this, said I, for starting on an “out;” but the pressing question was, whither should I go.  During my brief preparation, I fancied I heard the voice of the eagle, and the voice said, “Come to me.  Come and behold the high mountain whereon I dwell, and the great rocks in which I build my nest.  Come and see, from my high elevation and Alpine heights, the magnificent lochs whose waters spread far and wide in the broad and expansive valleys.  Oh, come, and behold the land of the brave and heroic Wallace.”

A moment before deciding whether or not I should accept the invitation of the king of birds, there was wafted on the gentle breeze that had just sprung up, the voice of a little bird which inhabits the far west; and the little bird said, “Come and visit the land in which I dwell.  In this land you will behold some of the greatest wonders of the world.  Were you to visit the North or the South, the East or the West, the sunny fountains of Africa, the coral strands of India, or the icy regions of the frigid zone, yet in no part of the wide world could you discover objects so grand and majestic as our Giant’s Causeway; while Killarney is unrivalled for sublime and beautiful scenery.”  Well, little bird, said I, I love your nation; your people have warm hearts and generous sympathies.  Just, however, as I was about saying “aye” to the invitation of the little bird of the Green Isle, there came from the south—o’er moorland valley, o’er mighty rivers and hills, o’er cities, towns, and villages, the charming and enchanting voice of the lark, and its tones were so winning and so sweet, that I was almost moved to shed tears of joy.  But what was the purport of her song?  The burden of her song was Cambria! the beautiful and the blest; the land of Poetry and the Ideal.  “Come,” carolled the lark, “and behold some of the beauties of Wild Wales.  In no land are glades so verdant, are rocks so rugged and bold, are cwms and dells so exquisitely beautiful and lovely as are to be seen here.  Nowhere but here can you behold hill after hill, and mountain after mountain, rise above each other, presenting a picture so awfully wild, so grand, and so majestically sublime.  Besides,” said the lark, “this is your own land.  It is the place of your birth.  It is the home of your father’s sepulchre.  Oh! come here, for here are generous hearts, ready to bid you welcome.  In the border land is many an old friend who will rejoice and kill the fatted calf when he sees you approach his dwelling.”  I could no longer resist the irresistible voice, and replied to her, Oh, sweet songster of the moorland, thither will I go, and to-morrow I will listen to your heavenly strains among your own hills.

I need not describe the journey from the North to Conway, as it is familiar to most travellers.  Nor shall I refer to the beautiful Menai, or the magnificent ruins and historic renown of the good old town of Carnarvon.  Nor shall I refer, with a view to depict the scene, to many other deeply-interesting spots, some of which I could not but gaze upon with feelings of profound reverence, the rather as they told the tales of other times, which rolled before me with their deeds.  As I looked upon and contemplated these scenes, I was deeply affected, while my vision was dimmed by the tears that welled up from my heart.  Moreover, as I still gazed upon the historic fields of blood and battle, I thought I saw the shadow of my country’s martyrs and heroes passing before my eyes—the shadows of the great and heroic men who, strong in the righteousness of their cause, fought for the liberty of our brave, courageous, and lion-hearted ancestors, and for the independence and the freedom of the land of my love and my sympathies.  Since the days of that long and sanguinary struggle, time and the disposition of men and nations have immeasurably changed for the better.  Happily for us, we have now a ruler who loves her subjects, whose sway is the very opposite of that despotic tyrant’s rule, who loved to imbrue his hands in the blood of contemporary princes.  Edward, however, has gone to his place.  Oh that his memory and his deeds of blood had perished with him!  As I looked upon the scene around Conway, and viewed it in relation to and in connection with the dark deeds of Edward, the following lines of the poet Gray came to my remembrance:—

“Hark how each giant oak and desert cave
  Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath!
O’er thee, O King, their hundred arms they wave,
  Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe,
Vocal no more.”

From Conway I proceeded to Llanrwst, thence to Bettws-y-Coed, which is situated in a lovely verdant cwm, and is the most charming and the most exquisitely beautiful spot I have ever beheld.  I have seen many an enchanting scene, but Bettws-y-Coed is incomparably finer, and surpasses, both in magnificent boldness and soft and quiet grandeur, any other landscape upon which I have been permitted to gaze.  As night was rapidly approaching, and as I had arranged to ascend Snowdon the following morning, I had to tear myself away from so enchanting a scene.  From there I proceeded to the Swallow Falls, thence to Capel Curig, a village which affords some of the most picturesque landscapes which can be met with in Wales.  Of this prospect it might be truly said:—

“Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and water seem to strive again;
Not, chaos-like, together crushed and bruised,
But, as the world, harmoniously confused.”

However, I lingered not to contemplate the scene, but proceeded on my journey towards Penygwryd, which I reached just as the great king of day disappeared behind the Cambrian Alps.

The next morning, after partaking of an early breakfast of ham and eggs and coffee, I proceeded to the hotel lawn to see whether the day was favourable for an ascent of Yr Wyddfa, the “uwch y mynydd uchaf” of England and Wales.  Since the previous day I regretted to find that the weather had undergone a complete change; the summit of Eryri was now enveloped in dark clouds, the morning was cold, and the air was dank and chilly.  The moaning of the wind in the great mountain gullies and cwms rendered the scene both awful and sublime.  Meeting mine host on the lawn, I inquired if I might venture to ascend Snowdon without the service of a guide.  He strongly dissuaded me from attempting an ascent alone, as it would necessarily be attended with great risk.  However, after debating the matter some time, I resolved to carry out my original design of going unattended.  When I reached the summit I was delighted beyond measure at having accomplished the ascent, by the longest and most difficult route, without the aid of a guide.  Having wished Mr. Owen a hearty farewell, I commenced the ascent of Snowdon.  Proceeding up the road towards the Pass of Llanberis so far as Pen-y-Pass, I branched off to the left, and soon came to Llyn Teyrn, thence taking the trackless mountain above Cwm Dyli, direct towards Llyn Glaslyn; and thence by a circuitous and difficult route, which a kind mountain miner showed me, to the highest point of the Mother of Hills.

Although I found this route laborious, I was amply recompensed by beholding “scenes of extraordinary wildness and grandeur, over which solitude seemed to brood with undisturbed silence, scarcely ever