Upon our preparing for the renewal of our journey, a material difficulty occurred; my poney was so completely knocked up, that he had not, as the jockeys phrase it, “a leg to stand on.” The alternative in this case was to buy another; and upon enquiry I found that my landlord had one to dispose of, which was forthwith produced. This was a good-sized poney, with plenty of bone, but ill-made; he had, however, an excellent character: his knees too were sadly broken; but a circumstantial tale shewed that to be the effect of accident, and not habitual awkwardness: upon the whole, he did not seem dear at the price demanded, which was only five guineas: a bargain was therefore struck, the saddle transferred from the invalid to the back of my new purchase; and after given directions for the return of the former, which by the way incurred an expence more than his value, we set forward for the celebrated grounds of Hafod, about two miles distant. Our road lay on the steep bank of the Mynach, commanding a full view of the glen, and its romantic bridge. Then ascending the Cwm Ystwith hill, through a current of clouds, we gained from its summit an uninterrupted view of the whole range of North Walean mountains, stretching from the English counties to the great bay of Cardigan: the intervening hollows were concealed by fields of mist; so that the uncultivated heights exhibited a scene as rugged as when “—Nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, And wild in woods the noble savage ran.”