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Come with me, I pray, to the wooded hills and dreamy valleys of mine own Siluria. Leave the "chargeable noise of the great town," and stand with me on the mountain that I love, while the wind sweeps over the heather and bracken, bringing with it the salt of the far-away sea. Below us the country is extended; wave after wave of wood and meadow floating in the mist of the morning, and here and there a window-pane shoots back the rays of the mounting sun. In a valley to the east the smoke of a walled city, Caerleon, the metropolitan, arises; and on the yellow water beyond ships are passing in and out of harbour. Just beneath us, on the verge between heather and cornfield, stands an ancient house with mullioned windows that have withstood the