How extraordinary it appears that the past should always seem more delightful than the present! I am convinced, that I was more miserable during my school-boy days than I have been since, and yet my mind returns to the brighter portions of the picture only. The April beams that dried up the tears of my youth live in the memory, while the clouds and showers are buried in oblivion. Youth, youth!—why should we ever grow old? why are we not as fresh and green at sixty as we are at twenty?—why may we not enjoy the blessings of vigour, the elastic bound, the rosy tint, the boundless flow of spirits, the freshness of imagination, until the moment when we drop into the grave?—But sentimentalism is a bad subject for sale, and therefore I have no business to introduce any chapters of such a nature in this little work.
At a short distance from Corwen, a road branches off to the left, along which the traveller should trudge to the village of Llandrillo, and he will be repaid by the sight of one of the most fertile valleys in Wales. It is a mile farther to Bala by this route, but the superior beauty of the scenery will amply recompense him for the extra distance; for, with the exception of a view of Bala lake, obtained from an eminence on the road, which runs along the opposite side of the valley, it is dull and uninviting. But, on the contrary, by the Llandrillo route, the eye is delighted with a succession of scenes, varied and interesting in the extreme. Huge masses of rock hang over the road, upon the left, in threatening grandeur, while waving woods, and falling streams, give endless variety to the picture.
After proceeding four miles, I crossed a bridge over a fine trout stream, the banks of which are shaded with trees; and, turning into an avenue upon the right, seated myself by the margin of the brook, secured from the hot rays of the mid-day sun, and fancied myself the melancholy Jacques. There only wanted a wounded stag, to make the illusion perfect.
Here I was shortly after joined by an old man and his son, who, after some hours’ fishing, had contrived to fill a moderately sized basket with very fine trout. The father was tall and thin, with prominent features, sharp grey eyes, and grey locks; his port was erect, “stiff as a ramrod,” and if he had been unfortunate enough to have had a lame leg, he would have made an excellent representation of Corporal Foss. The son, a youth of about nineteen, was clad in a suite of clothes so tattered, that my curiosity was excited to learn at which rent he got into them. His fishing basket was slung at his back, and his rod was composed of odds and ends; his hat, from long exposure to the weather, had lost its crown, while the rim was torn into ribands. If ever the god of love assumed the disguise of ragged poverty, he could not have chosen a better model, both in person and attire. His height was about five feet, nine inches; his face a perfect oval; his hair, which stole in clustering curls from beneath its wretched covering, was of the brightest auburn; his forehead was broad and high; his eyebrows finely arched, and his dark blue eyes were lighted up with the fire of animation; his nose, teeth, and chin were perfectly beautiful; his neck and shoulders would be invaluable to a sculptor; and his whole graceful frame seemed formed for strength and activity. His demeanour was respectful and modest, and the contrast between the noble creature and his sorry garb was painfully striking. There was, however, a look of independence and a freedom in his gait, which suited well with the surrounding scene.
The old man seated himself near me, and lamented that he could not obtain any fire to light his pipe. This element I quickly supplied him with, and, lighting a cigar for myself, we resembled a knot of Indian warriors smoking “the calumet of peace.” I entered into conversation, offering my flask, by way of making a favourable impression. They thankfully availed themselves of my offer, and my expectations were not disappointed. The old man told me that he had been a soldier in his youth, and fought in many battles, both in Egypt and Spain, and was now in the receipt of a pension from government, for honourable wounds, which at various times he had received in the service of his country.
While his father whiffed his tobacco, the youth angled down the stream, but soon returned and, respectfully and gracefully declining my invitation to renew his draught, he stood looking down upon us, his arms folded across his chest, embracing his rod, and listening modestly to the old man’s narration. I sat an hour with these two beings, and, having purchased a casting line and some flies from the elder fisherman, he put two extra ones into my hands, saying: “There, sir, are two flies, with which I killed some fine trout, yesterday. I’ll make you a present of them; and, when you are killing your fish, perhaps you’ll think of the old soldier.” So, with mutual thanks, we parted.
As I entered the village of Llandrillo, I was much delighted with the lively scene. The long street was crowded with peasantry, in their holiday clothes. On each side were stalls, formed of tubs turned upside down, and boards placed upon them, to support their merchandise; square patches strewed with straw and covered with crockery and glass; tables well stored with woollen hose and mittens; and stands of gingerbread and ginger-pop were liberally stationed in different quarters, to gratify and refresh the happy throng. At times, a sudden opening in the crowd took place, the whole mass of people jamming each other upon either side of the street, to make way for a trotting pony, or an ambling nag, to curvet and prance down the middle and up again, to show his paces. At the upper end of the fair, a hardware man harangued a crowd of people from his travelling warehouse (a covered cart,) endeavouring to persuade them that he came to Llandrillo solely for their benefit, and for no selfish motive upon earth, and labouring to convince them, in brazier-like eloquence, that the articles he offered to their notice were considerably under prime cost, and could not be purchased elsewhere for treble the money;—but, though he sold at a great sacrifice to himself, he begged them not to consider his loss, but their own gain; such an opportunity would never again present itself, therefore now was their only time to buy cheap!
A party of Welsh girls attracted my attention, gathered together in front of a wall, upon which a line of men’s hats were ranged, of various qualities and prices; and great glee and laughter were elicited, as each fitted the new beaver upon her head, it being considered the ne plus ultra of taste, and a powerful auxiliary to the coquetry of a Welsh girl.
Leaving Llandrillo, and proceeding towards Bala, the traveller enters the