Welsh Journals

154 MONMOUTHSHIKE HIGHWAYS & BYE-WAYS. The hill so stands, if bird but wing do wave, Or man or beast but once stir up the head, A bow above with shaft shall strike it dead. The hill commands a marvellous way and scope, It seems it stood far off for town's defence, And in the wars it was Caerleon's hope. After a vote of thanks to the old versegrinder, a queer jumble of talk ran on anent mound-builders, Eoman masons, Arthurian chivalry, in the midst of which down came the rain again, with a mighty swirl of wind, and all the view was in a moment blurred and blotted out. We pushed down the hill towards Pwll Mawr, heedless of the law of trespass, and reached a shelter just as the squall passed away, and then damp, but nowise depressed, we climbed Bryn (xlas, whereon stand the dwellings presumably of some of the local magnates, and from that Pisgah saw Newport, or one side of it at least, coyly veiling its charms behind a wreath of smoke from the chimneys of the nail factory. The rain returned again as we entered a long slum-like thoroughfare, and, turning into the High Street, made the best of our way to the quaint old Westgate Hotel, where, drenched and bedraggled as we were, we were glad to find our luggage had preceded us. The rain fell steadily all the evening, but the coffee-room faced a large open space, the busiest part of the town, and after recuperation of expended energy we smoked by the door, and were kindly taken in hand by a fine old fellow, Greorge, the waiter, who told us the story of the Chartist riots, the part borne therein by the Westgate, which was garrisoned by the military, bade us put our fingers into the bullet holes in the wooden pillars that supported the little porch before the door, and then recounted the return of old Mr. Frost, one of the ringleaders, after " serving his time," and how the people had dragged his carriage down the main street. Were we condemned to chronicle small beer, and write the history of Newport, we should certainly put up at the Westgate and retain the head waiter permanently, for everything that happens in the town must, it seems, perforce pass under his windows, and we found him most kind and communicative. But alas! while compiling our notes we just heard that the old Westgate is to come down, and wondered what would become of our venerable friend Greorge. Ruat hospitium, fiat famulus ! V. Next morning was all that heart, or, as pedestrians would say, Sole could wish. The rain had laid the dust and washed the streets till they scarcely needed the perfunctory sweeping of