"Then it would come to this," said I, "I should receive three pints
from you three, and you three would receive nine from me."
"Just so, your honour, I see your honour is a ready reckoner."
"I know how much three times three make," said I. "Well, thank
you, kindly, but I must decline your offer; I am bound on a
journey."
"Where are you bound to, master?"
"To Llandovery, but if I can find an inn a few miles farther on I
shall stop there for the night."
"Then you will put up at the 'Pump Saint,' master; well, you can
have your three pints here and your three pipes too, and yet get
easily there by seven. Come in, master, come in! If you take my
advice you will think of your pint and your pipe and let all the
rest go to the devil."
"Thank you," said I, "but I can't accept your invitation, I must be
off;" and in spite of yet more pressing solicitations I went on.
I had not gone far when I came to a point where the road parted
into two; just at the point were a house and premises belonging
apparently to a stonemason, as a great many pieces of half-cut
granite were standing about, and not a few tombstones. I stopped
and looked at one of the latter. It was to the memory of somebody
who died at the age of sixty-six, and at the bottom bore the
following bit of poetry:-
"Ti ddaear o ddaear ystyria mewn braw,
Mai daear i ddaear yn fuan a ddaw;
A ddaear mewn ddaear raid aros bob darn
Nes daear o ddaear gyfrodir i farn."
"Thou earth from earth reflect with anxious mind
That earth to earth must quickly be consigned,
And earth in earth must lie entranced enthralled
Till earth from earth to judgment shall be called."
"What conflicting opinions there are in this world," said I, after
I had copied the quatrain and translated it. "The publican yonder
tells me to think of my pint and pipe and let everything else go to
the devil, and the tombstone here tells me to reflect with dread -
a much finer expression by-the-bye than reflect with anxious mind,
as I have got it - that in a very little time I must die, and lie
in the ground till I am called to judgment. Now, which is most
right, the tombstone or the publican? Why, I should say the
tombstone decidedly. The publican is too sweeping when he tells
you to think of your pint and pipe and nothing else. A pint and
pipe are good things. I don't smoke myself, but I daresay a pipe
is a good thing for them who like it, but there are certainly
things worth being thought of in this world besides a pint and pipe
- hills and dales, woods and rivers, for example - death and
judgment too are worthy now and then of very serious thought. So
it won't do to go with the publican the whole hog. But with
respect to the tombstone, it is quite safe and right to go with it
its whole length. It tells you to think of death and judgment -
and assuredly we ought to of them. It does not, however, tell you
to think of nothing but death and judgment and to eschew every
innocent pleasure within your reach. If it did it would be a
tombstone quite as sweeping in what it says as the publican, who
tells you to think of your pint and pipe and let everything else go
to the devil. The wisest course evidently is to blend the whole of
the philosophy of the tombstone with a portion of the philosophy of
the publican and something more, to enjoy one's pint and pipe and
other innocent pleasures, and to think every now and then of death
and judgment - that is what I intend to do, and indeed is what I
have done for the last thirty years."
I went on - desolate hills rose in the east, the way I was going,
but on the south were beautiful hillocks adorned with trees and
hedge-rows. I was soon amongst the desolate hills, which then
looked more desolate than they did at a distance. They were of a
wretched russet colour, and exhibited no other signs of life and
cultivation than here and there a miserable field and vile-looking
hovel; and if there was here nothing to cheer the eye there was
also nothing to cheer the ear. There were no songs of birds, no
voices of rills; the only sound I heard was the lowing of a
wretched bullock from a far-off slope.
I went on slowly and heavily; at length I got to the top of this
wretched range - then what a sudden change! Beautiful hills in the
far east, a fair valley below me, and groves and woods on each side
of the road which led down to it. The sight filled my veins with
fresh life, and I descended this side of the hill as merrily as I
had come up the other side despondingly. About half-way down the
hill I came to a small village. Seeing a public-house I went up to
it, and inquired in English of some people within the name of the
village.
"Dolwen," said a dark-faced young fellow of about four-and-twenty.
"And what is the name of the valley?" said I.
"Dolwen," was the answer, "the valley is named after the village."
"You mean that the village is named after the valley," said I, "for
Dolwen means fair valley."
"It may be so," said the young fellow, "we don't know much here."
Then after a moment's pause he said:
"Are you going much farther?"
"Only as far as the 'Pump Saint.'"
