“She was ordered to the Indies,” he said, vainly endeavouring to hide a tear, which told me the secret of his heart. I know not how it is, love tales are generally a great bore to the listener, but there was something so true, so heartfelt, in that single drop which glistened in the eye of my companion, that if delicacy would have permitted me, I should certainly have taxed him as being the hero of his own tale, and have requested him to give me a more minute relation of the affair.
I never felt the influence of the sublime mingled with the beautiful so deeply as when I stood upon this wonderful work of art; wherever I turned my eyes, the scene was calculated to excite the warmest feelings of admiration. The Dee flowing beneath, shadowed by the rich tints of the summer foliage; the ruined bridge; the dark mountain masses upon either side, patched with gloomy pines, intermingled with the relieving brightness of the graceful larch;—here tracing the lovely blooming heather, there the blasted rock in its naked majesty, and the noble amphitheatre at the extremity of the vale, with a view of the beautiful stream, as it came winding from the opposite point—the twittering of the birds as they prepared their mossy nests for repose, gave a charm to the evening, which can only be felt while witnessing the scene, and exceeds the power of description.
Having crossed the aqueduct, we proceeded by the left bank of the canal, passing a forge that nearly stifled us with gaseous smoke, along a pathway made of cinders and small coal, the refuse of the foundry. Trees of every description hung over our heads, and sloped down a deep declivity to the margin of the Dee, while on the opposite bank the mountain frowned above us. The partial glances we obtained of the vale through the woods, discovered scenes which the artist’s fancy might vainly attempt to equal. The water-flies, darting along the surface of the canal, and leaving long streaks of light behind them in myriad flashes, likewise engaged our attention; and we walked on in contemplative silence, my mind full of the crowd of natural beauties that surrounded me; while my companion seemed rapt in reflections upon the past—sometimes pausing to gaze upon a drooping willow, at others scanning a majestic oak that grew apart from the rest of the waving multitude, as if recollections of a painful nature crossed his mind.
At length, we reached the bridge of Llangollen, where the river is seen to great advantage, tumbling over its rocky bed, and rushing beneath the dark shelter of the overhanging trees. The village is small, and contains three respectable inns; viz.: the Hand, at which we stopped by the advice of my companion, the King’s Head, and the Royal Hotel. We were shewn into a very good parlour, and, after ordering a tea and supper dinner, my friend, somewhat exhausted by the day’s march, flung himself once more upon a sofa, while I resumed my journal. Supper or dinner, or whatever it may be termed being over, inquiries were made about our bed rooms.
“Your bed, sir, is made over the way.”
“Over the way!”
“Yes; my mistress has but one bed unoccupied, and she thought you would resign that to the elderly gentleman.”
“Oh certainly, my good girl; and who is to guide me ‘over the way,’ eh! for it’s as dark as Erebus?”
“Oh, sir, John, the ostler. Here, John! John!”