The day broke with heavy rain, so that the prospect indicated detention in these rather contracted quarters. For an examination of the vehicles at the Lion, it appeared that there were none but open ones which it would not have been safe to take Mary in. The doubts remained until noon, when the clouds began to break—and as the weatherwise at the Inn pronounced this a sign that the wet was over, the vehicles for ourselves and the luggage were ordered out, for us to go to Dolgelley, a distance of seventeen miles. The day turned out fine, and we had a charming drive. We followed the road along the margin of the lake which I took yesterday, until we came to a valley at its head where the character of the scenery changed to a rough, and barren flat between the rugged mountains bearing the name of Arran. Soon we opened up the sight of Snowden, the highest and the finest of the peaks. Nearer and more imposing atathis point however and Cader Idris, along which we came to the valley and stream on which stands the ugly town of Dolgelley. Establishing ourselves at a good hotel, the Golden Lion, I first got my letters from London, and then went out on a walk to examine the vicinage. The site is very picturesque. It lies in a valley formed by the confluence of two streams the Aran and Wnion, which takes place only a mile or two above tide water. There is a stone bridge, upon which looking downwards is perhaps the finest pastoral landscape. Above the town, is a road leading through a mountainous region barren in itself, but giving fine combinations of outline and contrast. The clouds were again rolling up heavy masses as if threatening once more to condense into rain, but I noticed that they went well over the heights leaving no mists. Quiet evening. My lettesr from London indicate so little to do that I shall not go back this week.