of the children referred to in "We are Seven.' Wordsworth immortalized this little grave in his celebrated lines, too well known to require repetition here.

The most pleasing way to go to Bettws-yCoed is by coach from Conway, down the beautiful valley of the river Conway, over the rich rolling hills of Wales. Nature is to be seen in many aspects on this drive and the spell of the hills and the fertile valleys is keenly felt. One of the finest things made by man is the bridge at Llanrwst; it was designed by Inigo Jones, and the lines are singularly graceful.

It being Sunday when we visited Bettws, we found difficulty in buying post cards. I went to a little tea-shop to see if I could induce the woman to sell me some. She sniffed, and observed, "You can't get any to-day; everybody is too religious to sell you any." And then, with a superior toss of her head, "I was brought up different. I should not like to live among them." This was precisely what she seemed to be doing, however, but her shop was open, in defiance of public criticism!

There are curious Sabbatarian contrasts and extremes in Wales; a barouche drove past us on Sunday morning, with six men seated in it, playing cards as if their life depended on it!

Even the goblins which are said to infest Bettws-y-Coed often coöperate with the strict Sabbatarians in discouraging undue Sunday entertainment. A fisherman who went out with his rod on Sunday saw a fine salmon in the stream. He cast his line for it, and the fish a goblin in disguise - took hook, line, and all, and tumbled him into the water.

Appearances of goblins are still believed in by many of the ignorant people in Wales. Hogg has described the aspect of one of these beings, and I think it is a very convincing portrait.

"Then up there raise ane wee wee man
From off the moss-grey stone;
His face was wan like the cauliflower,
For he neither had blude nor bone."

On the road, the driver pointed out to us the little thatched cottage in which the sculptor Gibson was born.

Bettws itself is not so picturesque a town as tradition leads one to suppose; it is its situation amidst sensational scenic effects which makes it so remarkable. Perhaps the most startlingly picturesque sight near Bettws-yCoed is Swallow Falls, a cataract which takes gigantic leaps up amidst the cold crags, and yet

is surrounded with verdure in its immediate vicinity. It is reported that the soul of one of the early Wynnes experiences perpetual Purgatory in Swallow Falls, being "purged, punished and spouted upon" for his many sins: a novel form of "water cure."

CHAPTER XII

SNOWDONIA AND THE GELERT LEGEND

N going from Conway to Carnarvon, one passes naturally through Bangor, and a few hours can be profitably.

spent in that town. Of course it is necessary to observe the far-famed Menai bridges, across the little strait which separates the main land and Anglesea, but, to people who are used to Brooklyn, these bridges have little to recommend them to our wonder except a prior claim, and a finer situation. George Borrow speaks of the bridge at Bangor completed in 1820, as the result of the mental and manifest labours of the ingenious Telford."

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Bangor Cathedral is small and not especially interesting. Here the great Owen Gwynedd, dying in 1169, was interred.

The new university, opened by the Prince of Wales in the summer of 1911, after his Investiture at Carnarvon, is a really splendid modern building, one of the best and most

coherent structures of recent date that I have seen either in England or Wales.

In the tunnel arch at the railroad station at Bangor, a slant at the outer side of the opening suggests Egyptian construction. In the curious way they have in the British Isles of "following a leader," the builders of small houses in Bangor have adopted this form, and several cottage façades have sloping outer sides, resembling an incorporated buttress!

Carnarvon seems to me to be less attractive then Conway in most respects. We happened upon an unfortunate moment, perhaps, for the whole town was engaged in painting and scraping for the Investiture, which was to take place in a few weeks. The castle looked as if it had been subjected to a course of sand-blast, but it is possible that this is its usual appearance, for I learn that it is built of white sandstone, and that this stone has grown more and more blonde with the centuries. There is something human in a building turning white with age, after all. The castle is grand, and the outside is in a wonderful state of preservation. But, having been restored, it lacks the romance and atmosphere which is such an attraction at Conway. The long structure lies very finely along on the low shore, being usually reflected in the