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 painters, or to those of men scarcely inferior to them in their own
style--Gainsborough, Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour
had been in a highly-excited state; I had been repeating verses of old
Huw Morus, brought to my recollection by the sight of his dwelling-place;
they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads. I admired the
vigour, but disliked the principles which they displayed; and admiration
on the one hand, and disapproval on the other, bred a commotion in my
mind like that raised on the sea when tide runs one way and wind blows
another. The quiet scene from the bridge, however, produced a sedative
effect on my mind, and when I resumed my journey I had forgotten Huw, his
verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers."

But it must be said that if the book is on the whole a cheerful one, its
cheerfulness not only receives a foil from the rhetorical sublime, but is
a little misted by a melancholy note here and there. Thus he sees "a
melancholy ship" out on the sea near Holyhead. He qualifies russet twice
as "wretched" in describing a moor. He speaks of "strange-looking" hills
near Pont Erwyd, and again near the Devil's Bridge. His moods were
easily changed. He speaks of "wretched russet hills," with no birds
singing, but only "the lowing of a wretched bullock," and then of
beautiful hills that filled his veins with fresh life so that he walked
on merrily.

As for his people, it cannot be asserted that they are always alive