"
On I wandered. After some time the valley assumed the form of an
immense basin, enormous mountains composed its sides. In the
middle rose hills of some altitude, but completely overcrowned by
the mountains around. These hills exhibited pleasant inclosures,
and were beautifully dotted with white farm-houses. Down below
meandered the Taf, its reaches shining with a silver-like
splendour. The whole together formed an exquisite picture, in
which there was much sublimity, much still quiet life, and not a
little of fantastic fairy loveliness.
The sun was hastening towards the west as I passed a little cascade
on the left, the waters of which, after running under the road,
tumbled down a gully into the river. Shortly afterwards meeting a
man I asked him how far it was to Caerfili.
"When you come to the Quakers' Yard, which is a little way further
on, you will be seven miles from Caerfili."
"What is the Quakers' Yard?"
"A place where the people called Quakers bury their dead."
"Is there a village near it?
"There is, and the village is called by the same name."
"Are there any Quakers in it?"
"Not one, nor in the neighbourhood, but there are some, I believe,
in Cardiff."
"Why do they bury their dead there?"
"You should ask them, not me.
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