To the Deity under the name of Hu there are some lines by one Rhys, a Welsh bard of the time of Queen Elizabeth, though they are perhaps more applicable to the Universal Pan or Nature than to the God of the Christians:— ‘If with small things we Hu compare, No smaller thing than Hu is there, Yet greatest of the great is He, Our Lord, our God of Mystery; How swift he moves! a lucid ray, A sunbeam wafts him on his way; He’s great on land, and great on ocean, Of one more great I have no notion; I dread lest I should underrate This being, infinitely great.’ {22} The poetical translations in this notice are taken from Borrow’s ‘Songs of Europe.’ {25a} ‘Oedd balch gwalch golchiad ei lain, Oedd beilch gweilch gweled ei werin.’ In this couplet there is three-fold rhyme. We have the alliteration of lch in the first line:— ‘ba_lch_ gwa_lch_ go_lch_iad;’ and of the _w_ in the second:— ‘g_w_eilch g_w_eled _w_erin;’ secondly, we have the rhymes of balch and gwalch; and thirdly, the rhyming at the lines’ ends. {25b} Of this celebrated place we are permitted to extract the following account from Mr. Borrow’s unpublished work, ‘Celtic Bards, Chiefs, and Kings’:— ‘After wandering for many miles towards the south, over a bleak moory country, you come to a place called Ffair Rhos, or something similar, a miserable village consisting of a few half-ruined cottages, situated on the top of a hill. From the hill you look down on a wide valley of a russet colour, along which a river runs towards the south. The whole scene is cheerless; sullen hills are all around. Descending the hill you enter a large village divided into two by the river, which here runs from east to west, but presently takes a turn. There is much mire in the street; immense swine lie in the mire, who turn up their snouts at you as you pass. Women in Welsh hats stand in the mire, along with men without any hats at all, but with short pipes in their mouths. They are talking together; as you pass, however, they hold their tongues, the women leering contemptuously at you, the men glaring sullenly at you, and causing tobacco-smoke to curl in your face. On your taking off your hat, however, and inquiring the way to the Monachlog, everybody is civil enough, and twenty voices tell you the way to the monastery. You ask the name of the river: “The Teivi, Sir, the Teivi.” The name of the bridge: “Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid—the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, Sir!” You cross the bridge of the Blessed Ford, and presently leaving the main road you turn to the east, by a dunghill, up a narrow lane, parallel with the river. After proceeding a mile up the lane amidst trees and copses, and crossing a little brook which runs into the Teivi, out of which you drink, you see before you in the midst of a field, in which