The ride along the coast of Wales was crowded with novelty and
interest,–the sea on one side and the mountains on the other,–the
latter bleak and heathery in the foreground, but cloud-capped and
snow-white in the distance. The afternoon was dark and lowering, and
just before entering Conway we had a very striking view. A turn in the
road suddenly brought us to where we looked through a black framework
of heathery hills, and beheld Snowdon and his chiefs apparently with
the full rigors of winter upon them. It was so satisfying that I lost
at once my desire to tramp up them. I barely had time to turn from the
mountains to get a view of Conway Castle, one of the largest and most
impressive ruins I saw. The train cuts close to the great round tower,
and plunges through the wall of gray, shelving stone into the bluff
beyond, giving the traveler only time to glance and marvel.

About the only glimpse I got of the Welsh character was on this route.
At one of the stations, Abergele I think, a fresh, blooming young woman
got into our compartment, occupied by myself and two commercial
travelers (bag-men, or, as we say, “drummers”), and, before she could
take her seat, was complimented by one of them on her good looks.
Feeling in a measure responsible for the honor and good-breeding of the
compartment, I could hardly conceal my embarrassment; but the young
Abergeless herself did not seem to take it amiss, and when presently
the jolly bag-man addressed his conversation to her, replied
beseemingly and good-naturedly. As she arose to leave the car at her
destination, a few stations beyond, he said “he thought it a pity that
such a sweet, pretty girl should leave us so soon,” and seizing her
hand the audacious rascal actually solicited a kiss. I expected this
would be the one drop too much, and that we should have a scene, and
began to regard myself in the light of an avenger of an insulted Welsh
beauty, when my heroine paused, and I believe actually deliberated
whether or not to comply before two spectators! Certain it is that she
yielded the highwayman her hand, and, bidding him a gentle good-night
in Welsh, smilingly and blushingly left the car. “Ah,” said the
villain, “these Welsh girls are capital; I know them like a book, and
have had many a lark with them.”

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Winter Sunshine, by John Burroughs
#2 in our series by John Burroughs

ESOPUS-ON-HUDSON, November, 1875.

MRS. HEMANS.

(_To the Editor._)

I have just been perusing in No. 16, of Chambers’s _Edinburgh Journal_,
a short and incorrect sketch of that highly-gifted and moral poetess,
Mrs. Hemans, “who,” the writer says, “first came into public notice
about twelve or fourteen years ago;” whereas, her literary career
commenced as far back as the year 1809, in an elegantly printed quarto
of poems, which were highly spoken of by the present T. Roscoe, Esq. and
were dedicated by permission to his late Majesty, when Prince Regent.
Permit me to say that this accomplished daughter of the Muse is a native
of Denbighshire, North Wales, and was born at the family mansion named
“Grwych,” about one and a half mile distant from Abergele; and at the
period of her first appearance as an authoress, she had not, I think,
reached her thirteenth year. I had the pleasure of then being her
neighbour, and our Appenine mansion, the Signal Station, at Cave Hill,
has been more than once enlivened by Lady, then Miss Felicia Dorothea
Browne’s society, accompanied by her excellent mother. She has since
married —- Hemans, Esq., then an Adjutant in the army. A great number
of her pieces have appeared in the _Monthly Magazine_, as well as the
_New Monthly_, and although a pleasing pensiveness and sombre cast of
mind seem to pervade her beautifully mental pictures, she was, I may
say, noted in her youth for the buoyancy and sprightliness of her
conversation and manner, which made her the delight and charm of every
society with which she mixed. She likewise (I think in the same year)
published an animated poem upon the valour of Spain and her patriotic
ally, England. Instead of Mrs. H. residing, as the writer of the above
memoir observes, chiefly in London, she has passed the principal years
of her life since her removal from Grwych, at a pleasant dwelling,
termed “Rose Cottage,” near the city of St. Asaph. The Editor of the
_Edinburgh Journal_ is again wrong in saying that her “Songs of the
Affections,” and the “Records of Woman,” are understood to have had a
very limited circulation, whereas, in the space of two years, they have
reached a third and fourth edition.

_The Author of A Tradesman’s Lays._

Title: The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction
Vol. 19, Issue 550, June 2, 1832

Author: Various

THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. 19. No. 550.] SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1832. [PRICE 2_d_.

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