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.
This monument, which is of the purest marble, is placed on the
eastern side of the church, below a window of stained glass, and
represents a truly affecting scene: a lady and gentleman are
standing over a dying girl of angelic beauty, who is extended on a
couch, and from whose hand a volume, the Book of Life, is falling.
The lady is weeping.
Beneath is the following inscription -
To the Memory of
MARY
The only child of THOMAS and JANE JOHNES
Who died in 1811
After a few days' sickness
This monument is dedicated
By her parents.
An inscription worthy, by its simplicity and pathos, to stand below
such a monument.
After presenting a trifle to the woman, who, to my great surprise,
could not speak a word of English, I left the church, and descended
the side of the hill, near the top of which it stands. The scenery
was exceedingly beautiful. Below me was a bright green valley, at
the bottom of which the Ystwyth ran brawling, now hid amongst
groves, now showing a long stretch of water. Beyond the river to
the east was a noble mountain, richly wooded. The Ystwyth, after a
circuitous course, joins the Rheidol near the strand of the Irish
Channel, which the united rivers enter at a place called Aber
Ystwyth, where stands a lovely town of the same name, which sprang
up under the protection of a baronial castle, still proud and
commanding even in its ruins, built by Strongbow, the conqueror of
the great western isle. Near the lower part of the valley the road
tended to the south, up and down through woods and bowers, the
scenery still ever increasing in beauty. At length, after passing
through a gate and turning round a sharp corner, I suddenly beheld
Hafod on my right hand, to the west at a little distance above me,
on a rising ground, with a noble range of mountains behind it.
A truly fairy place it looked, beautiful but fantastic, in the
building of which three styles of architecture seemed to have been
employed. At the southern end was a Gothic tower; at the northern
an Indian pagoda; the middle part had much the appearance of a
Grecian villa. The walls were of resplendent whiteness, and the
windows, which were numerous, shone with beautiful gilding. Such
was modern Hafod, a strange contrast, no doubt, to the hunting
lodge of old.
After gazing at this house of eccentric taste for about a quarter
of an hour, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with a strong
disposition to laugh, I followed the road, which led past the house
in nearly a southerly direction.
