National School—The Young Preacher—Pont Bettws—Spanish Words—Two Tongues,
Two Faces—The Elephant’s Snout—Llyn Cwellyn—The Snowdon Ranger—My
House—Castell y Cidwm—Descent to Beth Gelert.
It might be about three o’clock in the afternoon when I left Caernarvon
for Beth Gelert, distant about thirteen miles. I journeyed through a
beautiful country of hill and dale, woods and meadows, the whole gilded
by abundance of sunshine. After walking about an hour without
intermission I reached a village, and asked a man the name of it.
“Llan—something,” he replied.
As he was standing before a long building, through the open door of which
a sound proceeded like that of preaching, I asked him what place it was,
and what was going on in it, and received for answer that it was the
National School, and that there was a clergyman preaching in it. I then
asked if the clergyman was of the Church, and on learning that he was, I
forthwith entered the building, where in one end of a long room I saw a
young man in a white surplice preaching from a desk to about thirty or
forty people, who were seated on benches before him. I sat down and
listened. The young man preached with great zeal and fluency. The
sermon was a very seasonable one, being about the harvest, and in it
things temporal and spiritual were very happily blended. The part of the
sermon which I heard—I regretted that I did not hear the whole—lasted
about five-and-twenty minutes: a hymn followed, and then the congregation
broke up. I inquired the name of the young man who preached, and was
told that it was Edwards, and that he came from Caernarvon. The name of
the incumbent of the parish was Thomas.
Leaving the village of the harvest sermon I proceeded on my way which lay
to the south-east. I was now drawing nigh to the mountainous district of
Eryri; a noble hill called Mount Eilio appeared before me to the north;
an immense mountain called Pen Drws Coed lay over against it on the
south, just like a couchant elephant with its head lower than the top of
its back. After a time I entered a most beautiful sunny valley, and
presently came to a bridge over a pleasant stream running in the
direction of the south. As I stood upon that bridge I almost fancied
myself in Paradise; everything looked so beautiful or grand—green, sunny
meadows lay all around me, intersected by the brook, the waters of which
ran with tinkling laughter over a shingly bottom. Noble Eilio to the
north; enormous Pen Drws Coed to the south; a tall mountain far beyond
them to the east. “I never was in such a lovely spot!” I cried to myself
in a perfect rapture. “Oh, how glad I should be to learn the name of
this bridge, standing on which I have had ‘Heaven opened to me,’ as my
old friends the Spaniards used to say.” Scarcely had I said these words
when I observed a man and a woman coming towards the bridge in the
direction in which I was bound. I hastened to meet them in the hope of
obtaining information. They were both rather young, and were probably a
couple of sweethearts taking a walk or returning from meeting. The woman
was a few steps in advance of the man; seeing that I was about to address
her, she averted her head and quickened her steps, and before I had
completed the question, which I put to her in Welsh, she had bolted past
me screaming “Ah Dim Seasneg,” and was several yards distant.
I then addressed myself to the man who had stopped, asking him the name
of the bridge.
“Pont Bettws,” he replied.
“And what may be the name of the river?” said I.
“Afon—something,” said he.
And on my thanking him he went forward to the woman who was waiting for
him by the bridge.
“Is that man Welsh or English?” I heard her say when he had rejoined her.
“I don’t know,” said the man—“he was civil enough; why were you such a
fool?”
“Oh, I thought he would speak to me in English,” said the woman, “and the
thought of that horrid English puts me into such a flutter; you know I
can’t speak a word of it.”
They proceeded on their way and I proceeded on mine, and presently coming
to a little inn on the left side of the way, at the entrance of a
village, I went in.
A respectable-looking man and woman were seated at tea at a table in a
nice clean kitchen. I sat down on a chair near the table, and called for
ale—the ale was brought me in a jug—I drank some, put the jug on the
table, and began to discourse with the people in Welsh. A handsome dog
was seated on the ground; suddenly it laid one of its paws on its
master’s knee.
“Down, Perro,” said he.
“Perro!” said I; “why do you call the dog Perro?”
“We call him Perro,” said the man, “because his name is Perro.”
“But how came you to give him that name?” said I.
“We did not give it to him,” said the man—“he bore that name when he came
into our hands; a farmer gave him to us when he was very young, and told
us his name was Perro.”
“And how came the farmer to call him Perro?” said I.
“I don’t know,” said the man—“why do you ask?”
“Perro,” said I, “is a Spanish word, and signifies a dog in general. I
am rather surprised that a dog in the mountains of Wales should be called
by the Spanish word for dog.” I fell into a fit of musing. “How Spanish
words are diffused! Wherever you go you will find some Spanish word or
other in use. I have heard Spanish words used by Russian mujiks and
Turkish fig-gatherers—I have this day heard a Spanish word in the
mountains of Wales, and I have no doubt that were I to go to Iceland I
should find Spanish words used there. How can I doubt it; when I reflect
that more than six hundred years ago, one of the words to denote a bad
woman was Spanish. In the oldest of Icelandic domestic Sagas,
Skarphedin, the son of Nial the seer, called Hallgerdr, widow of Gunnar,
a puta—and that word so maddened Hallgerdr that she never rested till she
had brought about his destruction. Now, why this preference everywhere
for Spanish words over those of every other language? I never heard
French words or German words used by Russian mujiks and Turkish
fig-gatherers. I question whether I should find any in Iceland forming
part of the vernacular. I certainly never found a French or even a
German word in an old Icelandic Saga. Why this partiality everywhere for
Spanish words? the question is puzzling; at any rate it puts me out—”
“Yes, it puts me out!” I exclaimed aloud, striking my fist on the table
with a vehemence which caused the good folks to start half up from their
seats. Before they could say anything, however, a vehicle drove up to
the door, and a man getting out came into the room. He had a glazed hat
on his head, and was dressed something like the guard of a mail. He
touched his hat to me, and called for a glass of whiskey. I gave him the
sele of the evening and entered into conversation with him in English.
In the course of discourse I learned that he was the postman, and was
going his rounds in his cart—he was more than respectful to me, he was
fawning and sycophantic. The whiskey was brought, and he stood with the
glass in his hand. Suddenly he began speaking Welsh to the people;
before, however, he had uttered two sentences the woman lifted her hand
with an alarmed air, crying “Hush! he understands.” The fellow was
turning me to ridicule. I flung my head back, closed my eyes, opened my
mouth and laughed aloud. The fellow stood aghast; his hand trembled, and
he spilt the greater part of the whiskey upon the ground. At the end of
about half a minute I got up, asked what I had to pay, and on being told
twopence, I put down the money. Then going up to the man I put my right
forefinger very near to his nose, and said “Dwy o iaith dwy o wyneb, two
languages, two faces, friend!” Then after leering at him for a moment I
wished the people of the house good-evening and departed.
Walking rapidly on towards the east I soon drew near the termination of
the valley. The valley terminates in a deep gorge or pass between Mount
Eilio—which by-the-bye is part of the chine of Snowdon—and Pen Drws Coed.
The latter, that couchant elephant with its head turned to the
north-east, seems as if it wished to bar the pass with its trunk; by its
trunk I mean a kind of jaggy ridge which descends down to the road. I
entered the gorge, passing near a little waterfall which with much noise
runs down the precipitous side of Mount Eilio; presently I came to a
little mill by the side of a brook running towards the east. I asked the
miller-woman, who was standing near the mill, with her head turned
towards the setting sun, the name of the mill and the stream. “The mill
is called ‘The mill of the river of Lake Cwellyn,’” said she, “and the
river is called the river of Lake Cwellyn.”
“And who owns the land?” said I.
“Sir Richard,” said she. “I Sir Richard yw yn perthyn y tîr. Mr
Williams, however, possesses some part of Mount Eilio.”
“And who is Mr Williams?” said I.
“Who is Mr Williams?” said the miller’s wife. “Ho, ho! what a stranger
you must be to ask me who is Mr Williams.”
I smiled and passed on. The mill was below the level of the road, and
its wheel was turned by the water of a little conduit supplied by the
brook at some distance above the mill. I had observed similar conduits
employed for similar purposes in Cornwall. A little below the mill was a
weir, and a little below the weir the river ran frothing past the extreme
end of the elephant’s snout. Following the course of the river I at last
emerged with it from the pass into a valley surrounded by enormous
mountains. Extending along it from west to east, and occupying its
entire southern part lay an oblong piece of water, into which the
streamlet of the pass discharged itself. This was one of the many
beautiful lakes, which a few days before I had seen from the Wyddfa. As
for the Wyddfa I now beheld it high above me in the north-east looking
very grand indeed, shining like a silver helmet whilst catching the
glories of the setting sun.
I proceeded slowly along the road, the lake below me on my right hand,
whilst the shelvy side of Snowdon rose above me on the left. The evening
was calm and still, and no noise came upon my ear save the sound of a
cascade falling into the lake from a black mountain, which frowned above
it on the south, and cast a gloomy shadow far over it.
This cataract was in the neighbourhood of a singular-looking rock,
projecting above the lake from the mountain’s side. I wandered a
considerable way without meeting or seeing a single human being. At last
when I had nearly gained the eastern end of the valley I saw two men
seated on the side of the hill, on the verge of the road, in the vicinity
of a house which stood a little way up the hill. The lake here was much
wider than I had hitherto seen it, for the huge mountain on the south had
terminated and the lake expanded considerably in that quarter, having
instead of the black mountain a beautiful hill beyond it.
I quickened my steps and soon came up to the two individuals. One was an
elderly man, dressed in a smock frock and with a hairy cap on his head.
The other was much younger, wore a hat, and was dressed in a coarse suit
of blue nearly new, and doubtless his Sunday’s best. He was smoking a
pipe. I greeted them in English and sat down near them. They responded
in the same language, the younger man with considerable civility and
briskness, the other in a tone of voice denoting some reserve.
“May I ask the name of this lake?” said I, addressing myself to the young
man who sat between me and the elderly one.
“Its name is Llyn Cwellyn, sir,” said he, taking the pipe out of his
mouth. “And a fine lake it is.”
“Plenty of fish in it?” I demanded.
“Plenty, sir; plenty of trout and pike and char.”
“Is it deep?” said I.
“Near the shore it is shallow, sir, but in the middle and near the other
side it is deep, so deep that no one knows how deep it is.”
“What is the name,” said I, “of the great black mountain there on the
other side?”
“It is called Mynydd Mawr or the Great Mountain. Yonder rock, which
bulks out from it, down the lake yonder, and which you passed as you came
along, is called Castell Cidwm, which means Wolf’s rock or castle.”
“Did a wolf ever live there?” I demanded.
“Perhaps so,” said the man, “for I have heard say that there were wolves
of old in Wales.”
“And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us across the
water?”
“That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed,” said the man.
“The stone heap of the gate of the wood,” said I.
“Are you Welsh, sir?” said the man.
“No,” said I, “but I know something of the language of Wales. I suppose
you live in that house?”
“Not exactly, sir, my father-in-law here lives in that house, and my wife
with him. I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at my mine, but
every Sunday I come here and pass the day with my wife and him.”
“And what profession does he follow?” said I; “is he a fisherman?”
“Fisherman!” said the elderly man contemptuously, “not I. I am the
Snowdon Ranger.”
“And what is that?” said I.
The elderly man tossed his head proudly, and made no reply.
“A ranger means a guide, sir,” said the younger man; “my father-in-law is
generally termed the Snowdon Ranger because he is a tip-top guide, and he
has named the house after him the Snowdon Ranger. He entertains
gentlemen in it who put themselves under his guidance in order to ascend
Snowdon and to see the country.”
“There is some difference in your professions,” said “he deals in
heights, you in depths, both, however, are break-necky trades.”
“I run more risk from gunpowder than anything else,” said the younger
man. “I am a slate-miner, and am continually blasting. I have, however,
had my falls. Are you going far to-night, sir?”
“I am going to Beth Gelert,” said I.
“A good six miles, sir, from here. Do you come from Caernarvon?”
“Farther than that,” said I. “I come from Bangor.”
“To-day, sir, and walking?”
“To-day, and walking.”
“You must be rather tired, sir, you came along the valley very slowly.”
“I am not in the slightest degree tired,” said I; “when I start from
here, I shall put on my best pace, and soon get to Beth Gelert.”
“Anybody can get along over level ground,” said the old man, laconically.
“Not with equal swiftness,” said I. “I do assure you, friend, to be able
to move at a good swinging pace over level ground is something not to be
sneezed at. Not,” said I, lifting up my voice, “that I would for a
moment compare walking on the level ground to mountain ranging, pacing
along the road to springing up crags like a mountain goat, or assert that
even Powell himself, the first of all road walkers, was entitled to so
bright a wreath of fame as the Snowdon Ranger.”
“Won’t you walk in, sir?” said the elderly man.
“No, I thank you,” said I, “I prefer sitting out here gazing on the lake
and the noble mountains.”
“I wish you would, sir,” said the elderly man, “and take a glass of
something; I will charge you nothing.”
“Thank you,” said I, “I am in want of nothing, and shall presently start.
Do many people ascend Snowdon from your house?”
“Not so many as I could wish,” said the ranger; “people in general prefer
ascending Snowdon from that trumpery place Beth Gelert; but those who do
are fools—begging your honour’s pardon. The place to ascend Snowdon from
is my house. The way from my house up Snowdon is wonderful for the
romantic scenery which it affords; that from Beth Gelert can’t be named
in the same day with it for scenery; moreover, from my house you may have
the best guide in Wales; whereas the guides of Beth Gelert—but I say
nothing. If your honour is bound for the Wyddfa, as I suppose you are,
you had better start from my house to-morrow under my guidance.”
“I have already been up the Wyddfa from Llanberis,” said I, “and am now
going through Beth Gelert to Llangollen, where my family are; were I
going up Snowdon again I should most certainly start from your house
under your guidance, and were I not in a hurry at present, I would
certainly take up my quarters here for a week, and every day snake
excursions with you into the recesses of Eryri. I suppose you are
acquainted with all the secrets of the hills?”
“Trust the old ranger for that, your honour. I would show your honour
the black lake in the frightful hollow in which the fishes have monstrous
heads and little bodies, the lake on which neither swan, duck nor any
kind of wildfowl was ever seen to light. Then I would show your honour
the fountain of the hopping creatures, where, where—”
“Were you ever at that Wolf’s crag, that Castell y Cidwm?” said I.
“Can’t say I ever was, your honour. You see it lies so close by, just
across the lake, that—”
“You thought you could see it any day, and so never went,” said I. “Can
you tell me whether there are any ruins upon it?”
“I can’t, your honour.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if in old times it was the stronghold of
some robber-chieftain; cidwm in the old Welsh is frequently applied to a
ferocious man. Castell Cidwm, I should think, rather ought to be
translated the robber’s castle than the wolf’s rock. If I ever come into
these parts again you and I will visit it together, and see what kind of
place it is. Now farewell! It is getting late.” I then departed.
“What a nice gentleman!” said the younger man, when I was a few yards
distant.
“I never saw a nicer gentleman,” said the old ranger.
I sped along, Snowdon on my left, the lake on my right, and the tip of a
mountain peak right before me in the east. After a little time I looked
back; what a scene! The silver lake and the shadowy mountain over its
southern side looking now, methought, very much like Gibraltar. I
lingered and lingered, gazing and gazing, and at last only by an effort
tore myself away. The evening had now become delightfully cool in this
land of wonders. On I sped, passing by two noisy brooks coming from
Snowdon to pay tribute to the lake. And now I had left the lake and the
valley behind, and was ascending a hill. As I gained its summit, up rose
the moon to cheer my way. In a little time, a wild stony gorge
confronted me, a stream ran down the gorge with hollow roar, a bridge lay
across it. I asked a figure whom I saw standing by the bridge the
place’s name. “Rhyd du”—the black ford—I crossed the bridge. The voice
of the Methodist was yelling from a little chapel on my left. I went to
the door and listened: “When the sinner takes hold of God, God takes hold
of the sinner.” The voice was frightfully hoarse. I passed on: night
fell fast around me, and the mountain to the south-east, towards which I
was tending, looked blackly grand. And now I came to a milestone on
which I read with difficulty: “Three miles to Beth Gelert.” The way for
some time had been upward, but now it was downward. I reached a torrent,
which coming from the north-west rushed under a bridge, over which I
passed. The torrent attended me on my right hand the whole way to Beth
Gelert. The descent now became very rapid. I passed a pine wood on my
left, and proceeded for more than two miles at a tremendous rate. I then
came to a wood—this wood was just above Beth Gelert—proceeding in the
direction of a black mountain, I found myself amongst houses, at the
bottom of a valley. I passed over a bridge, and inquiring of some people
whom I met the way to the inn, was shown an edifice brilliantly lighted
up, which I entered.