_Welsh Scenery and Antiquities._
The railway between Conway and Bangor runs along the sea-shore, close
under the lee of the bold and rocky promontories, that defy the waves,
on this imperial coast. Often indeed we found ourselves plunged into the
black night of the tunnels which become necessary, in many places, from
the precipitous nature of these cliffs, but, in general, I found even
the distasteful confusion of a railway train incompetent to detract much
from the emotions of sublimity inspired by the passage along such a
shore. On one side, the sea was foaming under us, and on the other
Penmaenmawr lifted its gigantic bulk to the clouds. Occasionally, as at
Aber, we passed a beautiful glen, descrying waterfalls and other
picturesque scenery; and by keeping a good look-out, I had a full view
of the cavern called Ogo, which opens to the sea, high up in a
calcareous cliff, with a mouth, singularly like the arched entrance of a
gothic minster. It is said to have afforded a retreat, in ancient times,
to the invading army of England. At last, we descried the baronial
towers of Penrhyn Castle, beautifully situated, on the foundations of an
old Welsh palace, the fame of whose bold chiefs has, for ages, been the
theme of bardic eulogy in Wales; and soon after, we were set down, at
Bangor. It is a city in a vale, enclosed by an amphitheatre of hills,
and opening to the sea, with a fine view of the Menai Straits, and of
the very striking water-front of Beaumaris, on the opposite shore of
Anglesea.
I found the cathedral, though an important feature in a view of the
town, a very humble specimen of its class; and the service which I
attended, during a pouring rain, was indifferently performed. I
retreated to the finely-situated hotel on the straits, and near the
Menai Bridge, where, in the company of many other disappointed tourists,
I was forced to grumble away an afternoon, from which I had expected no
little pleasure. An angry wind was chafing the surface of the Menai
water, and the little steamers, and other vessels, that went furiously
by, were the only objects to animate the otherwise gloomy spectacle, on
which I gazed listlessly, from the windows of the George Hotel.
The next morning, though with an unsettled sky, gave us better weather,
and I went forth to view the scenery, and to cross the Menai
Suspension-Bridge, which, though now eclipsed by its neighbour, the
far-famed Tubular, is to me much the more interesting of the two, as
really a beautiful specimen of art, and not unworthy of the surrounding
scenery. Crossing this bridge, and finding on the other shore of
Anglesea a little steamer, with a load of Whitsuntide excursionists,
going down to Caernarvon, I lost no time in getting on board, and soon
had the satisfaction of passing under both the chain-bridge and the
tube, and of realizing, from that position, the immense height at which
they overhang the tides of the Menai. As creations of genius, they are
indeed sublime; and when a coach is seen creeping over the one, in
bigness as it were a fly; or when a railway train thunders through the
other, and yet seems in comparison with it a mere toy, as it emerges and
smokes along its way, one gets an idea of the immensity of each
conception, which invests mechanic art with something like the
attractive splendours of the painting and the poem. In the evening, as
the sun was near its setting, I surveyed the great tube at my leisure,
and walked over its roof, while a train was passing under me. It was
surprising to observe its untrembling strength, and its security at so
great a height, and with a span so vast: but I was even more delighted
with the views it afforded me, of the glorious scenery, mountain and
marine, with which it is encompassed. They are singularly enriched with
the charms of art and nature. The shipping, the suspension-bridge, with
its arches and festoons; the towns of Beaumaris and Bangor; the tall
column of the Marquis of Anglesea, and many pleasant villages and seats,
as you look towards Caernarvon, afford a pleasing addition to the richly
wooded shores, the flowing waters, the indented line of coast, the
swelling hills, and last, but not least, the glorious succession of
peaks that stretch along the eastern background from Snowdon, to the
Great Orme’s Head, which rises like a wall from the sea.
But I must not forget my excursion to Caernarvon, through these straits,
which resemble so much the picturesque rivers of my own land. Many
objects of interest enlivened the trip; but when, at last, the old walls
of Caernarvon Castle rose before my sight, in all their feudal grandeur
and historic dignity, I felt like one inspired with rapture, though not
the less impressed with a sense of something awful and august. The
character of Edward as a tyrant and a conqueror, seemed to stand before
me in monumental gloom and massive solemnity—and when I thought of the
feeble cries of the first Prince of Wales, as he came to light in this
stronghold of feudal tyranny, and coupled them with those midnight
shrieks, at Berkeley, on the Severn, in which his inglorious life was
extinguished, I realized afresh all those creeping chills of terror,
with which the wildest imagery of romance affects the sensitive
imagination of childhood. There it stood, magnificently irregular in
outline, frowning over the little town beneath, like a coarse bully
domineering over a timid boy. Its towers are really stupendous, and the
aspiring parapets and embattled turrets, that bristle up from their grim
summit, make a strangely confused, but self-consistent figure, against
the mountain back-ground, or the clear blue sky overhead. With such a
fortress in full sight, it was most thrilling to give its history a
mental review. Piled there by a cruel conqueror, to overawe the Welsh
people, six hundred years ago, it seems less terrible with regard to
them, than with reference to the story of his Queen, and his child. Such
a nest for a new-made mother, and her babe! In the depth of winter, the
stern husband sent Queen Eleanor here, to give birth to her child. In
one of its most gloomy recesses the royal infant was born; and thus the
insulting victor was enabled to continue the sovereignty of Wales, in
his own family, while literally fulfilling his pledge, to give the Welsh
a prince—born in their own country, who could speak no English, and
whose character was without fault! Such a sovereign they had promised to
accept, and to obey; and hence the title of the eldest son of British
sovereigns ever since. Thus, what is morally a mean and knavish fraud,
is clothed, in historic narrative, with the glory of a warlike
stratagem, and survives in imperial heraldry as if there were no truth
in the saying of the poet, that the herald’s art can never “blazon evil
deeds, or consecrate a crime.”
I was not altogether fortunate in my holiday, for the weather was
alternating, continually, between shower and sunshine, and when I was
fairly on the top of a stage-coach, for Llanberis, I found, to my
sorrow, that shower was about to predominate for a time. However, to
Llanberis I went, reserving a close inspection of the castle to my
return. At intervals, I could get some idea of the loveliness of that
charming lake, and of the wild glories of its surrounding scenery; but
ill-luck prevailed, and Snowdon wore his cap of clouds, nearly all the
time, and I was forced to retire at last, somewhat surly with
disappointment. I visited, however, the ruins of Dolbardan Castle, the
central fortress of a chain of similar muniments, by which the ancient
clans of Wales endeavoured to secure these mountain passes against the
invaders. It stands, in picturesque dignity, upon the peninsula, which
divides the waters of Llanberis into twin lakes, and is apparently the
guardian of both. Here some Welsh lads, with a donkey, were sheltering
themselves from the rain, and, by dint of much entreaty, and a very
tempting appliance of money, I gained from them a Welsh song, which
growing somewhat animated as they proceeded, cheered up the sombre
scene, and gave to those antiquated ruins a moment’s restoration of the
echoes of minstrelsy, and of the musical tongue with which they
resounded of yore, in peace and war, when the figures of bards and
heroes were the familiar tenants of the spot. As I returned to
Caernarvon, the rain began to abate, and gradually the clouds withdrew,
to my great satisfaction. The castle again rose before me, reviving the
impressions with which I had first beheld it, but less stern, perhaps,
from the land side, than when beheld from the sea. I was soon beneath
its walls, which I first surveyed, in circuit, with increased
astonishment and pleasure. The materials for this vast structure are
said to have been furnished, in part, by the ruins of Segontium, the
neighbouring station of the ancient Roman army; but the feudal character
now impressed on the old stones is, to me, far more interesting than
their primitive history. The eagle-tower, in which the young Prince is
said to have been born, is itself a fortress of massive solidity, and
presents to the waters a front of bold defiance; while on the other
side, now blocked up and forlorn of aspect, beneath a lofty arch, is the
gate, by which the expectant mother entered the gloomy hold, and which
still goes by her name. The remains of a moat and drawbridge are
visible, and so are the grooves in which the iron-toothed portcullis
once rose and fell. I entered by a gate which looks toward the town, and
over which is sculptured a rude effigy of the royal builder, deeply
scarred by time. Within, the huge walls appear as an empty shell; they
rise, like those of the great Roman amphitheatre, around an area of
desolation. Here and there, indeed, are the remains of state apartments,
and of royal chambers, still marked by delicate architectural tracery
and handsome enrichment; but you tread on hillocks and grassy verdure,
which swell above their buried splendours, and everywhere the ruin
appears absolute and complete. By time-worn and dangerous stairways of
stone, you wind up to the summits of the towers, and your guide
constantly cautions you to beware of slipping, or of setting foot upon
treacherous places. To me, the greatest interest was presented by the
narrow corridors, which run between the inner and outer walls of the
entire circuit, lighted only by the loop-holes, through which the signal
horn was once sounded, and the arrow shot forth, and which open into
embrasures that were filled of yore with armed men. Here is the
projecting battlement, by which they protected the gateway below, its
floor is perforated for the discharge of missiles, and to enable the
defenders of the castle to pour down scalding water, and melted lead,
upon the heads of its assailants. In perambulating these gloomy
recesses, I gained distinct ideas of mediæval life and warfare, from
which my knowledge of history, such as it is, received a vast
augmentation of freshness and reality.
Dismissing my guide, I sat down on the summit of the eagle-tower and
lost myself in revery. The daws, chattering amid the battlements, alone
interrupted the solemn stillness of the moment. Before me was Snowdon,
now disrobed of the clouds he had worn through the day, and lifting a
bald crown of snow to the skies. The serried outline of his dependant
mountains beautifully varied the scenes toward which they stretched away
on every side. I turned, and there was the broad glare of the descending
sun upon the sea: I was looking towards my own dear home. In the midst
of meditative pleasures, I longed for the companionship of many, between
whom and me there rolled a thousand leagues of ocean; and, for awhile I
forgot, in the melancholy of that reflection, the romantic impressions
which are peculiar to the spot. When I recovered my thoughts, it was
only to feel more forcibly the solemnity of the short life, in which we
stand between so dread a past, and so momentous a future; and before I
descended from that lofty station, I knelt and worshipped Him who,
alone, is Everlasting.
The weather increased in serenity as the day declined. I heard the
clatter of hoofs, and a coach-horn sounding in the streets, and hastily
took my seat, for a drive to Bangor, relinquishing a projected tour
through Beddgelert and Tremadoc, which I had found impracticable, with
reference to other plans. My drive in return was not less agreeable than
my sail in coming. Everywhere the scene was beautiful, and I was amused
with the chatter of a couple of Welsh peasant women, in short petticoats
and men’s hats, who had mounted the coach-top and sat by my side.
We had bright moonlight that evening, on the waters of the Menai, and a
band amused us, with music, in the grounds of the hotel. I was agreeably
surprised to hear, in close connection with the national air of England,
the sprightly strain of “Hail Columbia,” which, however inferior as a
musical composition, had a strong power over me, as I heard it then, and
I breathed a warm aspiration to God for a blessing on my native land.
We were favoured with a glorious morning, and I took stage-coach, soon
after breakfast, for a drive through North Wales. After whirling through
the suburbs of Bangor, and traversing the “Bethesda slate-quarries,” we
entered the terrific pass of Nant Ffrancon. On a reduced scale, the
scenery here is quite Swiss. The rains had swelled the mountain
torrents, and everywhere they were leaping down the steeps, in beautiful
threads of silver, which terminated in fine cascades. The road wound
along the side of a mountain, with a deep descent beneath; and there was
spread out a broad green valley, level as a floor, with a river winding
through, and the figure of an angler stalking along its bank. On the
further side of the vale rose another mountain, abruptly, to the skies.
I was reminded of Nant Ffrancon afterwards, in the Swiss Oberland, after
crossing the Brunig into the Vale of Meyringen, as I was making my way
towards Interlachen. These Welsh Alps are indeed destitute of snowy tops
and descending glaciers. Yet they are full of sublime features; and the
flocks which climb their sides, with fleeces of milky whiteness, give a
pastoral air to the solitude, which subdues the otherwise repulsive
aspect of some of their features.
It is vain for me to attempt a minute description of the pleasures of
this day’s drive. The scenery was richly varied, and after seeing the
finest scenery of Savoy, and of the Swiss Cantons, I still recall it
with satisfaction, and long to go through it once more. Our way lay
along the skirts of the dreary Lake Ogwen, and then over its desolate
heath; from which our emerging into the enchanting Yale of Capel Curig,
was like turning from a page of Dante’s Inferno to a passage in his
description of Paradise. Here majesty and loveliness indeed combine, in
the sweet diversity of woods and waters, and vales and mountains, to
furnish an ideal of natural beauty, which might satisfy a poet or a
painter. Amid all, rises the glorious summit of old Snowdon, of which I
obtained my finest impressions from this spot. The scenery of the river
Swallow, by which our way continued, is marvellously picturesque, and
its waterfall is admirable, even to the eye of an American. Near
Bettws-y-coed, the panorama assumed a more pastoral character, and gave
us a glimpse into the Vale of Llanrwst; and then, for a long time, every
turn opened new scenes of beauty and delight. At Cerrig-y-Druddion, if
the scenery was distasteful again, not so were the trout from the
mountain streams, on which I made a delicious repast. It was from this
place, to which the poor prince had made good his retreat, that the
primitive Caradoc, with his family, were carried prisoners to Rome,
where he made that famous speech, which is the memorial of his name.
Through various scenes of interest, which I might be more willing to
enumerate, were only their names pronounceable, I reached Corwen, where
was the hold of Glendower, and where, in the ancient Church, I visited
the tomb inscribed _Jorwerth, Vicarius de Corvaen Ora pro eo_. At the
inn sat an old blind Welshman, playing the Welsh harp, and soliciting
charity, which, for Homer’s sake, no one could refuse. Thenceforward the
scenery again increased in interest.
The Vale of Edeyrnion opened into our view as we continued our journey
along the windings of the beautiful outlet of the Bala Lake, and from
hence to Llangollen, beauty, rather than grandeur, was characteristic of
the scenery. But no every-day sort of beauty is to be imagined when I
speak of this charming region, at which it was a feast to look, even for
a moment. The swells and slopes of the land; the variety of the foliage;
the graceful curves of the river-banks; and the outlines of the
mountainous distance, with the hues which various tillage, and crops,
gave to the meadows and the upland, were continual sources of delight,
in which there was no monotony, and no surfeit. Nothing was wanting, but
only the kindling eye of some enraptured friend to meet my own, and a
voice to say with mine, “This indeed is a paradise!” Such would be the
exclamation of any admirer of natural scenery, at the point where the
ruinous pile of the Abbey of Valle Crucis lifts into view the arch and
tracery of its great East window, amid the harmonious boughs and verdure
of gigantic trees. It is a favourite view with painters, and has become
familiar from the efforts of both pencil and burin. Scarcely less so is
the conical hill, which overhangs Llangollen, and on the summit of which
some remnants of wall that serve to give a very picturesque completeness
to its outline, retain the name of Castell Dinas Bran, with the
reputation of a primeval British work. At Llangollen, a handsome bridge,
which spans the river Dee, blends with the prospect of the town in
pleasing proportion. I climbed a little eminence, and broke through a
sort of copse, into the pleasant grounds of Plas Newydd, the famous
retreat of two eccentric ladies, who, not quite a hundred years ago,
while Llangollen was yet unsung and unknown, became recluses of the
Vale, and lived here in philosophical contempt of the world, and in
ardent communion with nature. They both rest in the parish churchyard,
where one stone records their several dates, and those of an humble
girl, who was long their faithful servant. As they were persons who had
figured in the gay world, their story has become a sort of local
tradition, which is always repeated with respect; and portraits of Miss
Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler, in full Welsh costume, are sold in the
shops, and hung up at the inn. I could not greatly admire their cottage;
but it was, no doubt, quite snug, and pretty enough for two old ladies
that were of a mind to be philosophers.