We now for many miles passed a barren, dreary country, completely encircled with hills, and we only climbed one, to observe still others rising in the distant perspective: not even a house or tree appeared to interrupt the awfulness of the mountains, which after the copious fall of rain in the night, teemed with innumerable cataracts. According to our directions, we enquired at the foot of Plinlimmon for Rhees Morgan, as a proper man to be our conductor over the heights of the “fruitful father of rivers.” This man being absent, the whole family appeared thunderstruck at our appearance, and run with all haste imaginable into their miserable cot, or which might rather be dignified with the appellation of a pig-stye; as that _filthy animal_ seemed to claim, with the wretched family, an equal right to a share of the hovel. One apartment served for the inhabitants of every description, with only one small hole to admit the light; the entrance unprotected by a door, but with a blanket as a substitute, was exposed to the pitiless blast of the winter’s storm. Reviewing this despicable hovel, I recalled to my mind a very just observation of Goldsmith’s, “That one half of the world are ignorant how the other half lives.” “Ah! little think the gay licentious proud Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah! little think they, while they dance along, . . . . . . . . . how many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery. Sore pierc’d by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty.”—THOMPSON. With some difficulty we prevailed on the female part of the family to give us proper directions to the source of the meandering Wye, {79} and rapid Severn. The latter they only understood by the name of _Halfren_, its original British name; it is likewise called in Latin _Sabrina_. From the top of Plinlimmon we, for the first time, discovered the shaggy summit of Cader Idris, and the spiral head of Snowdon. There is nothing particularly engaging in the character of this mountain, except to its giving rise to no less than six or eight rivers, and on this account has frequently been celebrated by the Poet. Though its summit commands a circle of many miles diameter, yet the prospect by no means answered our expectations. We descended into a swampy bottom, which afforded us unpleasant walking for two or three miles, when a most delightful and well-cultivated valley unexpectedly enlivened our spirits. The sun was making —“a golden set, And by the bright track of his fiery car Gave signal of a goodly day to-morrow,” just as we entered this interesting vale: the hay-makers, in the coolness of the evening, were returning to their homes, “Each by the lass he loved.”