“He wriggled to the sides like a llysowen, [10] till he got to the top, when he stood upright for a minute, and then slid down on the other side.”
“Was he any one from these parts?” said I.
“He was not. He was a dyn dieithr, a Russian; one of those with whom we are now at war.”
“Was there as much water tumbling then as now?”
“More, for there had fallen more rain.”
“I suppose the torrent is sometimes very dreadful?” said I.
“It is indeed, especially in winter; for it is then like a sea, and roars like thunder or a mad bull.”
After I had seen all I wished of the cataract, the woman asked me to come to the house and take some refreshment. I followed her to a neat little room where she made me sit down and handed me a bowl of butter-milk. On the table was a book in which she told me it was customary for individuals who visited the cataract to insert their names. I took up the book which contained a number of names mingled here and there with pieces of poetry. Amongst these compositions was a Welsh englyn on the Rhyadr, which, though incorrect in its prosody, I thought stirring and grand. I copied it, and subjoin it with a translation which I made on the spot.
“Crychiawg, ewynawg anian—yw y Rhyadr
Yn rhuo mal taran;
Colofn o dwr, gloyw-dwr glan,
Gorwyllt, un lliw ag arian.”Foaming and frothing from mountainous height,
Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls;
Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight,
Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.