Was tolerably good,
lying along the eastern side of the lake, but that the greater part
of it was very rough, over hills and mountains, belonging to the
great chain of Arran, which constituted upon the whole the wildest
part of all Wales.
Passing by the northern end of the lake I turned to the south, and
proceeded along a road a little way above the side of the lake.
The day had now to a certain extent cleared up, and the lake was
occasionally gilded by beams of bright sunshine. After walking a
little way I overtook a lad dressed in a white greatcoat and
attended by a tolerably large black dog. I addressed him in
English, but finding that he did not understand me I began to talk
to him in Welsh.
"That's a fine dog," said I.
LAD. - Very fine, sir, and a good dog; though young he has been
known to kill rats.
MYSELF. - What is his name?
LAD. - His name is Toby, sir.
MYSELF. - And what is your name?
LAD. - John Jones, sir.
MYSELF. - And what is your father's?
LAD. - Waladr Jones, sir.
MYSELF. - Is Waladr the same as Cadwaladr?
LAD. - In truth, sir, it is.
MYSELF. - That is a fine name.
LAD. - It is, sir; I have heard my father say that it was the name
of a king.
MYSELF. - What is your father?
LAD. - A farmer, sir.
MYSELF. - Does he farm his own land?
LAD. - He does not, sir; he is tenant to Mr Price of Hiwlas.
MYSELF. - Do you live far from Bala?
LAD. - Not very far, sir.
MYSELF. - Are you going home now?
LAD. - I am not, sir; our home is on the other side of Bala. I am
going to see a relation up the road.
MYSELF. - Bala is a nice place.
LAD. - It is, sir; but not so fine as old Bala.
MYSELF. - I never heard of such a place. Where is it?
LAD. - Under the lake, sir.
MYSELF. - What do you mean?
LAD. - It stood in the old time where the lake now is, and a fine
city it was, full of fine houses, towers, and castles, but with
neither church nor chapel, for the people neither knew God nor
cared for Him, and thought of nothing but singing and dancing and
other wicked things. So God was angry with them, and one night,
when they were all busy at singing and dancing and the like, God
gave the word, and the city sank down into Unknown, and the lake
boiled up where it once stood.
MYSELF. - That was a long time ago.
LAD. - In truth, sir, it was.
MYSELF. - Before the days of King Cadwaladr.
LAD. - I daresay it was, sir.
I walked fast, but the lad was a shrewd walker, and though
encumbered with his greatcoat contrived to keep tolerably up with
me. The road went over hill and dale, but upon the whole more
upward than downward. After proceeding about an hour and a half we
left the lake, to the southern extremity of which we had nearly
come, somewhat behind, and bore away to the south-east, gradually
ascending. At length the lad, pointing to a small farm-house on
the side of a hill, told me he was bound thither, and presently
bidding me farewell, turned aside up a footpath which led towards
it.
About a minute afterwards a small delicate furred creature with a
white mark round its neck and with a little tail trailing on the
ground ran swiftly across the road. It was a weasel or something
of that genus; on observing it I was glad that the lad and the dog
were gone, as between them they would probably have killed it. I
hate to see poor wild animals persecuted and murdered, lose my
appetite for dinner at hearing the screams of a hare pursued by
greyhounds, and am silly enough to feel disgust and horror at the
squeals of a rat in the fangs of a terrier, which one of the
sporting tribe once told me were the sweetest sounds in "natur."
I crossed a bridge over a deep gulley which discharged its waters
into a river in a valley on the right. Arran rose in great majesty
on the farther side of this vale, its head partly shrouded in mist.
The day now became considerably overcast. I wandered on over much
rough ground till I came to a collection of houses at the bottom of
a pass leading up a steep mountain. Seeing the door of one of the
houses open I peeped in, and a woman who was sitting knitting in
the interior rose and came out to me. I asked the name of the
place. The name which she told me sounded something like Ty Capel
Saer - the House of the Chapel of the Carpenter. I inquired the
name of the river in the valley. Cynllwyd, hoary-headed, she
seemed to say; but here, as well as with respect to her first
answer, I speak under correction, for her Welsh was what my old
friends, the Spaniards, would call muy cerrado, that is, close or
indistinct. She asked me if I was going up the bwlch. I told her
I was.
"Rather you than I," said she, looking up to the heavens, which had
assumed a very dismal, not to say awful, appearance.
Presently I began to ascend the pass or bwlch, a green hill on my
right intercepting the view of Arran, another very lofty hill on my
left with wood towards the summit. Coming to a little cottage
which stood on the left I went to the door and knocked.
