'The hound lie yowled, and back he fled,
As struck with fairy charm.'

It is a fact known to many people, and I believe it has been frequently
stated, that no large and fierce dog or animal of any kind, with the
exception of the bull, which shuts its eyes and rushes blindly forward,
will venture to attack an individual who confronts it with a firm and
motionless countenance. I say large and fierce, for it is much easier to
repel a bloodhound or bear of Finland in this manner than a dung-hill cur
or a terrier, against which a stick or a stone is a much more certain
defence. This will astonish no one who considers that the calm reproving
glance of reason, which allays the excesses of the mighty and courageous
in our own species, has seldom any other effect than to add to the
insolence of the feeble and foolish, who become placid as doves upon the
infliction of chastisements which, if attempted to be applied to the
former, would only serve to render them more terrible, and, like
gunpowder cast on a flame, cause them, in mad desperation, to scatter
destruction around them.

* * * * *

The morning of the fifth of November looked rather threatening. As,
however, it did not rain, I determined to set off for Plynlimmon, and,
returning at night to the inn, resume my journey to the south on the
following day. On looking into a pocket almanac I found it was Sunday.
This very much disconcerted me, and I thought at first of giving up my
expedition. Eventually, however, I determined to go, for I reflected
that I should be doing no harm, and that I might acknowledge the
sacredness of the day by attending morning service at the little Church