it must be nearly thirty years ago, long before the days of bicycles and motors, since sylvanus urban, then but a boy, passed over it. he had started from chepstow on a solitary walking tour, and was soon caught in a rattling thunderstorm on the wyndcliff. tintern abbey and raglan castle are fresh in his memory to-day. a mile or two out of monmouth he came upon some excellent nutty-hearted ale, that george borrow would have immortalised. as he pursued his way to raglan castle he pondered on the ale—"this way and that dividing the swift mind"—until at length, in despair of meeting an equal brew, he turned back again and had another tankard. heavens, what days were those! in his pack he carried the essays of elia and read them in an old inn at llandovery, where the gracious hostess lighted in his honour tall wax candles fit to stand before an altar. after leaving llandovery, he lost his way among the caermarthenshire hills, and[pg 174] was in very poor plight with hunger and fatigue when he reached the white-washed walls of tregaron. at harlech he rested for a couple of days, and then covered the way to beddgelert—twenty miles, if he remembers rightly—at a spanking pace; proceeding in the late afternoon to climb snowdon, and arriving at llanberis an hour or so before midnight. back to london, every inch of the way, walked the young sylvanus. he indulges the hope that he may yet shoulder his pack again.

gentleman's magazine.