Down below
meandered the Taf, its reaches shining with a silver-like
splendour. The whole together formed an exquisite picture, in
which there was much sublimity, much still quiet life, and not a
little of fantastic fairy loveliness.
The sun was hastening towards the west as I passed a little cascade
on the left, the waters of which, after running under the road,
tumbled down a gully into the river. Shortly afterwards meeting a
man I asked him how far it was to Caerfili.
"When you come to the Quakers' Yard, which is a little way further
on, you will be seven miles from Caerfili."
"What is the Quakers' Yard?"
"A place where the people called Quakers bury their dead."
"Is there a village near it?
"There is, and the village is called by the same name."
"Are there any Quakers in it?"
"Not one, nor in the neighbourhood, but there are some, I believe,
in Cardiff."
"Why do they bury their dead there?"
"You should ask them, not me. I know nothing about them, and don't
want; they are a bad set of people."
"Did they ever do you any harm?"
"Can't say they did. Indeed I never saw one in the whole of my
life."
"Then why do you call them bad?"
"Because everybody says they are."
"Not everybody. I don't; I have always found them the salt of the
earth."
"Then it is salt that has lost its savour.
