w little
the amount would be, for after what I had heard from the old barber the
preceding evening about the utter ignorance of the landlady in making a
charge, I naturally expected that I should have next to nothing to pay.
When it was brought, however, and the landlady brought it herself, I
could scarcely believe my eyes. Whether the worthy woman had lately come
to a perception of the folly of undercharging, and had determined to
adopt a different system; whether it was that seeing me the only guest in
the house she had determined to charge for my entertainment what she
usually charged for that of two or three--strange by-the-bye that I
should be the only guest in a house notorious for undercharging--I know
not, but certain it is the amount of the bill was far, far from the next
to nothing which the old barber had led me to suppose I should have to
pay, who perhaps after all had very extravagant ideas with respect to
making out a bill for a Saxon. It was, however, not a very
unconscionable bill, and merely amounted to a trifle more than I had paid
at Beth Gelert for somewhat better entertainment.

Having paid the bill without demur and bidden the landlady farewell, who
displayed the same kind of indifferent bluntness which she had manifested
the day before, I set off in the direction of the east, intending that my
next stage should be Bala. Passing through a tollgate I found myself in
a kind of suburb consisting of a few cottages. Struck with the
neighbouring scenery, I stopped to observe it. A mighty mountain rises
in the north almost abreast of Festiniog; another towards the east
divided into two of unequal size. Seeing a woman of an interesting
countenance seated at the door of a cottage I pointed to the hill towards
the north, and speaking the Welsh language, inquired its name.

"That hill, sir," said she, "is called Moel Wyn."

Now Moel Wyn signifies the white, bare hill.

"And how do you call those two hills towards the east?"

"We call one, sir, Mynydd Mawr, the other Mynydd Bach."

Now Mynydd Mawr signifies the great mountain and Mynydd Bach the little
one.

"Do any people live in those hills?"

"The men who work the quarries, sir, live in those hills. They and their
wives and their children. No other people."

"Have you any English?"

"I have not, sir. No people who live on this side the talcot (tollgate)
for a long way have any English."

I proceeded on my journey. The country for some