RHAIADR Y WENNOL,
i.e. the Spout of the Swallow—a cataract of about sixty feet in width. The river, at the top of the first fall, flows in an unbroken sheet, but soon becomes dispersed in various streams that dash and struggle through the impending masses of rock, charming the ear with their complicated roar. At the second fall, it rushes in a collected volume into the boiling vortex, from whence, at the third, it is dispersed in spray. A small wicket gate by the road side, leads to a footpath through the grounds, to the falls, where the visitor cannot fail to find an adequate reward for his digression. The old oak trees that overhang the ravine are beautifully grouped. On one side, a large rock rises perpendicularly nearly 500 feet, and the earth is clothed with velvet moss and decked with wild flowers. Fancy would picture just such a retreat, for a wandering sylph! while the rays of light, darting through the greenwoods, remind us of the flittings of Sir John Wynne’s ghost, which was said to haunt this glen for many years, but is now laid at rest in the depths of the lower fall. Journeying onward, I reached the village of