THE village of Beddgelert, the Goodesberg of Cambria, is situated on a
little plain reposing amidst wild and awful mountains, and adorned by the
conflux of two bright streams, the Glaslyn and the Colwyn. The agreeable
and fascinating character of the scene is more immediately and vividly
impressed upon the traveller who approaches it from the Caernarvon hills.
After traversing a wild heathy district, and coasting along the banks of
many gloomy lakes, the little village of Beddgelert, in the centre of a
verdant mead, with its cheerful accompaniments of inhabitation, breaks
suddenly on the view amidst all the horrors of untamed nature. No
situation could be more happily chosen for the inspiration of religious
meditation, or more wisely selected for the maintenance of an institution
of human beings, in a region so savage and unproductive as this must have
been when the vale was occupied by a college of monks. The village
consists of a few huts coarsely and substantially built, deriving all
their charms from the beauty of their position, a handsome inn, embosomed
high in tufted trees, and the old parish church. Moel Hebog, or the hill
of the falcon, known in the world of elegant literature as “Lord
Lyttleton’s Hill,” hangs over the valley on the opposite side to the
village, and at its base was discovered, in the year 1784, a Roman shield
of a circular shape, and formed of thin brass.
The church, which is dedicated to St. Mary, was anciently conventual, and
belonged to a priory of Augustines, conjectured to be also of the class
called Gilbertines. The regulations of this last order permitted the
residence of men and women beneath the same roof, their convents being
separated by a wall; and this opinion receives some support from the
circumstances of a tract of land adjoining the church being known to this
day by the appellation of “The Nun’s Meadow,” in Welsh Dol y Lleian.
Beddgelert is the oldest monastic establishment in North Wales, Bardsey
excepted. Llewellyn the Great, who commenced his reign in 1184, appears
to have bestowed upon it certain grants of land, and David ap Llewellyn
granted others which were afterwards resumed, an investigation
establishing the property of them to have been originally in Tudor ap
Madoc, and not in the reigning prince. Besides many granges in
Caernarvon and Anglesea, an allowance of fifty cows and twenty-two sheep,
the Prior had a certain tithe or proportion of bees, or rather of their
honey and wax. It is extremely probable that all the preceding were not
intended for the sustenance of the few religious of this house, but for
the maintenance and extension of a liberal hospitality to all persons
travelling this way from North to South Wales, and England to Ireland.
Mead was the favourite drink of those times, the nectar of that age,
whence the veneration in which bees were held of so vain a character,
that the priests fabled them to have been blessed by the Almighty at
their departure from Paradise, and that therefore no mass ought to be
celebrated but by the light of wax. This conceit is mentioned in the
laws of Howel Dda. A farther and rather substantial testimony of the
hospitality practised here in by-gone days, was afforded in the existence
of a pewter drinking mug, capable of containing about two quarts, which
remained until within a very few years in an old tenement called the
Prior’s House. Any traveller who could grasp the Beddgelert pint with
one hand, when filled with good ale (_cwrw dda_) and quaff it at a single
draught, was entitled to the liquor _gratis_. The tenant was to charge
the value to the lord of the manor, who deducted the amount from the
ensuing rent. It was also for the further continuance of such an useful
hospitality that Edward the First munificently repaired the damages which
the convent had sustained by an accidental fire in 1283; and Bishop Anian
granted indulgences to other benefactors. At the dissolution of
monasteries the revenues of Beddgelert were estimated at seventy pounds,
Edward Conway was its last Prior, and its lands in Caernarvonshire were
granted to the Bodvells.
Here are interred two eminent bards, Rhys Gôch Eryri, who flourished
about the year 1420, and Dafydd Nanmor, whose death is placed in 1460.
The poet attributes the foundation of Beddgelert church to a later date,
and to a different prince, and rests his proof upon the following
tradition. Llewellyn the Great came to reside here, during the hunting
season, accompanied by his princess and their children; and one day while
the family were abroad a fierce wolf was seen to approach the palace.
The prince, upon his return from the chase, was met at his entrance by
his faithful dog Gelert all smeared with blood, though still using his
accustomed indications of happiness upon seeing his master. Llewellyn
alarmed ran with haste into the nursery, and there finding the cradle
overturned and the floor stained with blood, concluded that Gelert had
been the destroyer of his child, and drawing his sword instantly plunged
it into the heart of his favourite dog. But upon restoring the cradle to
its proper position the infant was discovered wrapped confusedly in the
clothing, and a monstrous wolf lying dead by its side. Llewellyn, says
tradition, immediately erected a church upon the spot, in thankfulness to
God, and placed a tomb over the remains of poor Gelert, who lies buried
in the centre of the valley, called from that day Beddgelert, or Gelert’s
Grave. This interesting tale forms the subject of the following pleasing
ballad, by the Hon. W. R. Spencer—
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach and many a hound
Attend Llewellyn’s horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer,
“Come, Gelert, why art thou the last
Llewellyn’s horn to hear?
“Oh where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race:
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase.”
’Twas only at Llewellyn’s board
The faithful Gelert fed;
He watch’d, he served, he cheer’d his lord,
And sentinel’d his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John; {46}
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now as over rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon’s craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When near the royal seat,
His truant Gelert be espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gain’d his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The bound was smear’d with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood.
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet,
His favourite check’d his joyful guise,
And crouch’d and lick’d his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn pass’d,
And on went Gelert too,
And still where’er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood gouts shock’d his view.
O’erturn’d his infant’s bed he found,
The blood-stain’d covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent.
He call’d his child—no voice replied:
He search’d with terror wild;
Blood, blood, he found on every side,
But no where found the child!
“Hell-hound, by thee my child’s devour’d,”
The frantic father cried:
And to the hilt the vengeful sword,
He plunged in Gelert’s side.
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert’s dying yell
Pass’d heavy o’er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell,
Some slumberer waken’d nigh;
What words the parent’s joy can tell
To hear his infant cry?
Conceal’d between a mingled heap
His hurried search had miss’d:
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kiss’d!
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But the same couch beneath
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death!
Ah, what was then Llewellyn’s pain!
For now the truth was clear,
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn’s heir.
Vain, vain, was all Llewellyn’s woe,
Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue.
And now a gallant tomb they raise
With costly sculpture deck’d,
And marbles storied with his praise
Poor Gelert’s bones protect.
Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved,
Here oft the tear besprinkled grass,
Llewellyn’s sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear,
And oft as evening fell,
In fancy’s piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert’s dying yell!
And till great Snowdon’s rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of Gelert’s grave.
[Picture: Llyn Ogwen; Pont y-Pair; Llanberis lake. London. Published by
T. T. & J. Tegg, Cheapside, Oct. 1st 1832]