s of the mountains.

We trudged along thus at a merry swing, for the freshness of autumnal
dew was sparkling in the valley, until we came to a rocky pass, where
walking turned to clambering. After an hour of sharpish work among
slaty shelves and threatening crags, we got into one of those troughlike
hollows hung on each side with precipices, which look as if the earth
had sunk for the sake of letting the water through. On our left hand,
cliff towered over cliff to the grand height of Pen y Cader, the
steepest and most formidable aspect of the mountain. Rock piled on rock,
and shingle cast in naked waste disdainfully, and slippery channels
scooped by torrents of tempestuous waters, forbade one to desire at all
to have anything more to do with them--except, of course, to get them
painted at a proper distance, so that they might hang at last in the
dining rooms of London, to give people appetite with sense of hungry
breezes, and to make them comfortable with the sight of danger.

"This is very grand indeed," said George, as he turned to watch me; for
the worst part of our business is to have to give an opinion always upon
points of scenery. But I am glad that I was not cross, or even crisp
with him that day.

"It is magnificent," I answered; "and I see a piece of soft sward there,
where you can set up your rod, old fellow, while I get my sticks in
trim. Let us fill our pipes and watch the shadows; they do not fall
quite to suit me yet."

"How these things make one think," cried Bowring, as we sat on a stone
and smoked, "of the miserable littleness of men like you and me, Bob!"

"Speak for yourself, sir," I said, laughing at his unaccustomed, but by
no means novel, reflection. "I am quite contented with my size, although
I am smaller than you, George. Dissatisfied mortal! Nature wants no
increase of us, or she would have had it."

"In another world we shall be much larger," he said, with his eyes on
the tops of the hills. "Last night I dreamed that my wife and children
were running to meet me in heaven, Bob."

"Tush! You go and catch fish," I replied; for tears were in his large,
soft eyes, and I hated the sentimental. "Would they ever let such a
little Turk as Bob Bistre into heaven, do you think? My godson would
shout all the angels deaf and outdrum all the cherubim."

"Poor little chap! He is very noisy; but he is not half a bad sort,"
said George. "If he only comes like his godfather I shall wish no better
luck