NOTE. The allusion to the sick child in page 274 was given by CORRECTIONS. In p. 84 Footnote read "Congregational" instead of "Cal. Methodist." CHAPTER I. The Village. THE heart of Wales there nestles among the hills a little village the name of which would be more than a match for any of my English readers to pronounce, and even when pronounced would still remain an inexplicable mystery. Such names were never intended for Saxon tongues, and the beauty of their rhythm and the richness of their melody were never adapted to that strangely sensitive construction called the "English ear." Let the name of that hamlet therefore be among those of unknown villages to which the world owes a great debt and but for which life would lack much of its simple beauty and rugged force. The everlasting hills surround and caress in their mighty yet tender embrace this little hamlet. All round the scores of A humble homesteads of which it consists, excepting at one narrow outlet, an amphitheatre of hills rises gracefully toward the sky to catch every gleam of sunshine and every changeful shade of passing clouds. In early summer the slopes are adorned with patches of ripening corn, and with rich pasture-land where sheep fleck the verdant fields and where cattle graze the fresh green herbage or browse on the tender shoots of the luxuriant hedgerows. The village reposing peacefully in the hollow seems half asleep to the busy townsman who chances to pass by. The greater part of the small population are at work in the fields, only an occasional house-wife on her way to or from the well carrying the pitcher on her head, her hands meanwhile busily engaged in knitting, or an honest peasant taking a horse to the smithy to be shod, or a knot or two of children at play, may as a rule be seen during the busy hours of the day, while only the distant low of the cattle on the neighbouring slopes, or the harmonious sounds from the village anvil, break upon the stillness which reigns around. One traces but little of the rush of life in this secluded hamlet, but finds much of its sacred hush. There is here none of the crowding and elbowing which so mar human existence in our large towns, and there is almost as little of that burning enthusiasm which expresses itself often in the more honourable activities of our commercial centres. Here, each one has his niche and is happy, ambition does not distract and as a rule does not inspire. To one wearied out of all patience with the persistent and almost cruel din of town life, there is something indescribably sweet and soothing in the whole scene. It is such a place as any one longing to go for a short time out of man's world into God's, delights to find. It is one of the many unknown Bethanys of earth, a fit resting-place for wearied men, and home of contented ones; where love and simplicity delight to dwell, but where few of the world's ambitions linger. Through the hamlet there runs an old turnpike road, which long since was constructed at considerable labour and cost, excavated as it is in many places out of the solid rock, notably at the summit of the two hills which it crests, the one as it dips into the village, and the other as it emerges from the hollow on the other side. For many years this road continued to be the scene of much traffic. In addition to the stage coach and the ordinary market vehicles, long and frequent processions of wagons and carts passed along at certain seasons on their way for coal and lime, to say nothing of the well known but mysteriouslooking cheese and butter hawker, who in the days of smuggling drove through on his way to "the hills" to ply his trade, and who not unfrequently concealed in what appeared to be butter casks, many a keg of brandy and gin, called respectively by the wily trader and the initiated. customers of "the hills" yellow and white cheese. In the centre of the village is the inn, where the horses were supplied with water, and where their drivers, the honest wagoners, who suffered from a chronic feeling of dryness, were refreshed with something stronger. Next to the inn, and on the corner of cross roads, whence there is a commanding view of the approaches to the village, is the old smithy, where the horses were shod, and brokendown vehicles repaired. The smithy corner, as long as men can remember, has been the centre of interest, the spot where the villagers in their leisure hours have been accustomed to congregate. There, many years ago, the forefathers of the village used to meet to the merry music of harp and violin, many of whom, according to tradition, • Merthyr Tydvil and Neighbourhood. |