extremity. These
fountains had their names from two individuals, Dwy Fawr and Dwy Fach,
who escaped from the Deluge, and the passing of the waters of the two
fountains through the lake, without being confounded with its flood, is
emblematic of the salvation of the two individuals from the Deluge, of
which the lake is a type.

I remained at Llangollen for nearly a month, first of all ascending to
Dinas Bran, a ruined stronghold of unknown antiquity, which crowns the
top of the mighty hill on the northern side of the valley; then walking
more than once over the Berwyn hills; then visiting the abbey of the
Vale of the Cross, where lies buried the poet Iolo Goch, the friend of
Owen Glendower; then making an expedition on foot to Ruthin.

Before leaving Llangollen I went over the Berwyn again to the valley of
Ceiriog, to see the birthplace of Huw Morris, the great Royalist poet,
whose pungent satires of King Charles's foes ran like wild fire through
Wales. Through a maze of tangled shrubs, in pouring rain, I was led to
his chair--a mouldering stone slab forming the seat, and a large slate
stone the back, with the poet's initials cut in it. I uncovered, and
said in the best Welsh I could command, "Shade of Huw Morris, a Saxon
has come to this place to pay that respect to true genius which he is
ever ready to pay." I then sat down in the chair, and commenced
repeating the verses of Huw Morris. The Welsh folk who were with me
listened patiently and approvingly in the rain, for enthusiasm is never
scoffed at by the noble, simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever
treatment it may receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish
Saxon.

On a brilliant Sunday morning in late August, I left Llangollen on foot
for Bangor, Snowdon and Anglesey. I walked through Corwen to Cerrig y
Drudion, within sight of Snowdon. At the inn, where I spent the night,
the landlady remarked that it was odd that the only two people not
Welshmen she had ever known who could speak Welsh should be in her house
at the same time. The other man, I found, was an Italian of Como, with
whom I conversed in his native tongue.

Next morning I started to walk to Bangor, a distance of thirty-four
miles. After passing across a stretch of flat country, I reached Pentre
Voelas, and soon found myself in a wild hilly region. Presently I
arrived at a cottage just inside the door of which sat a good-looking,
middle-aged woman, engaged in knitting, the general occupation o