ovingly, though the
rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees and the
tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain
hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at
by the noble simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may
receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon.

* * * * *

For dinner we had salmon and leg of mutton; the salmon from the Dee, the
leg from the neighbouring Berwyn. The salmon was good enough, but I had
eaten better; and here it will not be amiss to say, that the best salmon
in the world is caught in the Suir, a river that flows past the beautiful
town of Clonmel in Ireland. As for the leg of mutton it was truly
wonderful; nothing so good had I ever tasted in the shape of a leg of
mutton. The leg of mutton of Wales beats the leg of mutton of any other
country, and I had never tasted a Welsh leg of mutton before. Certainly
I shall never forget that first Welsh leg of mutton which I tasted, rich
but delicate, replete with juices derived from the aromatic herbs of the
noble Berwyn, cooked to a turn, and weighing just four pounds.

* * * * *

Came to Tregeiriog, a small village, which takes its name from the brook;
Tregeiriog signifying the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog. Seeing a
bridge which crossed the rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a
little beyond the village, I turned aside to look at it. The proper
course of the Ceiriog is from south to north; where it is crossed by the
bridge, however, it runs from west to east, returning to its usual
course, a little way below the bridge. The bridge was small and
presented nothing remarkable in itself: I obtained, however, as I looked
over its parapet towards the west a view of a scene, not of wild
grandeur, but of something which I like better, which richly compensated
me for the slight trouble I had taken in stepping aside to visit the
little bridge. About a hundred yards distant was a small water mill,
built over the rivulet, the wheel going slowly, slowly round; large
quantities of pigs, the generality of them brindled, were either browsing
on the banks or lying close to the sides half immersed in the water; one
immense white hog, the monarch seemingly of the herd, was standing in the
middle of the current. Such was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a
scene of quiet rural life well suited to the brushes of two or three of
the old Dutch painte