THESE lakes, though not remarkable for extent of surface, are
distinguished by the solemn grandeur of their rocks and mountains, that
rise in very bold and awful characters. On the northern shore the
mountain rises to a towering height, and with great abruptness. The
hills on the opposite side are more rugged and sterile, but recede more
gradually, while they aspire to an equal elevation. Between the lakes a
bold promontory issues from the mountain and shoots into the water,
adorned by the majesty of Dolbadarn’s ruined castle, whose ivy-mantled
walls seem part of the very rock on which they stand. Beyond this a
second expanse of waters is disclosed, enveloped in scenery yet more
terrific and sublime than the former, the perspective being terminated by
the dark blue heads of innumerable mountains, projections merely of great
Snowdon and the Glydyr, where the mountains appear to meet and shut in
the scene. Amidst scattered rocks, at the entrance of Bwlch y Gwyddol,
and where fragments from the heights almost choke up the pass, stands the
little church of Llanberis. If solitude and simplicity be inseparable
characters of a religious edifice, then is Llanberis Church most entirely
suited to its pious destination. Saint Peris, to whom the church is
dedicated, lived in the thirteenth century, and this is supposed to have
been his retreat. Here he founded a church, blessed a well, which now
bears his name, and to which miraculous qualities were ascribed. The
most singular circumstance however, connected with the later history of
this holy well is, that here a monstrous trout has continued for upwards
of twenty years, and become so familiar, that it will take a worm from
the hand of a poor person, who appears to have adopted that privilege as
her own. Peris was a legate from the church of Rome, and accompanied in
his mission by Saint Padarn. Our saint chose the little meadows on the
upper lake, in Nant y Monach, or the Monk’s Vale; and Padarn, his friend,
settled on the lower lake, which is still called after his name.
Dolbadarn Castle consists at this day of a single round tower or keep;
but traces of a greater occupation are sufficiently distinct around.
Time has rolled its dark waves over the date of foundation and name of
founder, and, one incident excepted, nothing but conjecture remains as to
its history. Padarn Beisrydd, the son of Idwal, was the supposed builder
of this fortress, the obvious utility of which was to guard the mountain
pass behind it. The date of its erection, in that case, would be some
time previous to the eleventh century; a conjecture supported by the
style of architecture, which is clearly Welsh. Owen Goch was imprisoned
here by his brother Llewellyn ap Gryffydd, last Prince of Wales, of the
British line, for the term of twenty years, and his merits are celebrated
in an ode composed by Howel-Voel, bewailing the captivity of the unhappy
prince.
The following translation of the opening stanzas embraces the meaning,
but does not pretend to imitate the bold spirit of Howel’s lamentation.
Ye powers, that rule both earth and sea,
Release from dark captivity,
Snatch from an inglorious grave
The lion-hearted, mild yet brave,
Owen,—a prince of matchless strength,
Whose bright lance dripped, for all its length,
With the best blood of the bravest men
That dared to foray his mountain glen.
’Twas his to succour,—relieve distress,
The proud to humble, the foe to oppress.
His charity measureless, his bounty great,
His gifts well suited such wide estate.
But now these vales seem dark and dreary,
No hall to shelter the weak, the weary,
Since Owen has changed his lordly bower
For the darksome dungeon of Padarn’s tower:
Its dark gray walls their prince now sever
From those who have lost their glory for ever.
Their pride, their honour, their fame is fled,
Their light is extinguished, their hopes are dead.
Oh! Owen, dauntless, valiant and bright,
Chieftain of Cambria,—warrior knight, &c. &c.
The seclusion of Llanberis has been broken by the formation of a new line
of road along Llyn Padarn to the town of Caernarvon, and the charms of
its solitude dissipated by the erection of two spacious inns in the
immediate vicinity of the ancient castle.
To scenes like these, a tale of wonder is a welcome introduction; it
awakes the mind, and adds new interest to every rock and precipice. The
melancholy fate of little John Closs, who was overtaken by a mist, and
perished in the snows upon Moel Eilio, calls forth a tear, but excites no
wonder. The _feats_ of Margaret uch Evan, though very singular, are as
certainly well attested: she dwelt near the margin of the lower lake, and
was the last specimen of the strength and spirit of the ancient Briton.
Her biographer asserts that “she was the greatest hunter, fisher, shooter
of her time: she kept a dozen of dogs, terriers, greyhounds, and
spaniels, all excellent in their kind. She killed more foxes in one year
than all the confederate hunts did in ten: rowed stoutly, and was queen
of the lakes: fiddled excellently, and was acquainted with all the old
British music: was also a good joiner: and at the age of seventy years,
was so expert a wrestler, that few young men dared try a fall with her.
She was a blacksmith, shoemaker, and manufacturer of harps. She shod her
own horses, made her own shoes, and built her own boats while under
contract to convey the copper ore down the lakes. Contemporary bards
celebrated her praises in strains purely British. She gave her hand, at
length, to the most effeminate of her suitors, as if determined to exert
that physical superiority which nature had bestowed on her even in the
married state. Foulk Jones, of Ty Dû, was also a person of singular
powers; the tales related of his prowess recall the poet’s character of
Entellus.
—“he then confronts the bull,
And on his ample forehead, aiming fall,
The deadly stroke descending, pierced the skull.”
ÆNEID, v. 666.
The pass of Nant Peris is entered by a gap called Bwlch y Gwyddol; {58a}
tremendous rocks impend on either side in masses of gray crag, the long
shattered ridge of Snowdon on the one hand, and the broken forms of
Glydyr fawr on the other. These rocks are overlooked again by still more
awful mountains, that fall in abrupt lines and close up the vista, except
where they are commanded by some peak of Snowdon or its opposing rival.
Images of desolation and of stupendous greatness compose the scene. A
solitary cottage disturbs the retirement; and sometimes the shepherd’s
shrill call, in “the office of his mountain watch,” is heard repeated
among the rocks of the “Blue Vale.” {58b} Some distance up the pass a
huge stone, which does not appear to have been an appendage of the
mountain, but rather an independent erection, lies across the centre of
the defile. A hollow beneath it was once converted by a poor woman into
a summer habitation, for the convenience of tending her little flock. It
exceeds the dimensions of the Boother stone {59} in Westmoreland; and the
spot on which it rests is called, from the story of the poor herdswoman,
“Ynys Hettys,” or Betty’s Island. The scenery decreases in magnificence
as the highest point or resting-place (Gorphwysffa) is attained, where
new and different beauties burst upon the sight, in the view down the
Bwlch Eisteddffau into the enchanting vale of Gwynant.
Accomplishing the passage of the “Blue Vale” was amongst the great boasts
of Cambrian tourists: if the reward was great, so were the difficulties
of the task.
“If the path be dangerous known,
The danger’s self is lure alone,”
might then have been the adopted motto of the inquisitive tourist, but
now the wheels of a stage-coach, in mimickry of the revolutions of time
and of events, roll rapidly over the Gorphwysffa itself, that spot where
the way-worn traveller paused to take a congratulating retrospect of the
difficulties he had passed.