OF AN INSECT-HUNTER. 199 



of an hour. Earth may again tremble to its very centre ; these 

 stupendous rocks, which century after century have become 

 more and more beautiful, as time has established for Flora a 

 footing here and there amidst the general desolation, may fall 

 headlong to earth, may lose their flowers and leafy honours, 

 and be ground to powder in the rush of elements. When 

 earth again rests from the convulsion, Cwm Elan may be the 

 centre of an all but boundless plain ; the muddy waters of some 

 mighty river may twice a day slowly ebb and flow through 

 cattle-feeding meadows, in the very track over which the head- 

 long Elan now hurries in all its boiling haste. On this river 

 stately ships, with their smoky chimneys, may be incessantly 

 running to and fro, warehouses may raise their heads half way 

 to the clouds, and myriads of money-hunting men may be 

 traversing the streets of some mighty city. 



So pondered the Insect-Hunter; and as he gazed, the 

 hateful scene forced itself on his imagination. He arose, and 

 clambered up the cliff,— the summit was gained ; and though 

 higher lands rose before him, the ascents were comparatively 

 easy; he strode on and on, he stretched over moss and moor, 

 waded knee-deep through acres of bog covered with smiling 

 green, or beds of luxuriant heaths purpling the mountain far 

 as the eye could reach : on he went, guided solely by the 

 sun's position in the heavens, for the sun was for a moment 

 seen through the driving clouds ; at last he reached a point 

 which seemed higher than all around him, and here he scared 

 a dozen carrion crows from the carcase of a sheep on which 

 they were feeding; the crows flew round and round him, 

 uttering their awful imprecations. In every direction the same 

 wild desert met his eye ; a thousand mountains were around 

 him, all alike covered with moss, and carex, and cotton-grass 

 and heath. Not a single tree, not a track, not a trace of man 

 was to be seen ; the clouds thickened, and swept the mountain 

 top on which he stood, completely shutting out the scene, whose 

 very sameness began to weary him, clothing him in a mantle 

 of vapour. The Insect-Hunter sat down to rest. 



The Insect-Hunter is looking on the Wye ; the banks are 

 crowded with people, some with hooks, some with spears, some 

 with lines ; a hundred or more stationed on the bridge were, 

 like the Insect-Hunter, merely lookers on. The object of the 



