After wandering about the valley for some time, and seeing a few of its wonders, I inquired my way for Festiniog, and set off for that place. The way to it is through the pass at the south-east end of the valley. Arrived at the entrance of the pass, I turned round to look at the scenery I was leaving behind me; the view which presented itself to my eyes was very grand and beautiful. Before me lay the meadow of Gelert, with the river flowing through it towards the pass. Beyond the meadow the Snowdon range; on the right the mighty Cerrig Llan; on the left the equally mighty, but not quite so precipitous, Hebog. Truly, the valley of Gelert is a wondrous valley—rivalling for grandeur and beauty any vale either in the Alps or Pyrenees. After a long and earnest view, I turned round again, and proceeded on my way. Presently I came to a bridge bestriding the stream, which a man told me was called Pont Aber Glâs Lyn, or the bridge of the debouchement of the grey lake. I soon emerged from the pass, and after proceeding some way, stopped again to admire the scenery. To the west was the Wyddfa; full north was a stupendous range of rocks; behind them a conical peak, seemingly rivalling the Wyddfa itself in altitude; between the rocks and the road, where I stood, was beautiful forest scenery. I again went on, going round the side of a hill by a gentle ascent. After a little time I again stopped to look about me. There was the rich forest scenery to the north, behind it were the rocks, and behind the rocks rose the wonderful conical hill impaling heaven; confronting it to the south-east was a huge lumpish hill. As I stood looking about me, I saw a man coming across a field which sloped down to the road from a small house. He presently reached me, stopped and smiled. A more open countenance than his I never saw in all the days of my life. “Dydd dachwi, sir,” said the man of the open countenance, “the weather is very showy.” “Very showy, indeed,” said I; “I was just now wishing for somebody, of whom I might ask a question or two.” “Perhaps I can answer those questions, sir?” “Perhaps you can. What is the name of that wonderful peak sticking up behind the rocks to the north?” “Many people have asked that question, sir, and I have given them the answer which I now give you. It is called the ‘Knicht,’ sir; and a wondrous hill it is.” “And what is the name of yonder hill opposite to it, to the south, rising like one big lump?” “I do not know the name of that hill, sir, farther than that I have heard it called the Great Hill.” “And a very good name for it,” said I; “do you live in that house?” “I do, sir, when I am at home.” “And what occupation do you follow?” “I am a farmer, though a small one.” “Is your farm your own?” “It is not, sir; I am not so far rich.” “Who is your landlord?” “Mr. Blicklin, sir. He is my landlord.” “Is he a good landlord?” “Very good, sir; no one can wish for a better landlord.” “Has he a wife?”