Whenever a tourist wishes to pass his summer months healthily and agreeably, but is in doubt whither to go, let him start off for Wales—North Wales—forthwith; and let him not return till wood and water, and hill and dale have ceased to call forth his admiration. Do not trust too implicitly to guidebooks, good traveller; take them and consult them; but beware of their lying propensities. They have inveigled many a loving subject of her Majesty’s into a scrape, and have proved the dearest things he ever admitted into his pocket. Go with your eyes open; go with a little common sense; go to be pleased: don’t go to find fault. Make up your mind to rough it if need be; and don’t give yourself the airs of my Lord Duke at every little wayside inn that your dignity may be forced to put up at. You may then travel smoothly and cheerfully through the Cimbric territory. Take also this along with you. The Welsh are tremendously slow coaches. Indolent, pig-headed, and careless, the _dolce far niente_ is their motto throughout life; and, were they left to themselves, they would positively retrograde through unwillingness to go a-head. It is of no use hurrying them; a Welshman was never in a hurry in his life; time, like water, is to him of little value; he has plenty and to spare of it, and the waste of either commodity is not thought of. In Wales, they let both run away often to little purpose; they have fewer “water privileges” than any one could imagine; and they turn their privilege of an _ad libitum_ supply of leisure to very poor account. So do not hurry a Welshman; for you will not gain any of _his_ time, but will only lose some of your own, by so doing.