THE MAWDDACH, FROM TYN-Y-GROES HOTEL.
LLANIDLOES.
[THROUGH THE HEART OF WALES]
One may enter Mid-Wales by the Severn Valley, or by Knighton and the Teme. The probability is that one’s action in this matter is entirely regulated by circumstances, but if haply it were possible to be guided simply by charm the road across the wild hills would be the road to choose. For wide moorlands, whatever the season, whatever the weather, never fail to be attractive; whereas the valley of the Upper Severn is extremely variable in its appearance. Indeed, I have seen it look almost uninteresting: though in the spring, when on every hill the fruit blossom is mingled with the piercing green of the budding larches, I know no place where the youth of the year has a more engaging air.
In any case, we must pass through Newtown. Despite its name, despite its modern appearance, the newness of this town is only comparative; for its prosperity waxed, I believe, as that of Caersws waned; and Caersws, a little higher up the valley, was at its zenith in the days of the Romans. We pass it by and by on our right: a mere village now, of no particular attractions on the surface, though no doubt a sufficiently interesting past is buried beneath its soil, for hypocausts have been found here and tesselated pavement, and coins bearing the magic name of Marcus Aurelius and other names less honoured. Less authentic, but more moving, are the associations of the broad meadow on our left, the traditional scene of Sabrina’s flight from—
“the mad pursuit