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.” In short, the whole valley breathed delicious fragrance: add to this, innumerable cataracts rushed from the mountain’s summits, occasioned by the late copious rains. From hence a good turnpike road soon conducted us to the romantic town of MACHYNLLETH, considered as the centre of the woollen manufactory in this part of the country, principally of the strong cloth, or high country cloth. {121} The situation of Machynlleth (or as it is pronounced by the Welsh, Mahunthleth), is extremely romantic; stupendous mountains forming a natural rampart round the town. This town is supposed to have been the Maglona of the Romans, and where, in the name of Honorius, a lieutenant was stationed to awe the mountaineers. It is 206 miles from London, and 33 from Montgomery: its population, 1,595 persons. We here visited the neglected mansion where Owen Glyndour assembled the states of the principality, in the year 1402, and accepted from their hands the crown of Wales. Part of the house is now converted into a butcher’s shop:— “Sic transit gloria mundi.” In fine, the only evident remains of its ever having been celebrated in the annals of history, is a spacious door-way. The town itself, in many parts, bears the appearance of antiquity: the streets are considerably wider than Welsh towns in general, and the market-place is well-built: tanning and the manufacture of flannels and webs constitute the principal employment of the inhabitants. As we entered Machynlleth, being the first town in North Wales, we were in a manner instinctively induced to reflect on the various incidents that had befallen us from our first sallying forth on our pedestrian excursion. We took a retrospect of all our little troubles with equally as much delight as the sailor, who, by the blessing of Providence, has escaped the most imminent dangers: all our past imaginary dangers (for imaginary evils are frequently worse than real ones) were overbalanced with reflections on the many hours of pleasure that were flown unheeded by: these reflections brought to my recollection some interesting lines in Bowles’s sonnets, which I involuntarily exclaimed aloud: “Fair scenes, ye lend a pleasure long unknown To him who passes weary on his way; The farewell tear which now he turns to pay Shall thank you, and whene’er of pleasures flown His heart some long-lost image would renew, Delightful haunts! he will remember you.” At the village of Kevn Kaer are the remains of an oval camp, a wall, and ditch: evidently Roman, from the coins and other antiquities found there.