As we resumed our walk, we heard the rumbling of wheels, and the tramp of horses behind us, and pausing to see what vehicle was approaching, we beheld a kind of van, drawn by two enormous animals, as large as any of the breed employed in some of the London breweries. They were driven by a young man, of about nineteen years of age.
“Will you ride as far as Corwen?” said he, at the same time pulling up his horses.
As the rain was falling fast, and this conveyance promised to carry us to the town in half the time it would take us to walk thither, we gladly accepted the offer. I mounted by the side of the driver, having always a predilection for that seat; while my more prudent musical acquaintance jumped into the body of the cart, and was presently lost sight of beneath a dozen coal sacks, that covered several ale casks.
I soon found that my situation was far from being enviable. In the first place, there was no foot board, and I kept slipping forward, every now and then, at the hazard of falling upon the horses’ heels. The air became more keen, the rain rattled upon my visage with greater violence than ever, and silently I confessed—forgive me ye gnomes and demons of the storm!—that notwithstanding the grandeur of the mountain-torrent, I should at that time have given a preference to a little of the “mountain dew.”
Presently, I heard the shrill sound of the fife issuing from underneath the sacks, to the tune of “Over the hills and far away,” and was about requesting the driver to stop, until I joined my companion in his lair, when a smart lash upon the flank of the near horse made him dart off at a pace which defied all the efforts of the Welsh boor to check. With his right arm holding fast by the front rail of the caravan, he with his left pulled with all his strength to keep the horses in the road, and we dashed along, first upon one side, and then upon the other, for the middle was never kept, until I began to look out for the most comfortable landing place. I then caught hold of the near horse’s rein, while he tugged away at the other. The seat was slippery, and the reins were wet, and our united efforts would have failed in checking their speed; but espying a hill about half a mile a-head of us,
“Now then, keep ’em together,” said I, “and let them have their race out, for they must stop at yonder hill.”
All this time the fife was whistling like mad, “Go to the devil and shake yourselves;” and Mr. Whiffler was luxuriating in blessed ignorance of our danger.
Having made up my mind to the worst, but hoping for the best, I regaled myself with a sup of brandy from the pistol at my side, and then handed it to the driver, who drank—as if he liked it. We by this time reached the foot of the hill, at the same slashing pace, and began the ascent in a first rate style; but, when we had got about half way up, we were startled by a loud cry behind us, and, upon turning my head, I saw poor Mr. Whiffler seated in the middle of the road, flourishing his musical cane, and shouting most vociferously for us to stop. It seemed that he was amusing himself with his favourite airs, and never felt the gradual retiring motion of the sacks as we ascended the hill, until he was fairly shot out at the tail of the van, where he lay sprawling; but, thanks to the friendly sacks, unhurt.
Our frisky Flander’s steeds, coming to the push at the steep rising ground, relaxed in their rapid course, became quiet as lambs, and at the summit of the bill were very glad to come to a dead halt to recover their breath; giving my musical friend ample time to come up with us, which he had no sooner done, than, as if nothing had occurred worth mentioning, he resumed his situation in the van, and struck up “Drops of brandy.” I took the hint, and presented him with my reserve, which he emptied with much apparent satisfaction, and returned the flask with thankfulness. Then resuming his unwearying amusement, he never ceased until we reached the inn at Corwen; not the principal one, but a small house on the right of the street opposite to the Owen Glyndwr; which latter has a gigantic head over the door, much resembling the Saracen’s of Snow Hill notoriety.
I discovered the landlord of “The Welsh Harp” to be the proprietor of the van, and that the driver was his son. He also followed the occupation of watch and fishing tackle maker, and I willingly, therefore, took up my quarters with this specimen of Welsh rusticity, when invited, in preference to quartering at the great inn with the great head, as also did Mr. Whiffler.