Of Aberystwith's castle it must suffice to say that it dates from the eleventh century, and owes its parentage to Gilbert Strongbow. Cromwell cut its little comb effectually, and now it exists only in fragments. They are, however, attractive morsels, and the little green enclosure which they prettily dignify is a popular resort for visitors. There are seats about it, and you may perch close over the mutilated low cliffs of the coast and watch the breakers rolling in towards the town, while listening with your mind's ear to the tales told by Time of this downright ancient little place. The University buildings adjoin the castle demesne. They are quite grandiose. One wonders how often in the year the noise of the waves on their stones is so loud that it distracts the academic minds within its stately walls. It has been said authoritatively that "Aberystwith stands out as being far and away the Welshiest of the University Colleges, and Cardiff as the most English." This is gratifying to those of us who like to see the boundary-lines of nationalities clearly defined. And yet the faces of the students in the streets here do not show their birthright as one would expect. But enough. One must be very morose or abased in body as well as mind not to perceive the peculiar charms of Aberystwith. To the enterprising, and perhaps jaded, sojourner in this Brighton of Wales it may, moreover, come as welcome news that for a mile or two of its course the Ystwith is of a beauty matchless even in Wales. /Charles Edwardes./ [Illustration] [Illustration: DOLGELLEY (_p. 200_).] RIVERS OF NORTH WALES. CHAPTER I. THE DOVEY, THE DYSYNNI, THE MAWDDACH. Glories of A Wet Autumn in North Wales. The /Dovey/: Source of the Stream--Dinas Mowddwy--Mallwyd--Machynlleth. The /Dysynni/: Tal-y-Llyn--The "Bird Rock"--/Towyn/. The /Mawddach/: The Estuary--The Wnion--Torrent Walk--Dolgelley--Precipice Walk--The Estuary--Barmouth--Harlech Castle--Portmadoc--The Glaslyn--Tremadoc and Shelley--The Traeth Bach. There are times of the year when North Wales seems to be all rivers and mountain torrents and tumbling cataracts. The hills are seamed by thin, white streaks of foaming water. It is as if all the land were rushing down to the valleys and the sea. What was yesterday a slow dribble from pool to pool, a scarcely perceptible moisture among weeds, a narrow reflection of sky among stones and boulders, is to-day a broad, impetuous stream, or a wide expanse of bog-stained water, or a torrent swollen and turbulent. The cataracts which have disappointed the tourist in dry seasons come down in a way that wholly sustains their ancient reputation. But the mountains are, for the most part, hidden in mist, or whelmed in cloud; the white roads glitter like streams, and-- "The rain, it raineth every day; Heigho, the wind and the rain!"