She was dead and buried in less than a fortnight. Ah, master, I
wish that corpse-candles were as few and as little dangerous as the
Tylwith Teg or fairies."
We returned to the inn, where I settled with the honest fellow,
adding a trifle to what I had agreed to give him. Then sitting
down, I called for a large measure of ale, and invited him to
partake of it. He accepted my offer with many thanks and bows, and
as we sat and drank our ale we had a great deal of discourse about
the places we had visited. The ale being finished, I got up and
said:
"I must now be off for the Devil's Bridge!"
Whereupon he also arose, and offering me his hand, said:
"Farewell, master; I shall never forget you. Were all the
gentlefolks who come here to see the sources like you, we should
indeed feel no want in these hills of such a gentleman as is spoken
of in the pennillion."
The sun was going down as I left the inn. I recrossed the
streamlet by means of the pole and rail. The water was running
with much less violence than in the morning, and was considerably
lower. The evening was calm and beautifully cool, with a slight
tendency to frost. I walked along with a bounding and elastic
step, and never remember to have felt more happy and cheerful.
I reached the hospice at about six o'clock, a bright moon shining
upon me, and found a capital supper awaiting me, which I enjoyed
exceedingly.
How one enjoys one's supper at one's inn after a good day's walk,
provided one has the proud and glorious consciousness of being able
to pay one's reckoning on the morrow!
CHAPTER LXXXIX
A Morning View - Hafod Ychdryd - The Monument - Fairy-looking Place
- Edward Lhuyd.
THE morning of the sixth was bright and glorious. As I looked from
the window of the upper sitting-room of the hospice the scene which
presented itself was wild and beautiful to a degree. The oak-
covered tops of the volcanic crater were gilded with the brightest
sunshine, whilst the eastern sides remained in dark shade and the
gap or narrow entrance to the north in shadow yet darker, in the
midst of which shone the silver of the Rheidol cataract. Should I
live a hundred years I shall never forget the wild fantastic beauty
of that morning scene.
I left the friendly hospice at about nine o'clock to pursue my
southern journey. By this time the morning had lost much of its
beauty, and the dull grey sky characteristic of November began to
prevail. The way lay up a hill to the south-east; on my left was a
glen down which the river of the Monk rolled with noise and foam.
The country soon became naked and dreary, and continued so for some
miles. At length, coming to the top of a hill, I saw a park before
me, through which the road led after passing under a stately
gateway. I had reached the confines of the domain of Hafod.
Hafod Ychdryd, or the summer mansion of Uchtryd, has from time
immemorial been the name of a dwelling on the side of a hill above
the Ystwyth, looking to the east. At first it was a summer boothie
or hunting lodge to Welsh chieftains, but subsequently expanded to
the roomy, comfortable dwelling of Welsh squires, where hospitality
was much practised and bards and harpers liberally encouraged.
Whilst belonging to an ancient family of the name of Johnes,
several members of which made no inconsiderable figure in
literature, it was celebrated, far and wide, for its library, in
which was to be found, amongst other treasures, a large collection
of Welsh manuscripts on various subjects - history, medicine,
poetry and romance. The house, however, and the library were both
destroyed in a dreadful fire which broke out. This fire is
generally called the great fire of Hafod, and some of those who
witnessed it have been heard to say that its violence was so great
that burning rafters mixed with flaming books were hurled high
above the summits of the hills. The loss of the house was a matter
of triviality compared with that of the library. The house was
soon rebuilt, and probably, phoenix-like, looked all the better for
having been burnt, but the library could never be restored. On the
extinction of the family, the last hope of which, an angelic girl,
faded away in the year 1811, the domain became the property of the
late Duke of Newcastle, a kind and philanthrophic nobleman, and a
great friend of agriculture, who held it for many years, and
considerably improved it. After his decease it was purchased by
the head of an ancient Lancashire family, who used the modern house
as a summer residence, as the Welsh chieftains had used the wooden
boothie of old.
I went to a kind of lodge, where I had been told that I should find
somebody who would admit me to the church, which stood within the
grounds and contained a monument which I was very desirous of
seeing, partly from its being considered one of the masterpieces of
the great Chantrey, and partly because it was a memorial to the
lovely child, the last scion of the old family who had possessed
the domain. A good-looking young woman, the only person whom I
saw, on my telling my errand, forthwith took a key and conducted me
to the church. The church was a neat edifice with rather a modern
look. It exhibited nothing remarkable without, and only one thing
remarkable within, namely, the monument, which was indeed worthy of
notice, and which, had Chantrey executed nothing else, might well
have entitled him to be considered, what the world has long
pronounced him, the prince of British sculptors.
