drank with the harvesters, who sang me
songs about rural life, such as:--

Sitting in the swale; and listening to the swindle of the flail, as it
sounds dub-a-dub on the corn, from the neighbouring barn.

In requital for which I treated them with a song, not of Romanvile, but
the song of 'Sivord and the horse Grayman.' I remained with them till it
was dark, having, after sunset, entered into deep discourse with a
celebrated ratcatcher, who communicated to me the secrets of his trade,
saying, amongst other things: 'When you see the rats pouring out of their
holes, and running up my hands and arms, it's not after me they comes,
but after the oils I carries about me they comes'; and who subsequently
spoke in the most enthusiastic manner of his trade, saying that it was
the best trade in the world, and most diverting, and that it was likely
to last for ever; for whereas all other kinds of vermin were fast
disappearing from England, rats were every day becoming more abundant. I
had quitted this good company, and having mounted my horse, was making my
way towards a town at about six miles distance, at a swinging trot, my
thoughts deeply engaged on what I had gathered from the ratcatcher, when
all on a sudden a light glared upon the horse's face, who purled round in
great terror, and flung me out of the saddle, as from a sling, or with as
much violence as the horse Grayman, in the ballad, flings Sivord the
Snareswayne. I fell upon the ground--felt a kind of crashing about my
neck--and forthwith became senseless.

* * * * *

As I was gazing on the prospect an old man driving a peat cart came from
the direction in which I was going. I asked him the name of the ravine
and he told me it was Ceunant Coomb or hollow-dingle coomb. I asked the
name of the brook, and he told me that it was called the brook of the
hollow-dingle coomb, adding that it ran under Pont Newydd, though where
that was I knew not. Whilst he was talking with me he stood uncovered.
Yes, the old peat driver stood with his hat in his hand whilst answering
the questions of the poor, dusty foot-traveller. What a fine thing to be
an Englishman in Wales!

In about an hour I came to a wild moor; the moor extended for miles and
miles. It was bounded on the east and south by immense hills and moels.
On I walked at a round pace, the sun scorching me sore, along a dusty,
hilly road, now up, now down. Nothing could be conceived more cheerless
than the sce