same time pulling up his horses.

As the rain was falling fast, and this conveyance promised to carry us to the town in half the time it would take us to walk thither, we gladly accepted the offer. I mounted by the side of the driver, having always a predilection for that seat; while my more prudent musical acquaintance jumped into the body of the cart, and was presently lost sight of beneath a dozen coal sacks, that covered several ale casks.

I soon found that my situation was far from being enviable. In the first place, there was no foot board, and I kept slipping forward, every now and then, at the hazard of falling upon the horses’ heels. The air became more keen, the rain rattled upon my visage with greater violence than ever, and silently I confessed—forgive me ye gnomes and demons of the storm!—that notwithstanding the grandeur of the mountain-torrent, I should at that time have given a preference to a little of the “mountain dew.”

Presently, I heard the shrill sound of the fife issuing from underneath the sacks, to the tune of “Over the hills and far away,” and was about requesting the driver to stop, until I joined my companion in his lair, when a smart lash upon the flank of the near horse made him dart off at a pace which defied all the efforts of the Welsh boor to check. With his right arm holding fast by the front rail of the caravan, he with his left pulled with all his strength to keep the horses in the road, and we dashed along, first upon one side, and then upon the other, for the middle was never kept, until I began to look out for the most comfortable landing place. I then caught hold of the near horse’s rein, while he tugged away at the other. The seat was slippery, and the reins were wet, and our united efforts would have failed in checking their speed; but espying a hill about half a mile a-head of us,

“Now then, keep ’em together,” said I, “and let them have their race out, for they must stop at yonder hill.”

All this time the fife was whistling like mad, “Go to the devil and shake yourselves;” and Mr. Whiffler was luxuriating in blessed ignorance of our danger.

Having made up my mind to the worst, but hoping for the best, I regaled myself with a sup of brandy from the pistol at my side, and then handed it to the driver, who drank—as if he liked it. We by this time reached the foot of the hill, at the same slashing pace, and began the ascent in a first rate style; but, when we had got about half way up, we were startled by a loud cry behind us, and, upon turning my head, I saw poor Mr. Whiffler seated in the middle of the road, flourishing his musical cane, and shouting most vociferously for us to stop. It seemed that he was amusing himself with his favourite airs, and never felt the gradual retiring motion of the sacks as we ascended the hill, until he was fairly shot out at the tail of the van, where he lay sprawling; but, thanks to the friendly sacks, unhurt.

Our frisky Flander’s steeds, coming to the push at the steep rising ground, relaxed in their rapid course, became quiet as lambs, and at the summit of the bill were very glad to come to a dead halt to recover their breath; giving my musical friend ample time to come up with us, which he had no sooner done, than, as if nothing had occurred worth mentioning, he resumed his situation in the van, and struck up “Drops of brandy.” I took the hint, and presented him with my reserve, which he emptied with much apparent satisfaction, and returned the flask with thankfulness. Then resuming his unwearying amusement, he never ceased until we reached the inn at Corwen; not the principal one, but a small house on the right of the street opposite to the Owen Glyndwr; which latter has a gigantic head over the door, much resembling the Saracen’s of Snow Hill notoriety.

I discovered the landlord of “The Welsh Harp” to be the proprietor of the van, and that the driver was his son. He also followed the occupation of watch and fishing tackle maker, and I willingly, therefore, took up my quarters with this specimen of Welsh rusticity, when invited, in preference to quartering at the great inn with the great head, as also did Mr. Whiffler.

The first question put to the jolly landlord, was, “What can you give us to eat?” It was about three o’clock in the day.

“Why, sir, I have a nice roast duck and some peas, which were intended for John’s,” meaning our van-driver, “dinner; but I shall be able to find something else for him.”

“And how long, pray, will it be before it is ready?”

“A quarter of an hour.”

“Very well, that will do; and, in the interim, I’ll borrow one of your coats, and we will visit the church, if there is anything in it worth looking at.”

No sooner said than done; and a large blue coat, with two heavy capes, and brass buttons of the size of crown pieces, was immediately brought forth, which I slipped into, it fitting me—like a sack! No matter—my own was thoroughly drenched, and was hanging before a blazing fire in the kitchen, reeking like a leg of mutton, hot from the boiler.

“Would you like to slip into a pair of my leather breeches?” inquired my hospitable host.

This I thankfully declined, upon looking at the difference of our dimensions. My piping friend was comfortably seated in the chimney corner, and observing “that he had never frequented church since he was married, having received at that time a shock he could never recover,” he commenced playing the beautiful air of “My ain fireside,” whilst I, turning most heroically to the right about, again braved the “pelting of the pitiless storm,” accompanied by John, our driver, who, in a few minutes, conducted me to the ancient edifice.

On one side of the altar is the lid of a coffin, which has the following inscription:

“Hic jacet Jorweth Sulien, vicarius de Corvaen ora pro eo.”

In the church wall is shewn the private doorway through which Owen Glyndwr entered the building whenever he attended divine worship, and in the rock, which overhangs the churchyard, there is a recess, which bears the name of Glyndwr’s chair; and the stone which now forms the lintel of the doorway leading to his pew, is said to retain the mark of his dagger, half an inch in depth, which he threw from the said chair; but upon what occasion it is not stated.

In the churchyard is a range of building called Corwen College, having over the archway the following inscription:

Corwen College,
For six widows of the Clergymen
Of the church of England,
Who died possessed of cures of souls,
In the county of Merionethshire.
Built and endowed
A.D MDCCL by the legacy of
William Egton Esq.
Of Plas-warren.

In the cemetery there is a cross, fixed in a circular stone, westward of the steeple; and it is supposed that the name of Corwen is a corruption of Corvaen, and derived from the cross. Cor signifies a circle, and maen (which is likewise considered to have been changed into vaen) if joined to cor, means a cross in the circle.

Having satisfied my curiosity here, I returned to the public house, and the first object which met my delighted eyes was the promised duck, accompanied by a dish of most elegant trout; a dainty for which I had been longing ever since I entered this territory of rocks and torrents. My friend was already placed at the table, and he clapped his hands, and rubbed them with evident delight and satisfaction at seeing me arrive so opportunely. The fish despatched, duck and green peas in close column brought up the rear. But I and my gallant comrade—a better trencherman ne’er poised a fork—attacked in line, cut up the one, and routed the other, with the most determined bravery. The right and left wings were attacked and cut off from the main body, which with all its material we dispersed in the glorious conflict, remaining masters of the field.

Although I thus warmly express my satisfaction at partaking of this not easily-to-be-forgotten luxury, let me not be mistaken for a gourmand; but a wet and tired traveller, however much his mind may be enchanted by the scenery through which he passes, never beholds a more delightful prospect than a comfortable meal at his journey’s end. It so happened, however, that this was not to be my journey’s end, for a blaze of light darted into the room at the moment John had carried off the spoils from our field of battle, and the glorious orb of day shone forth in cloudless majesty.

Wine in such a house, being out of the question, we ordered a jug of warm punch, and having drank success to my musical friend in a brimming goblet, I began to think, as my time was limited, and his path lay towards Cerrig-y-Drudion, and mine towards Bala, I had better reach that place before dark. My companion having divested himself of his shoes and stockings, and adopted those of the landlord, and feeling himself comfortable before the fire, resolved upon remaining where he was until bedtime. Wishing him, therefore, a pleasant evening, and a good night’s repose, I once more took the road for another walk of ten miles; while I heard the shrill sounds of his fife stick playing the Welsh air of “Farewell Glanddyn.”

At the end of the village, I was attracted by the eyes of the prettiest little Welsh lass that I remember having seen in the country. Health bloomed in her cheek, and animation darted from her sloe-black eyes. She was talking to a village lad, who appeared to be much abashed by some reproof she had given him; and presently, with a significant nod of the head and an admonitory glance of the eye, she turned briskly from him, and frisked by me, humming a Welsh air—the first that I had heard since I entered the principality—while the youth, with a smile and a sigh, turned in a contrary direction, exclaiming, “Ah, Jenny, if you refuse so many, you may happen to pray for one yet.”

I afterwards discovered that the Welsh air was called after the mansion of Mr. Edward Jones, the compiler of that most interesting book of Cambrian lore, the Bardic Museum. I instantly determined to put the idea I had formed in my mind of the Welsh lass into verse, and to adapt the lines to the music. (See plate.) [143]

Every thing looked cheerful; the birds carroled joyously from the trees and bushes; and I joined in the chorus. A robin appeared to be much taken with my vocal powers, and for a good while kept me company, alighting constantly some ten or twelve yards before me, and listening attentively until I had passed as far; then, passing me again in his flight, he took up his station as before. “Poor bird!” thought I, “I remember in my boyhood I have followed some of your race as eagerly as you now follow me; and my ears drank in their notes, intoxicating my senses with delight. I shall never forget the old mulberry tree that grew in our play grounds, shadowing a pretty little hermitage in which I used to sit apart from my schoolfellows and listen to the notes of that delightful warbler, with whom I grew familiar, and fed every evening with crumbs of bread, saved from my dinner.”

How extraordinary it appears that the past should always seem more delightful than the present! I am convinced, that I was more miserable during my school-boy days than I have been since, and yet my mind returns to the brighter portions of the picture only. The April beams that dried up the tears of my youth live in the memory, while the clouds and showers are buried in oblivion. Youth, youth!—why should we ever grow old? why are we not as fresh and green at sixty as we are at twenty?—why may we not enjoy the blessings of vigour, the elastic bound, the rosy tint, the boundless flow of spirits, the freshness of imagination, until the moment when we drop into the grave?—But sentimentalism is a bad subject for sale, and therefore I have no business to introduce any chapters of such a nature in this little work.

At a short distance from Corwen, a road branches off to the left, along which the traveller should trudge to the village of Llandrillo, and he will be repaid by the sight of one of the most fertile valleys in Wales. It is a mile farther to Bala by this route, but the superior beauty of the scenery will amply recompense him for the extra distance; for, with the exception of a view of Bala lake, obtained from an eminence on the road, which runs along the opposite side of the valley, it is dull and uninviting. But, on the contrary, by the Llandrillo route, the eye is delighted with a succession of scenes, varied and interesting in the extreme. Huge masses of rock hang over the road, upon the left, in threatening grandeur, while waving woods, and falling streams, give endless variety to the picture.

After proceeding four miles, I crossed a bridge over a fine trout stream, the banks of which are shaded with trees; and, turning into an avenue upon the right, seated myself by the margin of the brook, secured from the hot rays of the mid-day sun, and fancied myself the melancholy Jacques. There only wanted a wounded stag, to make the illusion perfect.

Here I was shortly after joined by an old man and his son, who, after some hours’ fishing, had contrived to fill a moderately sized basket with very fine trout. The father was tall and thin, with prominent features, sharp grey eyes, and grey locks; his port was erect, “stiff as a ramrod,” and if he had been unfortunate enough to have had a lame leg, he would have made an excellent representation of Corporal Foss. The son, a youth of about nineteen, was clad in a suite of clothes so tattered, that my curiosity was excited to learn at which rent he got into them. His fishing basket was slung at his back, and his rod was composed of odds and ends; his hat, from long exposure to the weather, had lost its crown, while the rim was torn into ribands. If ever the god of love assumed the disguise of ragged poverty, he could not have chosen a better model, both in person and attire. His height was about five feet, nine inches; his face a perfect oval; his hair, which stole in clustering curls from beneath its wretched covering, was of the brightest auburn; his forehead was broad and high; his eyebrows finely arched, and his dark blue eyes were lighted up with the fire of animation; his nose, teeth, and chin were perfectly beautiful; his neck and shoulders would be invaluable to a sculptor; and his whole graceful frame seemed formed for strength and activity. His demeanour was respectful and modest, and the contrast between the noble creature and his sorry garb was painfully striking. There was, however, a look of independence and a freedom in his gait, which suited well with the surrounding scene.

The old man seated himself near me, and lamented that he could not obtain any fire to light his pipe. This element I quickly supplied him with, and, lighting a cigar for myself, we resembled a knot of Indian warriors smoking “the calumet of peace.” I entered into conversation, offering my flask, by way of making a favourable impression. They thankfully availed themselves of my offer, and my expectations were not disappointed. The old man told me that he had been a soldier in his youth, and fought in many battles, both in Egypt and Spain, and was now in the receipt of a pension from government, for honourable wounds, which at various times he had received in the service of his country.

While his father whiffed his tobacco, the youth angled down the stream, but soon returned and, respectfully and gracefully declining my invitation to renew his draught, he stood looking down upon us, his arms folded across his chest, embracing his rod, and listening modestly to the old man’s narration. I sat an hour with these two beings, and, having purchased a casting line and some flies from the elder fisherman, he put two extra ones into my hands, saying: “There, sir, are two flies, with which I killed some fine trout, yesterday. I’ll make you a present of them; and, when you are killing your fish, perhaps you’ll think of the old soldier.” So, with mutual thanks, we parted.

As I entered the village of Llandrillo, I was much delighted with the lively scene. The long street was crowded with peasantry, in their holiday clothes. On each side were stalls, formed of tubs turned upside down, and boards placed upon them, to support their merchandise; square patches strewed with straw and covered with crockery and glass; tables well stored with woollen hose and mittens; and stands of gingerbread and ginger-pop were liberally stationed in different quarters, to gratify and refresh the happy throng. At times, a sudden opening in the crowd took place, the whole mass of people jamming each other upon either side of the street, to make way for a trotting pony, or an ambling nag, to curvet and prance down the middle and up again, to show his paces. At the upper end of the fair, a hardware man harangued a crowd of people from his travelling warehouse (a covered cart,) endeavouring to persuade them that he came to Llandrillo solely for their benefit, and for no selfish motive upon earth, and labouring to convince them, in brazier-like eloquence, that the articles he offered to their notice were considerably under prime cost, and could not be purchased elsewhere for treble the money;—but, though he sold at a great sacrifice to himself, he begged them not to consider his loss, but their own gain; such an opportunity would never again present itself, therefore now was their only time to buy cheap!

A party of Welsh girls attracted my attention, gathered together in front of a wall, upon which a line of men’s hats were ranged, of various qualities and prices; and great glee and laughter were elicited, as each fitted the new beaver upon her head, it being considered the ne plus ultra of taste, and a powerful auxiliary to the coquetry of a Welsh girl.

Leaving Llandrillo, and proceeding towards Bala, the traveller enters the

VALE OF EDEYRNION.

The mountains here, upon either side, are covered with plantations, and the beautiful Dee winds gracefully in the centre of the valley, through delightful meadows, while corn fields wave upon the sloping banks, and everything presents to the eye the appearance of freshness and fertility, cheerfulness and content. At the bridge near Llandderfel, a small village, which is first observed upon the opposite bank of the Dee, a splendid view presents itself. The river here is broad, shallow, and deep, by turns, and looking up or down the vale, its meandering sportiveness charms the eye. At the extremity of the valley is a lofty mountain, planted to the summit, which seems so closely to envelop it, as to prevent all egress. To stand upon this bridge at sunset, and listen to the whistle of the sheep boy as he trudges merrily along the road, the song of the husbandman, or the joyous laugh of the milkmaids—sounds that float upon the silent air for miles, at such an hour,—the twittering of the birds, before they hide their heads beneath their wings to seek repose—the low craik of the rail, amidst the corn—and sweeter than all, the music of the river, discharging liquid sounds from its transparent bosom,—creates a sensation which we are at a loss how to express. Excess of pleasure becomes painful; and, overpowered with delight, nature asserts her influence, and we experience the luxury of tears!—at least, I did, and I pity from my soul the man who is unfortunately incapable of a similar feeling.

Passing through the little village of Llanver, and crossing a stream over the bridge close by the lodge of Mr. Price of Rhewlas, I at length arrived at the Bull’s Head in the town, to which house I had been recommended by a passing traveller; and, tired with my day’s exertions, called for a tea-dinner and slippers.

BALA.

Both these luxuries were furnished me by the fair hands of Martha Jones, the landlady’s unmarried sister, a lively, black-eyed, pretty lass, who, in being a spinster, proves that the Bala lads are greatly deficient in taste, or that Martha has set her cap at something better than is to be found in Bala.

Two gentlemen were seated in the room when I entered, each of whom were discussing the merits of a glass of brandy and water. One of them (a young man who I afterwards discovered was a captain’s clerk in the East India service, upon leave,) was making himself particularly entertaining to his companion, by relating a number of anecdotes about a relative, a clergyman, whose residence is somewhere in the neighbourhood.

“Ha! ha! ha! you remember the time when the dinner was given at —; well, the old boy as usual, had got too much grog aboard, and without a rudder, began to crowd sail for the stable—my eyes! how he did traverse! but at last, a gale took his topsail right aback, and capsising him into the kennel, he began to roar out for help. ‘What’s the matter?’ cried twenty voices at a time. ‘Oh help! help me up,’ cried the old boy, ‘for I’m the Lord’s servant!’ ‘Ay, ay,’ cried one, ‘and you’re like all the rest of ’em, want a good deal of looking after.’ Ha, ha, ha!”

This anecdote, required another glass of brandy and water to wash it down; which being brought, this irreverend humorist rehearsed a number of other circumstances concerning his eccentric relative, amongst which was a story of his ascending the pulpit, to preach a sermon, “and kneeling down,” said he, “he placed his hand upon the cushion, in the attitude of prayer, closed his port holes, and fell into a—sound sleep! The congregation waited—and waited—until their patience was quite exhausted, and one after another began to heave anchor. The clerk, at last, ventured to awaken his pastor just in time for him to see the last of his parishioners leaving the church.”

I was truly sorry to find, upon inquiry, that this was but too true a tale of the old man, whose years are many, and who must be well aware, that a very short time can elapse, before he will become a tenant of the grave.

Wearied with the conversation, I rang for my bed candle, and retired to rest.