I lay for several hours half stupefied, thinking now and then what a dreadful thing it was to be buried alive. At length I thought Iwould get up, go to the mouth of the shaft, feel the mould, with which it was choked up, and then come back, lie down, and die. So I got up and tottered to the mouth of the shaft, put out my hand and felt - nothing; all was clear. I went forward, and presently felt the ladder. Nothing had fallen; all was just the same as when I came down. I was dreadfully afraid that I should never be able to get up in the dark without breaking my neck; however, I tried, and at last, with a great deal of toil and danger, got to a place where other men were working. The noise was caused by the spirits of the hill in the hope of driving the miner out of his senses.
They very nearly succeeded. I shall never forget how I felt when Ithought I was buried alive. If it were not for those noises in the hill, the life of a miner would be quite heaven below."We came to a cottage standing under a hillock, down the side of which tumbled a streamlet close by the northern side of the building. The door was open, and inside were two or three females and some children. "Have you any enwyn?" said the lad, peeping in.
"Oh yes!" said a voice - "digon! digon!" Presently a buxom, laughing girl brought out two dishes of buttermilk, one of which she handed to me and the other to the guide. I asked her the name of the place.
"Gwen Frwd - the 'Fair Rivulet,'" said she.
"Who lives here?"
"A shepherd."
"Have you any English?"
"Nagos!" said she, bursting into a loud laugh. "What should we do with English here?" After we had drunk the buttermilk I offered the girl some money, but she drew back her hand angrily, and said: "We don't take money from tired strangers for two drops of buttermilk;there's plenty within, and there are a thousand ewes on the hill.
Farvel!"
"Dear me!" thought I to myself as I walked away; "that I should once in my days have found shepherd life something as poets have represented it!"I saw a mighty mountain at a considerable distance on the right, the same I believe which I had noted some hours before. I inquired of my guide whether it was Plynlimmon.
"Oh no!" said he, "that is Gaverse; Pumlimmon is to the left.""Plynlimmon is a famed hill," said I; "I suppose it is very high.""Yes!" said he, "it is high; but it is not famed because it is high, but because the three grand rivers of the world issue from its breast, the Hafren, the Rheidol, and the Gwy."Night was now coming rapidly on, attended with a drizzling rain. Iinquired if we were far from Pont Erwyd. "About a mile," said my guide; "we shall soon be there." We quickened our pace. After a little time he asked me if I was going farther than Pont Erwyd.
"I am bound for the bridge of the evil man," said I; "but I daresay I shall stop at Pont Erwyd to-night.""You will do right," said he; "it is only three miles from Pont Erwyd to the bridge of the evil man, but I think we shall have a stormy night.""When I get to Pont Erwyd," said I, "how far shall I be from South Wales?""From South Wales!" said he; "you are in South Wales now; you passed the Terfyn of North Wales a quarter of an hour ago."The rain now fell fast and there was so thick a mist that I could only see a few yards before me. We descended into a valley, at the bottom of which I heard a river roaring.
"That's the Rheidol," said my guide, "coming from Pumlimmon, swollen with rain."Without descending to the river, we turned aside up a hill, and, after passing by a few huts, came to a large house, which my guide told me was the inn of Pont Erwyd.