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grow old, and the men are always handsome; where the mountains are very high, and the mutton very low; where children are dear, and coals cheap; where the milk-maids are good for love, and the toasted cheese is good for nothing; where the lawyers are so wise, that they know every one's business but their own; peace and prosperity be with you. May the cloud of discord that now overhangs your community be dispersed by the sunshine of benevolence; and friendship again brighten with her cheering smiles the little front parlour of the Red Lion. For me, I shall never more be the witness of your festivity. Old age creeps on apace, and the divine voice, that like Samuel I have heard calling on me in the dead hour of midnight, represses with its stern warning the joyous dictates of the heart. But you will rejoice in the calm sunshine of heaven, when the spring flowers are blooming upon my grave; and your daughters will still listen to the sweet echos of the village bell, as they ring above the sod that grows over me. Farewell! kind and hospitable Llangadock. Think of me as of some summer vision that hath departed: and oh! when fancy is busy with the past, should friendship heave a sigh, or the silken eye-lash of beauty rain a tear upon my grave; from the pavilion of clouds wherein it dwells, my soul shall look down and be comforted.



Of Llynn-y-Van.

"And lest its terrors meet my view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true."

AMONG the mountains in Wales, and especially among that stupendous chain, better known by the name of the "Black Mountains," in Carmarthenshire, there are to be found numerous pools or tarns. These are usually situated at an elevation of many hundred feet above the level of the sea, and from their desolate appearance, are graced with the most romantic legends. The pool of Llynn-yVan in particular, (which I have more fully described in my first fishing excursion) is remarkable for the wild superstitions connected with it. On a certain night, in August (I believe) the witches and spirits of the elements assemble before their night-queen, and discuss the mischiefs they have wrought since their last diabolic anniversary. These

are usually of an orthodox description, from the petty pinch, the dream, or the murder; to the more profitable job of fitting out a soul for damnation. If however this unhallowed assembly be interrupted by a mortal, it is compelled to vanish immediately, but not before it is revenged upon the intruder, by conjuring some spirit most obnoxious or harrowing to his feelings. It may be readily conceived, that few men, without a special introduction, would be bold enough to claim acquaintance with such a gang, although tradition records that two strangers were once presumptuous enough to witness their orgies; and that the boldest was punished for his violation of etiquette, in the way that I have mentioned in the following unconnected fragment.





Two Strangers are discovered standing beside the Pool of Llynn-y-Van.


Nay, start not, friend, the spot, to be sure, is gloomy,
But then 'tis fitter for the devil, he

Travels abroad to-night, the winds are gone
pay him homage, and the pale faced-moon,
(Like a young maiden on her nuptial night,)
Sick with anticipation, hides in clouds
Each virgin feature-we shall have rare sport.


Rare sport, i' faith, when Satan and his imps
Join in the unholy merriment-but hark!
you not hear a knell ?


Away-this is

But fancy-the false coinage of your brain.


Fancy or not, I dare no longer stay.


Return then to your home, the village church
Stands at the foot of yon hill, and by its spire
That lifts a white head to the waning moon,
You can direct your course; I the meantime
Will bide the coming revels, for 'tis said,
The devil to-night has business on his hands,
And fairies walk yon water.


Be it so
I'll wait their hour (since you will have it thus)
But oh! how awful is this mountain gloom-

The stars are dead, sickly with fear, the moon
Winds her wan course through heav'n, and but one cloud,
One tiny cloud, steals like a ghost, athwart

The melancholy midnight of the sky;

All nature slumbers now, and hollowly (The Village clock strikes.)

The sentinel clock from yon moon-silvered steeple

Proclaims the deep midnight. (musing thoughtfully)

Another hour

Hath rung its last; another idle hour

Is coffined in the grave of time, and I

Mourn over it-yet not alone I mourn,

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