great poets of my country calls it the old
Conway."

"Is one river older than another, sir?"

"That's a shrewd question. Can you read?"

"I can, sir."

"Have you any books?"

"I have the Bible, sir."

"Will you show it me?"

"Willingly, sir."

Then getting up she took a book from a shelf and handed it to me, at the
same time begging me to enter the house and sit down. I declined, and
she again took her seat and resumed her occupation. On opening the book
the first words which met my eye were: "Gad i mi fyned trwy dy dir!--Let
me go through your country" (Numb. XX. 22).

"I may say these words," said I, pointing to the passage. "Let me go
through your country."

"No one will hinder you, sir, for you seem a civil gentleman."

"No one has hindered me hitherto. Wherever I have been in Wales I have
experienced nothing but kindness and hospitality, and when I return to my
own country I will say so."

"What country is yours, sir?"

"England. Did you not know that by my tongue?"

"I did not, sir. I knew by your tongue that you were not from our
parts--but I did not know that you were an Englishman. I took you for a
Cumro of the south country."

Returning the kind woman her book, and bidding her farewell I departed,
and proceeded some miles through a truly magnificent country of wood,
rock, and mountain. At length I came to a steep mountain gorge, down
which the road ran nearly due north, the Conway to the left running with
great noise parallel with the road, amongst broken rocks, which chafed it
into foam. I was now amidst stupendous hills, whose paps, peaks, and
pinnacles seemed to rise to the very heaven. An immense mountain on the
right side of the road particularly struck my attention, and on inquiring
of a man breaking stones by the roadside I learned that it was called
Dinas Mawr, or the large citadel, perhaps from a fort having been built
upon it to defend the pass in the old British times. Coming to the
bottom of the pass I crossed over by an ancient bridge, and, passing
through a small town, found myself in a beautiful valley with majestic
hills on either side. This was the Dyffryn Conway, the celebrated Vale
of Conway, to which in the summer time fashionable gentry from all parts
of Britain resort for shade and relaxation. When about midway down the
valley I turned to the west, up one of the grandest passes in the world,
having two immense door-posts of rock at the entrance, the north