Scenery of the wildest and most picturesque description was rife
and plentiful to a degree: hills were here, hills were there; some
tall and sharp, others huge and humpy; hills were on every side;
only a slight opening to the west seemed to present itself. "What
a valley!" I exclaimed. But on passing through the opening I found
myself in another, wilder and stranger, if possible. Full to the
west was a long hill rising up like the roof of a barn, an enormous
round hill on its north-east side, and on its south-east the tail
of the range which I had long had on my left - there were trees and
groves and running waters, but all in deep shadow, for night was
now close at hand.
"What is the name of this place?" I shouted to a man on horseback,
who came dashing through a brook with a woman in a Welsh dress
behind him.
"Aber Cowarch, Saxon!" said the man in a deep guttural voice, and
lashing his horse disappeared rapidly in the night.
"Aber Cywarch!" I cried, springing half a yard into the air. "Why,
that's the place where Ellis Wynn composed his immortal 'Sleeping
Bard,' the book which I translated in the blessed days of my youth.
