People wander into Wales principally in search of health and amusement; a few for business; many without any purpose whatever, except the desire of changing place and doing something. Any one who finds himself in either of these classes need not fear being disappointed in the results of his visit; for there is motion and change enough throughout the country; sufficient business to make it worth the while of those who know how to buy and sell; amusement for all who are worth amusing, and health enough for all the world. Let no man, however, deceive himself with the vain expectation that he shall have no ups and downs in his pilgrimage through the country; let no one suppose that it is perpetual sunshine there; nor let any one fondly think that, because he does himself the honour of whipping a stream with fly and line, therefore, at every throw a sixpound trout is sure to swallow his bait. Far otherwise. The tourist in Wales must not be a man of many expectations, and then he will not be disappointed; he must be content to go many a weary mile to see some choice bit of scenery, and then to come as many or more miles home again; he must make up his mind to have plenty of rain, wind and cold, in the hottest day in summer; and he may cast his fly all the way up from Conwy to Penmachno without having “one single glorious rise.” In fact, he must be a patient reasonable man, and then he may adventure himself in Taffyland without fear. But if he is an acute observer of nature—if he loves to see the wildest forms that mountains, and streams, and lakes can assume—if he likes to make himself a denizen of the clouds, and to hold converse with the children of the mist—if he can appreciate primitive national manners—if he has ever so small a smattering of English history—if he can listen to simple, plaintive music, and can be content to see birds, beasts, and fishes all enjoying themselves in their original freedom, then let him hasten to the mountain side, wander up the valley, stroll along the river, or dream away his day by the shingle bank on the sea shore; he will never repent of a visit to Wales. The old road from Chester to Holyhead has been, and now is more than ever, the main line of entry for Saxons and other foreigners into the Cimbric land; but there are others quite as good. From Salop to Bangor by Telford’s Parliamentary road, through some of the finest scenery the country affords; or from Wrexham by Llangollen’s Vale and Bala’s Lake, athwart the land to Dolgelly; or from Aberystwyth, creeping along the sea-coast by Barmouth and Tremadoc to Caernarvon; or from Liverpool by the fast-going steamers close under Orme’s Head to the Menai Bridge; any of these ways is good. The main thing is once to get the foot fairly planted on Welsh soil; the natural attractions of the country will be sure to lead the traveller onward, and can scarcely lead him amiss.