The Other Was A Short Spuddy Fellow, With A Broad Ugly
Face And With Spectacles On His Nose, Who Talked
Very
consequentially about "the service" and all that, but whose tone of
voice was coarse and his manner that of
An under-bred person; then
there was an old fellow about sixty-five, a civilian, with a red
carbuncled face; he was father of the spuddy military puppy, on
whom he occasionally cast eyes of pride and almost adoration, and
whose sayings he much applauded, especially certain DOUBLES
ENTENDRES, to call them by no harsher term, directed to a fat girl,
weighing some fifteen stone, who officiated in the coffee-room as
waiter. Then there was a creature to do justice to whose
appearance would require the pencil of a Hogarth. He was about
five feet three inches and a quarter high, and might have weighed,
always provided a stone weight had been attached to him, about half
as much as the fat girl. His countenance was cadaverous and was
eternally agitated by something between a grin and a simper. He
was dressed in a style of superfine gentility, and his skeleton
fingers were bedizened with tawdry rings. His conversation was
chiefly about his bile and his secretions, the efficacy of licorice
in producing a certain effect, and the expediency of changing one's
linen at least three times a day; though had he changed his six, I
should have said that the purification of the last shirt would have
been no sinecure to the laundress. His accent was decidedly
Scotch: he spoke familiarly of Scott and one or two other Scotch
worthies, and more than once insinuated that he was a member of
Parliament. With respect to the rest of the company I say nothing,
and for the very sufficient reason that, unlike the above described
batch, they did not seem disposed to be impertinent towards me.
Eager to get out of such society I retired early to bed. As I left
the room the diminutive Scotch individual was describing to the old
simpleton, who on the ground of the other's being a "member," was
listening to him with extreme attention, how he was labouring under
an access of bile owing to his having left his licorice somewhere
or other. I passed a quiet night, and in the morning breakfasted,
paid my bill, and departed. As I went out of the coffee-room the
spuddy, broad-faced military puppy with spectacles was vociferating
to the languishing military puppy, and to his old simpleton of a
father, who was listening to him with his usual look of undisguised
admiration, about the absolute necessity of kicking Lieutenant P-
out of the army for having disgraced "the service." Poor P-, whose
only crime was trying to defend himself with fist and candlestick
from the manual attacks of his brutal messmates.
CHAPTER XLVI
The Valley of Gelert - Legend of the Dog - Magnificent Scenery -
The Knicht - Goats in Wales - The Frightful Crag - Temperance House
- Smile and Curtsey.
BETH GELERT is situated in a valley surrounded by huge hills, the
most remarkable of which are Moel Hebog and Cerrig Llan; the former
fences it on the south, and the latter, which is quite black and
nearly perpendicular, on the east. A small stream rushes through
the valley, and sallies forth by a pass at its south-eastern end.
The valley is said by some to derive its name of Beddgelert, which
signifies the grave of Celert, from being the burial-place of
Celert, a British saint of the sixth century, to whom Llangeler in
Carmarthenshire is believed to have been consecrated, but the
popular and most universally received tradition is that it has its
name from being the resting-place of a faithful dog called Celert
or Gelert, killed by his master, the warlike and celebrated
Llywelyn ab Jorwerth, from an unlucky misapprehension. Though the
legend is known to most people, I shall take the liberty of
relating it.
Llywelyn during his contests with the English had encamped with a
few followers in the valley, and one day departed with his men on
an expedition, leaving his infant son in a cradle in his tent,
under the care of his hound Gelert, after giving the child its fill
of goat's milk. Whilst he was absent a wolf from the neighbouring
mountains, in quest of prey, found its way into the tent, and was
about to devour the child, when the watchful dog interfered, and
after a desperate conflict, in which the tent was torn down,
succeeded in destroying the monster. Llywelyn returning at evening
found the tent on the ground, and the dog, covered with blood,
sitting beside it. Imagining that the blood with which Gelert was
besmeared was that of his own son devoured by the animal to whose
care he had confided him, Llywelyn in a paroxysm of natural
indignation forthwith transfixed the faithful creature with his
spear. Scarcely, however, had he done so when his ears were
startled by the cry of a child from beneath the fallen tent, and
hastily removing the canvas he found the child in its cradle, quite
uninjured, and the body of an enormous wolf, frightfully torn and
mangled, lying near. His breast was now filled with conflicting
emotions, joy for the preservation of his son, and grief for the
fate of his dog, to whom he forthwith hastened. The poor animal
was not quite dead, but presently expired, in the act of licking
his master's hand. Llywelyn mourned over him as over a brother,
buried him with funeral honours in the valley, and erected a tomb
over him as over a hero. From that time the valley was called Beth
Gelert.
Such is the legend, which, whether true or fictitious, is
singularly beautiful and affecting.
The tomb, or what is said to be the tomb, of Gelert, stands in a
beautiful meadow just below the precipitous side of Cerrig Llan:
it consists of a large slab lying on its side, and two upright
stones.
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