young woman rather a slippery trick. A lady's-maid, of all persons in the world the one that has no business to stand upon a precipice, lost her footing while looking over the abyss, and was borne down a frightful depth, but her dress spreading out like a parachute, she was no otherwise injured than by being lodged in the black pool, and terribly frightened. After some delay, ropes were procured and cast down; but in the hurry, no proper noose was made, so that, while they were drawing her up as she clung to it with her hands, her strength failed her and down she fell again. But now a boy had contrived to work his way down, and rescued her, by placing her insensibly in a secure place until more effectual assistance was procured. The poor creature long suffered, as we understood, from the effects of the peril.

At the time we arrived at the inn, the shadows had extended over the whole depth, and about three parts up the side of the precipitous hill, above which the more distant mountain range was seen. The partially coppice-covered rocks were of a beautiful colour, a warm brown, and the coppice so indistinct that it was not very easy to discover that trees were there. In the midst, and at some distance within the ravine, was a deep dark pool, into which a cascade, but of no great height, was pouring its white water, and we could just discover that it was in motion. The whole scene looked grand, large, and solemn; there was enough positive light to show some of the prominent forms, which, by their divisions, made the mass of hill and rock appear to its full height; but afterwards, when the sun had sunk lower and the whole was in shade, the grandeur was gone. As too much direct light gives a meanness by the innumerable divisions and subdivisions it exposes, thus destroying the scene as a whole, so too little light has the same effect by a different operation, by removing all comparison of part with part, and thus reducing the whole. We think here Nature gave a lesson to artists; herein is contained a principle for application. And now night has closed in, a lovely tranquil night. Look out of windowthe hills, or rather mountains, have folded themselves into smaller compass, are asleep the stars sentinel them, and the distant sound of the falling waters assure you that all is

quiet living sleep, and not death. This is an inspiring time to the artist; his imagination is awake, and he feels the silent blessing both of Nature and of Art. The inn is large, the accommodation in every respect excellent. The Duke of Newcastle is expending large sums to make it a large and first-rate hotel. The building is not offensive to the scenery, perhaps quite otherwise, though it may not bear too strict an architectural serutiny. The roof is in the style of the Swiss cottage; not so the other parts of the building-yet, when finished, it may have a good effect; and its situation immediately over the abyss is greatly in its favour, for the view from the windows is very fine. This scene was not improved by a morning view, and less so at midday. It is certainly most beautiful towards evening, when a broad shadow is over the whole depth, and the tops of the mountains are partially lighted up. Scenery of this kind at mid-day is seldom seen to any advantage: at that time it requires large and moving clouds, that by their bold shadows separate the interfoldings, and give distance and character. A beautiful spot, therefore, should not be seen once, and left; the true admirer of nature, and particularly the artist, will soon acquire a knowledge, by his study of lines and the aspect of the scenery, of the changes that must affect it in the sun's course. It makes all the difference whether shadows come from the right or the left, from the back or front, when the objects that cast them are on all sides unequal. It is a great thing to know where it may be worth while to stop, not judging from the present effect, which may often be bad, and such as may disguise, for the time, great natural beauties. Who has not been surprised into admiration, returning in an evening over the very ground he had passed in the morning with weariness and distaste? It is far better to remain at one beautiful spot, days, and even weeks, than to run post-haste from spot to spot, the mind overwhelmed with vague recollections, and the portfolio crammed with imperfect studies-when ten to one but the very best subjects for admiration or study are left unvisited, and often, when visited, unseen.

We regret that our stay was necessarily short; yet we are but " the lion's provider," to lead the way, and do not hesitate to recommend the Devil's Bridge as a place of sojourn. Not very far from the inn, and facing it, having crossed the bridge, are some very fine views of the generalscenery. We were in the broad sun; it was too much cut up into detail for work; we therefore made our way down to the black water we had seen from the inn window, and here we sketched, though not much to our satisfaction. Our friend was more successful, but in another line, for the trout came out of the dark water, sparkling beautifully, at his bidding. But here were fine subjects: bold masses of stone, that had been storm-cast from the cliffs, were in the clearest water, here shallow and there deep; above them the small fall, and above that the high mountain sides, rock and coppice intermingled. Here we were delighted with a sort of ballet exhibition. Two very large kites flew into the area between the cliffs, from over the top to the right, and magnificently and gracefully sported; it was what a dance on wings may be imagined to be, by free creatures in their utmost joy. After a while, another swept over the opposite cliff, and came sailing in his glory among them, and they joined, varied their figure, and performed a wonderful ballet. Sometimes they seemed burlesquing what we have seen in a theatre-retreating and coming in again, and with a new vagary. We afterwards learnt that these creatures are remarkably fine, and peculiar to the place. The kite is a noble bird; they possess the mountains, like fea.. thered princes. Retracing our steps, we returned to the inn, passed through a little gate, and behold the two bridges one over the other! The depth here does not look very appalling, probably not so great as it really is. From immediately below this bridge, the falls commence; we had seen. them from the opposite hill, but had little conception of their beauty until we came near them. It is one stream, but several falls. The volume of water was not great: we are not certain if this was not an advantage, for there was enough to be very fine, and we saw more of the rock than we should have done had it been entirely covered by larger cascades; and we had better views of the wonderful scoopings it had at other times made in the rocky beds, which were now seen to great advantage under every

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But by far the most striking fall is that below "the Robber's Cave" -a cavern of no great depth; and where, it is said, a robber once lived with, we believe, two companions, a sister and another female. The habi. tation must have been very small for three persons, but certainly very safe from surprise. It is said that, one having betrayed the watchword, the robber was taken; he had committed a murder. A more savage scene can hardly be conceived_close to the roar and perpetual dampness of the cataract, a precipice before it, with only one, and that a dangerous, access. a place wherein to meditate on crime! crime for crime's sake; for here could be none of the usual enticementsjoyless, unsocial home! From this cave we descended, something like a path, or rather footing, being now made in the descent, to a ledge of rock, through a narrow passage in which the water has found its way. When in full volume, we suppose this whole mass is covered with water, and the scene must be very grand. Yet we had some advantage in seeing it in its present state, as we were enabled to reach what at other times might be the centre of the channel; and thus we had the fall in its recess, and immediately before us. The masses are large and very bold, the water even now being very grand, and though one as a cataract, broken into unequal and fineparts. The water seems pouring down from the sky, as the higher ground is not seen; a few feet only from the great brow of the huge mass-the brow, that as it were conceals under it the roof, is the cavern, dark and gloomy; at its edge some rich-coloured fern is growing, which makes the gloom the greater. The sweeping lines of the rock are very grand, their breaking being only at the cataract, where great fragments jut out boldly into the foam, and around them the water thunders. The ledge which forms the foreground is divided into many channels, though now dry, and runs upwards to the right, forming a pass to the upper rock, yet marking its magnitude by the division. The sky above the cataract is broken by some bold trees, or rather trunks of trees, for there was scarcely any foliage on them. This scene would make a very fine picture in the hands of a skilful artist. Still lower, there may be even a finer subject. As we intended visiting the spot again, we did not attempt the descent and now regret we left the Devil's Bridge without reaching the extreme depth of this awful place. The colour of the rock is well suited to the grandeur of the scene.

The artist will not be content with general views; he will find an infinite variety of detail to occupy much of his time, and fill his portfolio with advantage. Nothing can be easier of access-it is close to the inn, where he can have the very best accommodation, and, if he pleases, on terms of boarding. We spent two days here, before we proceeded to Hafod.

The road lies still among mountains-about five miles, or scarcely so much, half up hill and half down. Shall we venture to say we were disappointed in Hafod? We had come from almost savage wildness, and were not prepared to see mountains dressed. The great extensive ranges of wood are very fine, and not the less striking from the freshness, the youth, yet fulness of the trees; the woods are trees, not coppice, but they are not of that massy, matted growth we are accustomed to see in old dressed places. We have vigour for antiquity-each has its peculiar charm. You see at once you are upon the very verge of extreme barrenness; the high woods, at their summits and nearly at their base, terminating, or rather flowing off, into wild mountain. The river was very low-it is so immediately

under the high woods, that we suspect it will not afford much variety for the painter. As a seat, Hafod is finely situated; yet, though there is plenty of wood, it wants shelter. There do not appear any deep glens in which you could embower yourself in shade: the heat of the day was oppressive, which made us look for this cool repose the great beauty, after all, of landscape. We read what has been said of Hafod in the guide-books, and thought there was much exaggeration. We do not presume to be judges of architecture beyond its effect upon the artist's eye, and its agreement with the scenery around it. It would be difficult to define its order: it is not Gothic, it is not Venetian, nor Turkish, but a mixture of all. The little obelisks, two to each pinnacle, look very little indeed. It is fair to say, that as it is undergoing great alterations, and is partly boarded up, it must be impossible to judge of it as a whole. It is at present in a semi-neglected state. We walked to the flower-garden, or what was the flower-garden, and returned with melancholy reflections. For whom was it made, how was it cherished, and how desolate is it? - a deserted ruined garden is at all times a dire, a dismal sight. There is a trifling matter here that gave offence to the imagination, by rudely snapping its finest chain. There are some carved grotesque heads in the doorways entering this garden. The sculptor had cut, large enough to catch the eye, the date, and "London," and probably his name, for part was obliterated. Who, in such a spot, would wish to be reminded of London, or Bath, or marble-cutters' yards-or desire to know that these heads came from any part of the world but the garden-or that they were not left there by the genii of the garden, whose creation the whole circumference should be? Another remark, in our architectural ignorance, we will venture to make. There is something not pleasing in seeing bright freestoneyellow buildings arise, where there is nothing of the kind in the soil to harmonize with them. Should not houses in the country be Αυτοχθονες as if they sprung from the ground-should they not be of the stone of the country, or as much like the stone of the country as possible? The eye cannot be deluded, and is sensible of an intruder nature never intended to be seen there. It is like a woman with false hair, which, though it may be better than her own, never looks so well, and pretty surely mars her beauty. Would not Hafod be better of another colour? Its lightness ill accords with the wild majesty of the mountain dominion in the centre of which it is placed. It was very singular at such a season of the year to see so brown a hue. The oaks had been frost-bitten, and the leaves crumbled into dust under the handit had the strange effect of blending summer and autumn in one landscape. Is the mixture of the Scotch fir with oaks and other forest trees in good taste? Even the firs in such cases seem - to lose their natural character, and look too spruce. High-rising trees should not be placed among lower and spreading they hurt each othermaking one too low, and the other too high. Scotch firs are not to be despised; they make grand dark-shading woods-they have a gigantic person.. ality about them, when grown to any size, and proudly centinel a domain. Their gloom is awful; and when the sun is behind them, and just gleams partially through them, the effect is magical; and how wonderfully, by their depth of colour, they throw off the azures, and set off the warmer tints of nearer distances!

We have left Hafod; and all on our way to Aberystwith, ranges and ranges of mountain again and again present themselves all fine. Within sight of Aberystwith, they gradually lower on all sides, and at their bases lies in rich beauty an extensive valley, through which the river winds, and loses itself-or at least it did to our view-in an ultramarine, yet warm, haze, that flooded with azure light the whole vale. The first burst of this view, with the great arms of the mountain stretching down into the depth before us, would make a very fine subject for a picture, and would well suit Copley Fielding's water-colours. Why do they do their utmost to make all sea-bathing places look as hot as possible? Facing the unmitigated sun we have houses, and a whole range of them, as hot as yellow ochre can make them. Seek for shelter inside, and you have little shade-the sun still persecutes you there-curtains and carpet are sure to be red-you fly from the yellow to the scarlet fever. Aberystwith seems a poor place, excepting where the company-the gentry lodging-houses are built. We

were surprised to see an odd, fantasticlooking semi-castle building, erected by, above all persons in the world, the late Sir Uvedale Price! How very strange! "Aliquando bonus dormitat."

Hour about five o'clock-looking on the sea. Never saw we any thing more lovely-never any colouring of nature that more convinced us of the truth of Claude's Embarkation of St Ursula, and his other marine subjects. Nearly the whole of the sea, to the horizon, lighter than the skyand yet that is not dark, but all luminous-the whole expanse of water of a warm grey, changing occasionally into the most tender green. The sun, which is yet high up, flashes about the edged clouds, and down below them, a purple grey, tipped with brightest gold. Now, there are more distant clouds immediately under the others, half obscured in haze, edges brilliant. They must be thunder clouds the most azure blue, if we might call it by the name of one colour, is above. Immediately below the sun's pavilion the blue is lost in a thicker atmosphere, almost of a greenish hue, and that melts off into a warm luminous grey, in which the red is very discernible, and from the suncloud, as from a centre, broad bands of shadow spread abroad, reaching the water to its utmost verge. The sea, without a wave, but a gentle ripple plays about the shore, here edged with, and throwing off, drops of the purest gold. Starting distinct from the grey, there is a mass of the sun's light upon the very centre of the sea, but it is interrupted by a grey streak, and does not quite reach the shore-a rocky ledge or two seems to run out, as it were, to meet and salute it, and that alone is dark. Behind us lay the large and shattered fragments of the old castle, the ruins of which, particularly the tall upright tower, are still fine. Aberystwith did not seem to have much company. These sort of places are all alike-a semicircular range of yellow or white lodginghouses, facing the sea-white painted bathing-machines on the beachloungers about the seats, smoking cigars-and ladies, by twos and threes, in green veils, poking among the pebbles with the ends of their parasols. Our piscator friend was very busy making enquiry respecting some fish said to be caught and catchable here with the rod and line. To him it seemed a wonderful thing to us, who had never hooked but one fish, and that in the side, it did not sound wonderful at all, remembering more of Homer than of Isaac Walton.

We did not remain at Aberystwith. On our return to the mountains we went to a very neat newly-built church, the exterior of which reminded us of Italy. The service was in Welsh, the sermon in English, the Welsh we thought must be a powerful language; we imagined it to be in sound between Greek and German. The demeanour and devotion of the congregation was very gratifying, and the extreme neatness and cleanness of their persons. A retired tradesman from Aberystwith, with great civility, offered us seats; and, when the service was over, conversed with us with great natural politeness and simplicity. He told us his condition, showed us his garden, and offered the use of his stable should we at any time revisit the place for the sake of fishing. The manners of the Welsh in these parts is very pleasing, and their intelligent way of speaking very much above that of the generality in England. They are unaffected, simple, and single-minded people, and are not contaminated by that bane to morality, the beershop. They are the very reverse of "the vulgar." The sermon, which was in English, was very good; and, ⚫ had the preacher paid more attention to stops, would have been more effective. He read it as if English had been an acquired language. His Welsh seemed to flow naturally, gracefully, and powerfully. The following day our friend hoped to have some fishing at Rhayader, as there had been rain; and, as we had closed our portfolios, we gave ourselves up to his amusement if we might be found worthy to carry his basket. It would not do. The fish were not to be caught. We saw some fine otter hounds; coarse, wiry, strong animals, that would bear as well as give a bite and a tug under or above water. Our friend was eloquent upon the subject, and described many an otter hunt, and made the description more interesting by his calculation of the mischief these amphibious creatures do.

"A

single otter," said he, "will consume a ton of fish in a year;" and, while speaking, he referred to a paper in his fishing-book. We observed one side of it denoted rhyme. "Ah," said he, when questioned, "for nearly forty years have I had many a fishing day with old Will Hill of Millslade, and being at the lonely but comfortable little inn there the other day, my old haunt, I thought over the days past; and I suppose a thankful heart, and no one to tell it out to, makes a happy man a rhymster, if not a happy rhymster, and so I made my trial. Here it is. I am as proud of dedicating my verse to poor old Will Hill, as Pindar his to Hiero. So here goes :

TO MY OLD FISHING COMPANION, WILL
HILL OF MILLSLADE-

Old Will with thee,
In youth and glee,
I've spent some sunny hours;
But now, I fear,
The winter drear
Of age upon us lowers.

Yet still a dish
We catch of fish,
As well as some that brag;
No more we ply
The treacherous fly,
The brandling fills the bag.

Here in this glen,
Apart from men,
We lift our grateful hearts;
And feel the joy,
Without alloy,

That Nature wild imparts.

From Providence,
Our confidence,

This boon we anglers crave,
That we anon
Mayangle on

Safe to a peaceful grave.

"Come, then," continued he, "let us to the inn," and as if to apologise for his verse

"Dulce est de-sipere in loco."

So let us, like true artist and piscator, sip our souchong, and be wise enough to play the fool after our innocent fashion.

Finis chartæque viæque.