SNOWDONIA, THE FASTNESS OF LLEWELYN
The story of the great struggle of Wales for freedom under a Prince of
her own is laid, fitly enough, amid the wild scenery that surrounds
the highest point in Southern Britain. The whole district of Snowdon,
with its grim moorlands and towering heights forming a bulwark to the
western shore, breathes an air of freedom, and it was here that the
last Llewelyn defied the might of the first English Edward.
Roused by the bitter lament of those who had fallen under the yoke
of the Anglo-Norman barons, Llewelyn, Lord of Snowdon, threw off the
pretence of alliance and friendship which Henry III. had thought well
to keep up between them, and claimed to be ruler of all Wales, as his
grandfather had done in the days of Henry II. During the long Barons’
War in England the “Lord of Snowdon” found no difficulty in maintaining
his right to be “Prince of Wales”; the real trouble only began when
Edward I., on his accession, called upon the Prince to do homage as his
vassal. For two years Llewelyn paid no heed, and when he heard that an
English army was advancing upon him, went out boldly to meet it.
[Illustration:
CONWAY CASTLE AND QUAY. _Page 13._
]
But the chieftains of Central and South Wales turned traitor, his own
brother David deserted him, and the Prince, driven back to the inmost
recesses of his mountain fastness, was forced to lay down his arms.
Preferring to have him as friend rather than enemy, Edward behaved
generously enough, merely seizing a large slice of his dominions,
confining him to the Snowdon district, and providing that the title
“Prince of Wales” should cease at his death.
Four years elapsed of outward peace and inward commotion. Then came a
rumour of a strange event. Long years before, Merlin, a famous Welsh
bard and prophet, had foretold that “when English money became round,
a Prince of Wales should be crowned in London.” In 1282 a new copper
coinage had taken the place of the usual breaking of the silver penny
into halves and quarters; and in that same year the traitor David, who
had been rewarded with an English earldom, threw off his allegiance to
Edward, and appeared with an army before his brother’s dwelling-place.
Gladly did Llewelyn once more raise the standard of revolt, and a
desperate struggle for freedom began. The great army of the English
King, encircling the Snowdon range, which was the headquarters of the
Prince, drew in closer and closer; but meantime the English soldiers
were suffering terribly in that hard winter of 1282, which the hardy
Welshmen, living in the snowbound caves of the mountain, seemed to
pass through unheeding. As long as Llewelyn was there to inspire and
cheer, pain and even death were to be welcomed; but almost by chance
the men of Wales lost their leader in a quite unimportant skirmish.
Llewelyn had emerged from his mountain lair, and, hoping to drive the
English from the Brecknock district, had ridden forth to meet some
allies. He was met by a party of English horsemen and cut down by an
almost unknown knight. With Llewelyn, “our last ruler,” as the Welsh
still call him, the cause of Welsh independence was lost. At Rhuddlan,
in Flintshire, you may still see a bit of the wall remaining where
the Statute of Wales was passed by the Parliament held there in 1284;
and in that Statute Edward showed the greatest wisdom; for, instead
of forcing English laws and customs upon them, he allowed the Welsh
to keep their own as far as possible, altering them only where it was
clearly for their own advantage.
It was at Carnarvon Castle, which guards the entrance to “Snowdonia,”
that the little Prince was born who was presented by Edward I. to the
Welsh chieftains upon a shield as a “Prince of Wales who could not
speak a word of English.” And nowadays Carnarvon is, perhaps, the
best starting-point from which to take a glimpse of this wild and
mountainous district.
Behind us, as we look towards the mountains, lie the Menai Straits,
spanned by the fine suspension bridge, so strong and yet so fairy-like
with its arches of Anglesey marble, that it has been called a “poem in
stone and iron.” This bridge continues the Holyhead road to the island
of Anglesey, the home of the Llewelyns, where the soil is so fertile
that an old saying declares that it can provide corn enough for all the
people in Wales; and thence, across the island, we may reach Holyhead,
the starting-point for the Irish mail-boats.
Travelling towards Snowdon by rail to Llanberis, the scenery changes
rapidly from pretty woods and pastures to that of rugged heights,
crags, and rock-bound lakes. The mountain valley in which the village
lies is commanded by the very ancient Welsh castle of Dolbadarn,
once the prison of Owen, the brother of the ill-fated Llewelyn, Lord
of Snowdon. Below is the great lake, and beyond the wild Pass of
Llanberis, bounded by a “tumultuous chaos of rock and crag, as if
Titans in some burst of fury had been rending cliffs and flinging their
fragments far and wide.” If we are lazy, we may climb Snowdon by the
little mountain train, but if not, we set off up the ascent till, just
below the steepest part, we turn off a little from the path to look at
the wonderful hollow of Cwmglas, high up in the mountain-side, with
its two tiny tarns, surrounded by “striated” or glacier-marked rocks.
A steep scramble brings us to the top of Snowdon, and if it is a clear
day a glorious view rewards us. Beyond the line of sea is the blue
range of the Wicklow Mountains in Ireland; below us, half hidden by the
crags and shoulders of the huge mass, lie lakes and valleys, and the
quiet lowlands stretching to the borders of the Atlantic.
Through one of the loveliest of these valleys we reach the
mountain-girt village of Beddgelert. You all know the story of Llewelyn
and his faithful dog, killed by his master because he thought he had
eaten the child he had in reality saved from a wolf. Here you may
see the stones which mark his tomb; but you will probably be told
that the story is but a myth, and that the grave is really that of
a Welsh chieftain named Gelert, and not of a dog at all. You may
console yourselves with knowing that, whether this is true or not,
the picturesque little village was a favourite hunting-spot for the
Llewelyn whose story we know in history, and that the curious little
church there is part of one of the oldest monasteries in Wales.
Another beautiful valley leads to the famous pass and bridge of
Aberglaslyn. Here the huge cliffs on either hand approach so closely
to one another that there is barely room for road and river; and the
wooded slopes, as they near the water, afford a strong contrast to the
wild rocks above.
After this rugged splendour, the prettiness of the Fairy Glen at
Bettws-y-Coed will seem tame enough. We will not linger there, but
will finish our glimpse of this land of Llewelyn by a visit to Conway
Castle, built by Edward I. in 1283, to safeguard this part of Wild
Wales that he had so hardly won.
The town of Conway, “rugged without, beautiful within,” is a fine
example of the fortified walled towns of the Middle Ages. The walls are
triangular, and are said to represent a Welsh harp, and are entered by
crumbling stone gateways.
Above them towers the castle of Edward I., in which he was himself
besieged on one occasion by the rebel Welsh, and was only saved by the
arrival of his fleet.
The poet Gray makes this neighbourhood the scene of an event upon which
the light of history throws grave doubt. The English King, believing
that the conquest of Wales would never be completed while the bards
remained to stir up the patriotic zeal of their fellow-countrymen, is
said to have ordered a general massacre of them on the banks of the
River Conway. It was the prophetic curse pronounced on the King by one
of these bards, standing “on a rock, whose haughty brow frowns o’er
old Conway’s foaming flood,” which
“Scattered wild dismay
As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.”
In spite of “Cambria’s curse and Cambria’s tears,” the English King
must have felt fairly secure within the massive walls of the castle,
whose banqueting-hall, now open to the sky, and ivy-grown, is of such
noble length and breadth that it might well have contained a regiment
of retainers. The passionate patriotism of Wales had little chance
against the solid strength of English builders and English troops.