We now for many miles passed a barren, dreary country, completely
encircled with hills; and we only climbed one to observe still others
rising in the distant perspective: not even a house or tree appeared to
interrupt the awfulness of the mountains, which, after the copious fall
of rain in the night, teemed with innumerable cataracts. According to
our directions, we enquired at the foot of Plinlimmon for Rhees Morgan,
as a proper man to be our conductor over the heights of the “fruitful
father of rivers.” This man being absent, the whole family appeared
thunderstruck at our appearance, and ran with all haste imaginable into
their miserable cot. One apartment served for the inhabitants of every
description, with only one small hole to admit the light; the entrance
unprotected by a door, but with a blanket as a substitute, was exposed to
the pitiless blast of the winter’s storm.
“Ah! little think the gay licentious proud
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround:
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
Ah! little think they while they dance along,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty.”