LITMIR.BIZ

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hills we had crossed in the morning. We toiled up the ascent, and after crossing the level ground on the top, plunged down the bwlch between walking and running, occasionally stumbling, for we were nearly in complete darkness, and the bwlch was steep and stony. We more than once passed people who gave us the n’s da, the hissing night salutation of the Welsh. At length I saw the abbey looming amidst the darkness, and John Jones said that we were just above the fountain. We descended, and putting my head down, I drank greedily of the dwr santaidd, my guide following my example. We then proceeded on our way, and in about half-an-hour reached Llangollen. I took John Jones home with me. We had a cheerful cup of tea. Henrietta played on the guitar, and sang a Spanish song, to the great delight of John Jones, who at about ten o’clock departed contented and happy to his own dwelling.

      CHAPTER XVII

      John Jones and his Bundle – A Good Lady – The Irishman’s Dingle – Ab Gwilym and the Mist – The Kitchen – The Two Individuals – The Horse-Dealer – I can manage him – The Mist again.

      The following day was gloomy. In the evening John Jones made his appearance with a bundle under his arm, and an umbrella in his hand.

      “Sir,” said he, “I am going across the mountain with a piece of weaving work, for the man on the other side, who employs me. Perhaps you would like to go with me, as you are fond of walking.”

      “I suppose,” said I, “you wish to have my company for fear of meeting Gwyddelians on the hill.”

      John smiled.

      “Well, sir,” said he, “if I do meet them I would sooner be with company than without. But I dare venture by myself, trusting in the Man on High, and perhaps I do wrong to ask you to go, as you must be tired with your walk of yesterday.”

      “Hardly more than yourself,” said I. “Come; I shall be glad to go. What I said about the Gwyddelians was only in jest.”

      As we were about to depart John said,

      “It does not rain at present, sir, but I think it will. You had better take an umbrella.”

      I did so, and away we went. We passed over the bridge, and turning to the right went by the back of the town through a field. As we passed by the Plas Newydd John Jones said:

      “No one lives there now, sir; all dark and dreary; very different from the state of things when the ladies lived there – all gay then and cheerful. I remember the ladies, sir, particularly the last, who lived by herself after her companion died. She was a good lady, and very kind to the poor; when they came to her gate they were never sent away without something to cheer them. She was a grand lady too – kept grand company, and used to be drawn about in a coach by four horses. But she too is gone, and the house is cold and empty; no fire in it, sir; no furniture. There was an auction after her death; and a grand auction it was and lasted four days. O, what a throng of people there was, some of whom came from a great distance, to buy the curious things, of which there were plenty.”

      We passed over a bridge, which crosses a torrent, which descends from the mountain on the south side of Llangollen, which bridge John Jones told me was called the bridge of the Melin Bac, or mill of the nook, from a mill of that name close by. Continuing our way we came to a glen, down which the torrent comes which passes under the bridge. There was little water in the bed of the torrent, and we crossed easily enough by stepping-stones. I looked up the glen; a wild place enough, its sides overgrown with trees. Dreary and dismal it looked in the gloom of the closing evening. John Jones said that there was no regular path up it, and that one could only get along by jumping from stone to stone, at the hazard of breaking one’s legs. Having passed over the bed of the torrent, we came to a path, which led up the mountain. The path was very steep and stony; the glen with its trees and darkness on our right. We proceeded some way. At length John Jones pointed to a hollow lane on our right, seemingly leading into the glen.

      “That place, sir,” said he, “is called Pant y Gwyddel – the Irishman’s dingle, and sometimes Pant Paddy, from the Irish being fond of taking up their quarters there. It was just here, at the entrance of the pant, that the tribe were encamped, when I passed two months ago at night, in returning from the other side of the hill with ten shillings in my pocket, which I had been paid for a piece of my work, which I had carried over the mountain to the very place where I am now carrying this. I shall never forget the fright I was in, both on account of my life, and my ten shillings. I ran down what remained of the hill as fast as I could, not minding the stones. Should I meet a tribe now on my return I shall not run; you will be with me, and I shall not fear for my life nor for my money, which will be now more than ten shillings, provided the man over the hill pays me, as I have no doubt he will.”

      As we ascended higher we gradually diverged from the glen, though we did not lose sight of it till we reached the top of the mountain. The top was nearly level. On our right were a few fields enclosed with stone walls. On our left was an open space where whin, furze and heath were growing. We passed over the summit, and began to descend by a tolerably good, though steep road. But for the darkness of evening and a drizzling mist, which, for some time past, had been coming on, we should have enjoyed a glorious prospect down into the valley, or perhaps I should say that I should have enjoyed a glorious prospect, for John Jones, like a true mountaineer, cared not a brass farthing for prospects. Even as it was, noble glimpses of wood and rock were occasionally to be obtained. The mist soon wetted us to the skin, notwithstanding that we put up our umbrellas. It was a regular Welsh mist, a niwl, like that in which the great poet Ab Gwilym lost his way, whilst trying to keep an assignation with his beloved Morfydd, and which he abuses in the following manner: —

      “O ho! thou villain mist, O ho!

      What plea hast thou to plague me so!

      I scarcely know a scurril name,

      But dearly thou deserv’st the same;

      Thou exhalation from the deep

      Unknown, where ugly spirits keep!

      Thou smoke from hellish stews uphurl’d

      To mock and mortify the world!

      Thou spider-web of giant race,

      Spun out and spread through airy space!

      Avaunt, thou filthy, clammy thing,

      Of sorry rain the source and spring!

      Moist blanket dripping misery down,

      Loathed alike by land and town!

      Thou watery monster, wan to see,

      Intruding ’twixt the sun and me,

      To rob me of my blessed right,

      To turn my day to dismal night.

      Parent of thieves and patron best,

      They brave pursuit within thy breast!

      Mostly from thee its merciless snow

      Grim January doth glean, I trow.

      Pass off with speed, thou prowler pale,

      Holding along o’er hill and dale,

      Spilling a noxious spittle round,

      Spoiling the fairies’ sporting ground!

      Move off to hell, mysterious haze;

      Wherein deceitful meteors blaze;

      Thou wild of vapour, vast, o’ergrown,

      Huge as the ocean of unknown.”

      As we descended the path became more steep; it was particularly so at a part where it was overshadowed with trees on both sides. Here finding walking very uncomfortable, my knees suffering much, I determined to run. So shouting to John Jones, “Nis gallav gerdded rhaid rhedeg,” I set off running down the pass. My companion followed close behind, and luckily meeting no mischance, we presently found ourselves on level ground, amongst a collection of small houses. On our turning a corner a church appeared on our left hand on the slope of the hill. In the churchyard, and close to the road, grew a large yew-tree which flung its boughs far on every side. John Jones stopping by the tree said, that if I looked over the wall of the yard I should see the tomb of a

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