broken by the wing of bird or the voice of melody.”  In every direction prospects the most magnificent opened to view, and every crag and rock which I surmounted was furnished with objects of picturesque effect or deep and absorbing interest.  From many a crag I looked down upon the cwms and deep dells beneath, and I fancied I could pick out here and there the very dingles to which our heroic ancestors were compelled to resort for protection, when pursued by numberless hosts of the enemy after they had sustained defeat.  In these cwms they were, however, safe.  Even proud and haughty Edward dared not follow the Britons to their mountain fastnesses.  To them Snowdon had ever proved a kind and guardian angel: hence the reason why they fled thither in the hour of their defeat.  No wonder, therefore, that they loved the old mountain deeply and passionately; and no wonder, too, that they composed songs to her honour and renown.

When I attained the summit of the mountain, the sight presented to my view was awfully and majestically wild and grand.  The whole circuit of the Snowdonian range was enveloped in a thick and dark mist, which was so dense that I fancied I could cut it with the finest edged tool.  The howling of the winds in the cwms and dingles which run down the mountain on every side was really appalling.  Indeed, the prospect was horrible to contemplate.  It gave an idea, says a writer on the subject, of numbers of abysses concealed by a thick smoke furiously circulating around us.  Now and then, however, a strong gust of wind created an opening in the mist, which, for a moment, gave me a magnificent prospect of sea and lake, of deep chasms, and high and lofty mountains, of almost fathomless dingles and ravines; while towns and hamlets appeared in the distance like small specks on the surface of the earth.  But the prospect was only momentary.  The clouds of mist which were rent asunder by the strong current of wind would, in the twinkling of an eye, again form and unite, and thus present a compact and complete whole, leaving me involved in a darkness that might be felt.  In a minute it would again separate into a thousand parts, and fly in wild eddies up the gullies and dingles, thus affording me another opportunity of seeing the Isle of Mona, the mountain of Plynlimmon, Hell’s Mouth, the Iraeth Bach, and that magnificent bay which once formed the rich and fertile plain of Cantref-y-Gwaelod, with its sixteen fortified cities and towns, whose inhabitants met with a watery grave through the drunkenness of Seithenyn, who is styled in the “Triads” as one of the three notorious drunkards of the isle of Britain.  Contemplating the scene so strange, yet so grand, the following lines of the poet Rogers struck me as extremely applicable to my then situation:—

                                          “The morning air
Plays on my cheek, how gently, flinging round
A silvery gleam; and now the purple mists
Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out,
Filling, o’erflowing with his glorious light,
This noble amphitheatre of hills.”

After spending nearly two hours on the summit in gazing upon the wild, yet the grand and majestic scene presented to my view, I felt, as I had to walk to Pont Aberglaslyn, and back to Penygwryd, a distance of nearly twenty miles, that I dare not delay my departure longer; hence I made instant preparation to descend.  I, however, left this Alpine top, and bade farewell to old Snowdon, with feelings of deep sorrow and poignant grief.  On leaving this most prominent historic spot in the past history of my country, I could not but enter into the deep feeling of reverence with which my forefathers regarded this mountain and its adjacent hills, valleys, and plains.  Thought I to myself, was it a wonder that they almost worshipped Yr Wyddfa?  Indeed they had every reason for paying honour and homage to it.  To them it had ever been a never-failing friend—a sure and safe retreat when they suffered and sustained defeat in battle.  To them it afforded a rich and never-failing refuge, in which they lodged the young and the feeble and the non-combatants when they went forth to fight the common foe—the implacable enemies of their dear fatherland—foes and enemies, too, who were strangers to generosity, but who loved conquest for the sake of conquest, and who were alike indifferent to the sacrifice of human blood as they were to English treasures.  When they followed our brave and heroic countrymen into the mountain fastnesses of Snowdon, they generally suffered terrible slaughter, and repented having left those fortresses and plains where they so much loved to dwell.  Considering the many and the terrible disasters which befell their marches in its fastnesses, no wonder they preferred residing at some distance removed from so impregnable a refuge.  To the Welsh warriors it had been a natural guardian angel: hence the reason why they loved it so deeply, so ardently, and with the whole passion of the soul.

After I had descended some distance towards Beddgelert, I turned in order to take a parting farewell-look of this the mother of Cambrian mountains; and in viewing its high and lofty summit, now almost wholly enveloped in mist, I was forcibly struck with the wild, dreary, and boundless scene.  From the point on which I stood this ancient hill appeared to be untrodden by human foot, and tenanted only by wandering sheep and goats, except the hoarse-croaking ravens.  It was, indeed, sublime to stand, as I stood then, on that spot, and commune with solitude around—to gaze upon Snowdon and her manifold adjacent hills, slumbering calmly beneath me.  With me there was no form, no human being, no living thing; but I rejoiced that there, amid this stupendous scene, I could commune freely and uninterruptedly with nature and nature’s God, and with the spirits of my brave and heroic forefathers, whose bones lie buried in that wild and dreary scene; and, as I finally parted from the scene, I sang the following well-known lines, and so my voice re-echoed through the dales and caverns:—

“Rest, ye brave dead, ’midst the hills of your sires.
Oh, who would not slumber when Freedom expires?
Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain,
The children of song may not breathe in the chain.”

A STORY OF DUNRAVEN CASTLE IN THE OLDEN TIMES;
OR,
GOD’S JUDGMENT AGAINST WRECKERS.

THE PROEM.

On the southern coast of the county of Glamorgan, and situate at the back of a high rocky promontory commanding a magnificent view of the Bristol Channel, and just opposite the little sea-bathing village of Southerndown, which appears desolate amid its desolation, stands the modern Castle of Dunraven, which was built by the late Mr. Thomas Wyndham.  This castle is erected on the site of a very ancient structure, which, in the olden times, was called Dindryfan.  The old castle is in some respects the most interesting in the Principality.  It was there one of Cambria’s greatest warriors and one of her purest patriots lived and reigned.  Dunraven was the centre of those wonderful military movements which gained for their author wide-spread fame and imperishable renown.  It was there that the great commander and