Buch lesen: «Wild Wales: The People, Language, & Scenery», Seite 36

CHAPTER LXXXI

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 asked me 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 fellow with 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 an opportunity 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.

CHAPTER LXXXII

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 hall
Would 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 about everything, 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 were horrid 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 hunted after 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.