To scenes like these, a tale of wonder is a welcome introduction; it awakes the mind, and adds new interest to every rock and precipice. The melancholy fate of little John Closs, who was overtaken by a mist, and perished in the snows upon Moel Eilio, calls forth a tear, but excites no wonder. The _feats_ of Margaret uch Evan, though very singular, are as certainly well attested: she dwelt near the margin of the lower lake, and was the last specimen of the strength and spirit of the ancient Briton. Her biographer asserts that “she was the greatest hunter, fisher, shooter of her time: she kept a dozen of dogs, terriers, greyhounds, and spaniels, all excellent in their kind. She killed more foxes in one year than all the confederate hunts did in ten: rowed stoutly, and was queen of the lakes: fiddled excellently, and was acquainted with all the old British music: was also a good joiner: and at the age of seventy years, was so expert a wrestler, that few young men dared try a fall with her. She was a blacksmith, shoemaker, and manufacturer of harps. She shod her own horses, made her own shoes, and built her own boats while under contract to convey the copper ore down the lakes. Contemporary bards celebrated her praises in strains purely British. She gave her hand, at length, to the most effeminate of her suitors, as if determined to exert that physical superiority which nature had bestowed on her even in the married state. Foulk Jones, of Ty Dû, was also a person of singular powers; the tales related of his prowess recall the poet’s character of Entellus. —“he then confronts the bull, And on his ample forehead, aiming fall, The deadly stroke descending, pierced the skull.” ÆNEID, v. 666.