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, hut 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 cwrwdach,—Anglicé, strong ale; and after a hearty supper of Welsh rabbit, which Tom Ingoldsbv 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 d ull; 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 everyone 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
