We now for many miles passed a barren, dreary country, completely encircled with hills; and we only climbed one to observe others still 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 ran with all haste imaginable into their miserable cot. 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. “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 pierced by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty.” THOMSON. With some difficulty we prevailed on the female part of the family to give us proper directions to the source of the meandering Wye, {119} 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. “With respect to Plinlimmon mountain,” says Mr. Malkin, “it is inferior only to Snowdon and Cader Idris; if to the latter, in point of size and height. It takes its name from five beacons; many of which, if not all, still remain, and are seen at some distance. We may indeed compare Plinlimmon with those formidable personages of poetical creation, who walk with their feet upon the earth, and their heads in the region of the heavens.” There is nothing particularly engaging in the character of this mountain, except in 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,”