austed when I entered the Grapes Inn at
Tan-y-Bwlch.

In the parlour was a serious-looking gentleman, with whom, as I sipped
my brandy-and-water, I entered into a discourse that soon took a
religious turn. He told me that he believed in Divine pre-destination,
and that he did not hope to be saved; he was pre-destined to be lost. I
disputed the point with him for a considerable time, and left him
looking very miserable, perhaps at finding that he was not quite so
certain of eternal damnation as he had hitherto supposed.

An hour's walking brought me to Festiniog, the birthplace of Rhys Goch,
a celebrated bard, and a partisan of Owen Glendower. Next morning I
crossed a wild and cheerless moor that extended for miles and miles,
and entered a valley with an enormous hill on my right. Presently
meeting four men, I asked the foremost of them its name.

"Arenig Vawr," he replied, or something like it. I asked if anybody
lived upon it.

"No," he replied; "too cold for man."

"Fox?" said I.

"No! too cold for fox."

"Crow?" said I.

"No; too cold for crow; crow would be starved upon it." He then looked
me in the face, expecting probably that I should smile. I, however,
looked at him with all the gravity of a judge, whereupon he also
observed the gravity of a judge, and we continued looking at each other
with all the gravity of judges till we both simultaneously turned away.

Shortly afterwards I came to a beautiful valley; a more bewitching scene
I never beheld. I was now within three miles of Bala, where I spent the
night at an excellent inn. The name of the lake of Bala is Llyn Tegid,
which signifies Lake of Beauty; and certainly this name was not given
for nothing.

Next day, shortly after sunset, I reached my family at Llangollen, and
remained there for some weeks, making excursions to Chirk Castle and
elsewhere. On October 21 I left my family to make preparations for their
return to England, and myself departed for South Wales.

_III.--Wanderings in South Wales_

I walked first to Llan Rhyadr, visited Sycharth and Llan Silin, where
Huw Morris is buried, saw the cataract of the Rhyadr, and crossed the
hills to Bala. After remaining a day in this beautiful neighbourhood, I
crossed a stupendous pass to Dinas Mawddwy, in the midst of the region
once inhabited by the red-haired banditti of Mawddwy, the terror of the
greater part of North Wales. From there I passed down a romantic gorge,
through which flows the