The Coach and Horses was the sign of a small roadside inn in North Wales, beautifully situated, as far as scenery and landscape were concerned, but as the house was built upon the steepest part of a severe hill, it was as difficult to stop in descending as it was inviting to “pull-up” in the ascent.
The house was kept by an old coachman, whose family consisted of his wife, daughter, and son, a boy twelve years old.
The old man’s knowledge of the requirements necessary to make both man and horse comfortable, acquired for him a just reputation, and tourists (especially with their own horses) frequently made the Coach and Horses their headquarters from which to make expeditions into the country. Two fast coaches changed horses, up and down, daily, serving as antidotes to the usual dulness of a country inn.
Some years ago I was making a “drag-tour” through that part of the country, and, one of my wheelers having picked up a nail, I was compelled to halt for some days at the Coach and Horses. At any other time I should have enjoyed some fishing, but the season had closed. I passed, the time in rambling amongst the magnificent scenery which the country afforded, devoting my attention to the objects of natural history with which it abounds, and taking advantage of the coaches for a lift home when I exceeded my distance. On one of these occasions I had been led far into the wildest part of the hills in endeavouring to watch a dispute between a kestrel and a raven, which interested me so much that I was quite unmindful of time, distance, or direction, and found myself at dusk completely lost. No landmark, no guide of any description to suggest my course. I had come out “down wind,” but the wind may have changed! There was the sunset, et voilà tout.
A thick fog now began to rise, entirely concealing every trace of outline.
To light a pipe and sit down upon a rock to consider what was to be done, was all that remained to me.
The darkness increased rapidly, and, with the rising vapour, soon rendered it impossible to see a yard in advance. The situation was grave. I knew I was in the neighbourhood of steep declivities, and therefore decided upon remaining where I was till the fog lifted and there was more light.
The time passed heavily, and the scene would have been gloomy in the extreme, if the busy lights of the Jack-o’-lanterns had not kept me constantly on the qui vive. These singular visitors appeared to venture nearer and nearer to my sheltering rock and endeavour to entice me to follow them, bounding and dancing down the hill before me, and joining a host of other lights which appeared to be holding high revel in the valley beneath.
The mist thickened into a drizzling rain, which made the darkness even darker, and caused my weird companions to flit about with increased activity. So natural were these appearances that I could scarcely refrain from following one larger light which appeared to be sent forward to escort me, venturing each time nearer and nearer to my stony refuge.