fairy land, which form rather a prominent feature of this work.  For introducing to the reader the people of the fairy kingdom beneath the bay of Swansea, I have no apology to make.  In the thoughts they breathe and in the opinions they express they are very human, while the land in which they dwell bears witness to the presence of the energizing power and infinite benevolence of the Supreme.  From our childhood we have been accustomed to listen to the wonderful tales relating to Lilliputian races, in which the narrators described their sayings and doings, their gambols and frolics, their pranks and merry-making, their sweet music and dulcet notes; and in our wanderings, we have often gazed on the green rings wherein they danced on mead and meadow.  And are we not ready to confess that those fairy stories possessed a special charm—an interest which even reality itself hardly awakens?  I am aware that belief in the existence of those aërial forms, those ghostly, impalpable, and ambiguous beings, has been regarded as an evidence of mental blindness, and the absence of high culture and civilization.  This charge cannot be maintained.  The peoples of all European nations believe in the existence of those wonderful people, and, personally, I should regret to see their faith undermined.  Fairies are associated with the spiritual and super-human; with virtue and purity; thus they help us to look upward to the spirit-world, where flesh and blood, where materialism and its unhallowed fruits have not, and can never have, even a temporary lodgment.

Should this work meet with the approval of my fellow-countrymen, I shall in the early part of next spring issue a second volume of the Cambrian Sketch-Book.  I shall include in that volume: Sir Rice ap Thomas, a historical romance, already written; and The Lost Son Found, a tale of the Lowland Hundred.  A beautiful country was Cantref-y-Gwaelod, where now roll the waters of the Atlantic—a magnificent plain with fortified cities, and co-extensive with Cardigan Bay.  Several other legends and tales of North and South Wales will also appear in the intended volume.

It now only remains for me to express my hearty thanks to Charles Bath, Esq., of Fynone, for his kindness in placing at my service a very old view of Swansea, a faithful transcript of which has been made by the artist for the present volume.  I make this public acknowledgment to our townsman for the reason that he is always ready to aid all efforts having in view the publication and circulation of works relating to dear old Cambria.

R. RICE DAVIES.

   Swansea, July, 1875.

CONTENTS.

ASCENT OF SNOWDON.

“How high and swift flits the thin rack along,
Skirted with rainbow dyes; now deep below—
While the fierce sun strikes the illumined top,
Slow sails the gloomy storm, and all beneath,
By vaporous exhalation hid, is lost
In darkness: save at once where drifted mists,
Cut by strong gusts of eddying winds, expose
The transitory scene.
Now swift on either side the gathered clouds,
As by a sudden touch of magic, wide
Recede, and the fair face of heaven and earth
Appears.  Amid the vast horizon’s stretch,
In restless gaze the eye of wonder darts
O’er the expanse,—mountains on mountains piled,
And winding bays and promontories huge,
And lakes and wandering rivers from their source
Traced to the distant ocean.”

Bingley’s Tour.

It was a bright and glorious August morning, in the year 18—, when, having a few weeks’ freedom from the busy toils of official labour, I resolved to have an “out,” as they call it in the north of England, where I then resided—a brief tour of pleasure.  Never in these northern latitudes had I witnessed a more lovely morning.  The sun shone brightly, and with a dazzling splendour only surpassed by the gorgeous brilliancy of an Eastern clime.  When we looked upwards, not a cloud could be seen in the concave hemisphere above.  Far, far away, the most distant objects could be plainly and distinctly seen.  In the forest not a spray moved, nor was there a sweet kiss of the leaves on that breezeless morn.  Neither on river nor lake could there be discerned a single ripple.  Everywhere, except in the adjacent grove, did quietude and stillness reign.  There, however, the birds sent forth their merry and joyous notes, and the tone of their voices, and the songs they sung, told of joys, and proclaimed the existence of happy feelings, which but few among the sons of men are permitted to realize.  Oh, how calm and how still was the scene around!  Indeed, all nature, except the winged songsters of the grove, appeared to repose quietly and peacefully on the bosom of its God.

A grand morning