e the old lady her groat, bade her
farewell, and departed.

CHAPTER XCI

Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid--Strata Florida--The Yew-Tree--Idolatry--The
Teivi--The Llostlydan.

And now for the resting-place of Dafydd Ab Gwilym! After wandering for
some miles towards the south over a bleak moory country I came to a place
called Fair Rhos, a miserable village, consisting of a few half-ruined
cottages, situated on the top of a hill. From the hill I looked down on
a wide valley of a russet colour, along which a river ran towards the
south. The whole scene was cheerless. Sullen hills were all around.
Descending the hill I entered a large village divided into two by the
river, which here runs from east to west, but presently makes a turn.
There was much mire in the street; immense swine lay in the mire, who
turned up their snouts at me as I passed. Women in Welsh hats stood in
the mire, along with men without any hats at all, but with short pipes in
their mouths; they were talking together; as I passed, however, they held
their tongues, the women leering contemptuously at me, the men glaring
sullenly at me, and causing tobacco smoke curl in my face; on my taking
off my hat, however and inquiring the way to the Monachlog, everybody was
civil enough, and twenty voices told me the way the Monastery. I asked
the name of the river:

"The Teivi, sir: the Teivi."

"The name of the bridge?"

"Pony y Rhyd Fendigaid--the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, sir."

I crossed the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, and presently leaving the main
road, I turned to the east by a dung-hill, up a narrow lane parallel with
the river. After proceeding a mile up the lane, amidst trees and copses,
and crossing a little brook, which runs into the Teivi, out of which I
drank, I saw before me in the midst of a field, in which were tombstones
and broken ruins, a rustic-looking church; a farm-house stood near it, in
the garden of which stood the framework of a large gateway. I crossed
over into the churchyard, ascended a green mound, and looked about me. I
was now in the very midst of the Monachlog Ystrad Flur, the celebrated
monastery of Strata Florida, to which in old times Popish pilgrims from
all parts of the world repaired. The scene was solemn and impressive: on
the north side of the river a large bulky hill looked down upon the ruins
and the church, and on the south side, some way behind the farm-house,
was another which did the same. Rugged moun