murmured the artist, as he gazed on the strange scene. And strange indeed was it to our startled eyes. We stood on the end and summit of a mountain spur, some two thousand feet above the valley, or rather basin, below, from the centre of which burst forth a thousand fires, whose dull roar—dulled by distance—was like "the noise of the sea on an iron-bound shore." The extent of space covered by those strange, fierce fires must have amounted to many acres,—in fact, did so, as we afterwards ascertained,—and the effect produced by them may be partially imagined when it is remembered that these flames were of all hues, from rich ruby-red, to the pale lurid light of burning sulphur. Fancy all the gems of Aladdin's Palace or Sinbad's Valley in fierce flashing combustion, immensely magnified, and you may form some faint idea of the scene in that Welsh valley.
Stretching out, like spokes of a gigantic wheel, from their fiery centre, were huge embankments, like those of Titanic railways, whose summits and sides, especially towards their extremities, glowed in patches with all the hues of the rainbow. As I gazed wonderingly on one of these,—a real mountain of light, far surpassing the Koh-i-Noor,—I observed a dark figure gliding along its summit, pushing something before it, like a black imp conveying an unfortunate soul from one part of Tophet to another. At the extremity of the ridge the imp stopped, and suddenly there shot down the steep, not a tortured ghost, but a shower of radiant gems even more brilliant than those to which I have already referred.
"What, in the name of all that's wonderful, is that?" said my friend, Mr. Vandyke Brown; and I was also trying to account for the phenomena, when a voice close to my ear—a voice which I was certain belonged neither to Mr. B. nor myself—uttered the mysterious word,—
"Sl-aa-g!"
I looked round, and, sure enough, there stood a being who might very easily be mistaken for a new arrival from the bottomless pit. Such, however, it was evident he was not. Though he was black enough, in all conscience, he had neither horns, hoof, nor tail, and he was redolent rather of 'bacco than brimstone; a queer old hat, in the band of which was stuck an unlighted candle, covered a mass of matted red hair; his eyes were glaring and rimmed with red; and there was a gash in his face where his mouth should have been. A loose flannel shirt, which had once been red, a pair of indescribable trowsers, and thick-soled shoes, completed his dress,—an attire which I at once recognized as that common among the coal-miners of the district.
"'Deed and truth, Sur, they is cinder-heaps and slag from the iron-works, Sur; and yon is Merthyr-Tydvil, sure."
Piloted by our dusky guide,—not exactly, though, like Campbell's "Morning brought by Night,"—we soon reached the town,—which is named after a young lady of legendary times named Tydfil, a Christian martyr, of which Merthyr-Tydvil is a corruption,—and made the best of our way to the Bush Inn, where we treated our sable friend to some cwrw dach,—Anglicé, strong ale; and after a hearty supper of Welsh rabbit, which Tom Ingoldsby calls a "bunny without any bones," and "custard with mustard,"—which, as made in the Principality, it much resembles,—I took a stroll through the town. It was a dull-looking place enough, and as dirty as dull; every house was built with dingy gray stones, without any reference whatever to cleanliness or ventilation; and as to the civilization of the inhabitants, I saw enough to convince me, that, to see real barbarism, an Englishman need only visit that part of Great Britain called Wales. It was eight in the evening, and the day-laborers at the furnaces had just left work. The doors of all the cottages were open, and, as I passed them, in almost every one was to be seen a perfectly naked stalwart man rubbing himself down with a dirty rough towel, while his wife and grown-up daughters or sisters, almost as nude and filthy as himself, stood listlessly by, or prepared his supper.
Glad to escape from such disgusting objects, I hurried back to the Bush and to bed. But not to rest, though; for during that long, miserable night, the eternal rattle of machinery, clattering of hammers, whirling of huge wheels, and roaring of blast-furnaces completely murdered sleep. Never, for one instant, did these sounds cease,—nor do they, it is said, the long year through; for if any accident happens at one of the five great iron-works, there are four others which rest not day nor night. Little, however, is this heeded by the people of Merthyr; they are lulled to repose by the clatter of iron bars and the thumping of trip-hammers, but are instantaneously awakened by the briefest intervals of silence.
Glad enough was I, the next morning early, to cross an ink-black stream and leave the town, and pleasant was it to breathe the free, fresh mountain air, after inhaling the foul smoke of the iron-works. Towards the close of the afternoon, after a delightful walk, a great portion of it on the banks of the picturesque river Usk, we came in sight of Abergavenny, where the Cymreiggddyon was to be held.
The first of the glorious three days was duly ushered in with the firing of cannon, ringing of bells, and all kinds of extravagant jubilation. It wasn't quite as noisy as a Fourth of July, but much more discordant. Strings of flags were suspended across the streets,—flags with harps of all sorts and sizes displayed thereon,—flags with Welsh mottoes, English mottoes, Scotch mottoes, and no mottoes at all. In front of the Town Hall was almost an acre of transparent painting,—meant, that is, to be so after dark, but mournfully opaque and pictorially mysterious in the full glare of sunshine. As far as I could make it out, it was the full-length portrait—taken from life, no doubt—of an Ancient Welsh Bard. He was depicted as a baldheaded, elderly gentleman, with upturned eyes, apparently regarding with reverence a hole in an Indian-ink cloud through which slanted a gamboge sunbeam, and having a white beard, which streamed like a (horse-hair) "meteor on the troubled air." This venerable minstrel was seated on a cairn of rude stones, his white robe clasped at his throat and round his waist by golden brooches, and with a harp, shaped like that of David in old Bible illustrations, resting on the sward before him. In the background were some Druidical remains, by way of audience; and the whole was surrounded by a botanical border, consisting of leeks, oak-leaves, laurel, and mistletoe, which had a very rare and agreeable effect. Nor were these hieroglyphical decorations without a deep meaning to a Cambrian; for while the oak-leaf typified the durability of Welsh minstrelsy, the mistletoe its mysterious origin, and the laurel its reward, the national leek was pleasantly suggestive of its usual culinary companions, Welsh mutton and toasted cheese.