where the monastery stood, a great number of graves have very lately been
discovered, lined with white stone or tile, and distant about two feet
from each other. All the religious duties of the inhabitants are now
performed in the parish church of Aberdaron. Sometimes, however, in
stormy weather, they are under the necessity of interring their own dead
in the island.
At Pwllheli good accommodation will be found at the Crown and Anchor Inn,
but if proceeding farther into Llyn, the traveller must depend solely on
the hospitality of individuals.
PWLLHELI.
The market-days at this place are Wednesdays and Saturdays. Its
population is rated at about thirteen hundred. The beach here is
excellent; and so much resorted to in the summer season, that it appears
probable it will grow into notice as a sea bathing-place. Several
hundred acres of land in the vicinity of the town, which used to be
overflowed by high tides, have been reclaimed by embankments on both
sides of the town. It is governed by a mayor, two bailiffs, and a
recorder.
Returning from Pwllheli towards Criccaeth, the country wears the most
beautiful aspect. The richly wooded scenery is relieved by shaggy rocks
and partial views of the sea being caught through the opening glades.
Passing Llandstundwy, situate on the river Dwyfor, which after heavy
rains overflows its banks, and greatly incommodes it, I left the road,
and proceeded by Trefan Hall, the handsome mansion of Mr. Roberts, to a
cromlech, about a mile distant, called Coeten Arthur, or Arthur’s Quoit,
which the said Arthur, as report says, threw from a mountain near
Beddgelert. It is handsome and in high preservation: the top stone is
nearly three feet in thickness. But a still finer cromlech is about a
mile from this, at a farm called Ystim Cegid; the flat stone of this is
about eighteen inches in thickness, and is about thirty-six feet in
circumference: its form is triangular, and its supporters of that height,
that will allow a man on horseback to go under it; this also is called
Arthur’s Quoit. From hence to Criccaeth the road is dull and
uninteresting: near the ruins of the small chapel of Bettws, is Chewilog,
an old mansion, formerly belonging to the ancestors of Sir Howel,
surnamed y-Fwyall, from his remarkable dexterity in the use of the
battle-axe, which weapon he used with such effect in the battle of
Poictiers, that the capture of the French monarch is, by many, ascribed
to him; at all events, his conduct on that day drew down upon him the
regards of the Black Prince to such extent, that he not only bestowed
upon him the constableship of Criccaeth Castle, but likewise knighted
him; and, in perpetual memorial of his good services, it was directed
that a mess of meat should, at the expence of the crown, be every day
served up before the axe with which he had performed such good service.
After the mess had been brought before the knight, it was taken and
distributed among the poor. Eight yeomen attendants were constituted to
guard the mess, who received each eight-pence a-day pay, and were termed
yeomen of the crown: these were continued on the establishment till the
reign of Queen Elizabeth; and it is by many conceived, and by no means
improbable, that the yeomen of the crown, which we do not read of in
history till the reign of Henry the Seventh, are indebted to these for
their origin. After the death of Sir Howel, the mess was still carried
before the axe, and bestowed on the poor for the repose of his soul.
Besides the above honours conferred upon him, he was constable of Chester
Castle; had Dwyfor and others, the king’s mills, to farm; with a grant of
the weirs and fisheries on the coast, and many other offices of great
trust and profit.
Between Criccaeth and Penmorva you pass Stumllyn, formerly the seat of
the Wynnes, now the seat of — Jones, Esq. of Machynlleth. Near
Clenenney, on Bwlch Craig Wenn, is a fine Druidical circle, consisting at
present of thirty-eight stones; and about a mile from this, above
Penmorva, is another. On Llysdin farm some small urns, containing human
bones and ashes, have lately been discovered. At a small distance is
Brynkir, where Lord Lyttleton took up his residence when he visited this
part of the principality. This part of the country was formerly the seat
of dreadful feuds, and appears to have been inhabited by a most ferocious
and irascible set of beings. They were of two clans, one descended from
Owen Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales; the other was derived from Collwyn
ap Tangno. The history of Evionedd, or Eifionydd, is during that period
one of revenge, perfidy, and slaughter; and to such extent was it
carried, that Meredith ap Jevan preferred taking up his residence in
Dolwyddelan Castle, at that time surrounded by robbers and freebooters,
to residing in this district, giving to his friends the following
decisive reason: “If,” said he, “I live in my own house in Evionedd, I
must either kill my own kinsmen, or submit to be murdered by them.” He,
therefore, rather chose to fight with thieves and outlaws than with his
own immediate relatives.
“They would quarrel,” says Sir John Wynne, “if it was but for the mastery
of the country, and the first good morrow. John Owen, ap John, ap
Meredydd, and Howel ap Madoc Vychan, fell out for no other reason. Howel
and his people fought valiantly: when he fell, his mother placed her hand
on his head, to prevent the fatal blow, and had half her hand and three
of her fingers cut off, by some of her nearest kindred. An attempt was
made to kill Howel ap Rhys, in his own house, by the sons of John ap
Meredith, for no other reason than that their servants had quarrelled
about a fishery. The first set fire to the mansion with great bundles of
straw:—the besieged, terrified with the flames, sheltered themselves
under forms and benches, while Rhys, the old hero, stood sword in hand,
reproaching his men with cowardice, and telling them he had often seen a
greater smoke in that hall on Christmas even.
“These flagitious deeds seldom met with any other punishment than what
resulted from private revenge, and too often composition was made for the
most horrible murders. There was a _gwerth_, or price of blood, from the
slaughter of a king, to the cutting off one of his subject’s little
fingers.”—_Williams’s Caernarvon_.
PENMORFA,
the Head of the Marsh, is a wood-clad village, romantically situated in a
nook, between some high rocks at the end of a tract of meadows, on the
western bank of Traeth Mawr.
The church contains a monument to the memory of Sir John Owen, a valiant
commander in the army, and a staunch supporter of Charles I. Being tried
with the Earl of Holland, Lords Loughborough, Goring, and other noble
supporters of the royal cause, after the death of the king, he exhibited
a spirit coinciding with his former noble daring; and, on being condemned
to lose his head, he bowed to the court, thanking them for the honour
they intended him. On being asked by a member what he meant, in his
usual blunt manner he replied, “I think it a great honour for a poor
gentleman of Wales to lose his head with such noble lords:—by G—, I was
afraid you would have hanged me.”
Great intercession being made for the other noble personages, and no one
applying or interesting themselves on behalf of Sir John, Cromwell, as
related by some authorities, and Hutchinson and Ireton, as stated by
others, interfered for the worthy knight, whose life was spared: after a
few months’ confinement he was allowed to retire to Clenenney, where he
died.
Mr. Williams, rector of Llanberis, from whose work, recently published,
on the history, antiquities, &c. of Caernarvonshire, I before quoted,
says, in speaking of the situation of Penmorfa, and the meadows lying
between it and Traeth Mawr, “they were formerly subject to the
overflowing of the higher tides, till an embankment was made by W. A.
Madox, Esq. a gentleman to whom this part of the country is greatly
indebted for numerous and great improvements, particularly for the
erection of an embankment, about a mile in length, in order to reclaim
some thousand acres of land, and which now forms a safe and convenient
road between the counties of Caernarvon and Merioneth, across the estuary
of Traeth Mawr; whereas, formerly, many lives were lost in going over
those dangerous sands. Tremadoc, a new town, which bears the name of its
founder, is about a mile distant from Penmorfa, and contains from eighty
to a hundred houses. Here is a handsome new church, a market-place, a
comfortable inn, and a great number of good shops. Near the town are
several good houses, built by the same gentleman, particularly
Tan-yr-Allt, Morva Lodge, &c.; all of which, as well as every thing in or
about this little town, evidently prove the individual who planned and
conducted the whole, to be a person of cultivated mind, improved taste,
and superior judgment and ability. A market has been established here,
and the fairs, which used to be at Penmorfa on the following days, March
6, May 14, August 20, September 25, and November 12, have mostly deserted
that place, and are held at Tremadoc. Here is an excellent salmon
fishery, a good shore for bathing, and a safe harbour for vessels under
120 tons burthen. It is greatly to be lamented; that the beneficial
improvements by the before-mentioned public-spirited gentleman, W. A.
Madox, Esq. and carried by him to such a state of forwardness, should not
be completed. In the year 1625, Sir John Wynne, of Gwydir, conceived the
great design of gaining this immense track (Traeth Mawr), as well as the
lesser one (Traeth Bach), from the sea, by means of an embankment; and
for that purpose he implored the assistance of his illustrious
countryman, Sir Hugh Middleton, in a letter which has been preserved,
and, together with that gentleman’s reply, printed in Mr. Pennant’s Tour.
A bridge over Traeth Bach, and a new line of road along the sea-coast to
Barmouth, with a stage coach or some other more regular mode of
conveyance between North and South Wales, particularly during the summer
months, are still left among the desiderata of this portion of the
principality.”
From Tremadoc, an excellent road of about five miles brought us to the
far-famed Pont Aber-Glaslyn, or the bridge of the harbour of the Blue
Lake; and not uncommonly styled the Devil’s Bridge. This last
appellation has very frequently misled strangers, who, confounding it
with the well-known bridge at Havod, have been much disappointed, their
expectations being raised very high, from the general description of that
place. Of this, indeed, we found an instance on the very spot. This
bridge connects the two counties of Merioneth and Caernarvon; being, from
the parapet to the water, forty feet. From the description of former
tourists, it did not answer our expectations; but the salmon-leap is an
interesting object from the bridge: the height is about fifteen feet;
and, though we observed very many attempt this surprising feat of
agility, not one succeeded. Some fishermen below soon excited our
curiosity, and salmon was here offered for sale at three-pence per pound.
An intelligent man here offered himself as our guide to the rich
copper-mines, in the vicinity of Pont Aber-Glaslyn. This miner, having
worked both here and at the Parys Mountain, confidently asserted, that
one pound of this ore was now esteemed equivalent to twice the quantity
produced in Anglesea. Yet, for a considerable time, little advantage was
derived from the concern, till a company obtained a lease of the mountain
from Mr. Lloyd, the proprietor: and having placed an intelligent agent in
a house near the mines, entered on the concern with that spirit which
merited success. Stupendous cliffs, by the road side, literally rise
eight hundred and sixty feet perpendicularly, and hang in the most
capricious forms over the torrent; which, straggling amongst the recesses
of stone, is hastening forward to disembogue itself into the estuary of
Traeth Mawr. The pass is not more than seventy feet; after much rain it
is entirely inundated by the overflowings of the Glaslyn, which reflect,
as in a mirror, the blackness of the impending cliffs. On the
Caernarvonshire side are several lead mines; but they have not proved
sufficiently rich to reward the labour of working.
The situation of our inn at
BEDDGELERT
is very romantic, and would form an interesting drawing, by taking in a
small bridge of two arches below the house. It is completely encircled
by lofty mountains, which may be considered as subject to the “cloud-capt
Snowdon.”
Situate at the junction of three vales, its beautiful meadows form a fine
contrast to the surrounding rugged scenery. The church is small, but
lofty; it is supposed to be erected on the site of an ancient priory of
Augustine monks, dedicated to St. Mary, and founded, according to the
account of Mr. Rymer, in his Fœdera, by Llewelyn ap Iorweth, in gratitude
for the preservation of his son, and as an atonement for the rash effects
of his intemperate rage, so pathetically described in the following poem:
but both the Mr. Williamses, who have written on Caernarvonshire, support
the opinion of its earlier establishment, looking upon it as the most
ancient foundation in the country except Bardsey. Its revenues,
according to the Reverend P. B. Williams’s account, must have been
considerable; which he likewise accounts for as necessary, from its being
on the great road from England and South Wales to North Wales, and from
Ireland to England. In order to enable the prior to keep up his usual
hospitality, Edward the First, after it had greatly suffered by fire in
1283, most generously, at his own expense, repaired all the damages; and
Bishop Anian, about the year 1286, to obtain for it benefactions,
remitted to all such benefactors, who truly repented of their sins, forty
days of any penance inflicted on them.
BEDDGELERT,
OR,
THE GREYHOUND’S GRAVE.
BY WILLIAM SPENCER.
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewelyn’s horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer;
“Come, Gelert, why art thou the last
Llewelyn’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 Llewelyn’s board
The faithful Gelert fed;
He watch’d, he serv’d, he cheer’d his lord,
And centinel’d his bed.
In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John: {166}
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 Llewelyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied:
When near the royal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gain’d his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood:
The hound was smear’d with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Llewelyn 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 Llewelyn past,
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 nowhere 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
Past 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 Llewelyn’s pain!
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewelyn’s heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn’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 deckt;
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
Llewelyn’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.
Since the author’s first visit, much has been added to the picturesque
scenery of Beddgelert, through the liberal and patriotic spirit of Thomas
Jones of Bryntirion, Esq. the worthy proprietor of this romantic vale. A
most excellent inn has been erected, and no expense spared in rendering
the accommodations for the tourist and the traveller the most attractive,
as well as the most comfortable. It is worthy of remark, that this spot
was selected by the monks as favourable to the desponding gloom of popish
superstition. The parish church, which is situated within a few hundred
yards of this inn, was formerly a part of a priory of Augustine monks,
founded by Anion, Bishop of Bangor, in the thirteenth century; and
supposed by some to be the oldest religious house in Wales. Part of the
cloisters still remain. The monastery was destroyed by fire during the
reign of Edward the First. The present appearance of the vale is,
however, calculated to produce sensations of a very different
description, and presents objects the most alluring to the lovers of
mountain scenery. The tourist, whether he be a poet, a philosopher, or
an antiquary, will here find abundant sources of recreation to detain him
for some days. Within the distance of an hour’s walk from the inn, are
situated
THE VALE OF NANHWYNAN,
beautifully diversified by thriving plantations and elegant villas. In
this vale stands Dinas Emrys, or the Castle of Ambrosius, to which
Vortigern is said to have fled for refuge, after having called in the
Saxons; by which he for some time avoided the odium and persecution of
his countrymen.
THE PASS OF DRWSYCOED,
commanding a most splendid view of the lakes of Nantlle, including the
floating island, mentioned by Camden, the sea being also visible at a
distance. Here King Edward is said to have encamped his army in his last
expedition into Wales, when he completed the subjugation of the country.
Beddgelert is now a thoroughfare, with a good road from Caernarvon to
Dolgelly, Welsh Pool, Shrewsbury, Bishop’s Castle, Ludlow, and Worcester;
it is therefore a most convenient station from whence to make excursions
to some of the most interesting scenery in North Wales, among the first
of which is the ascent of the mighty and once wood-covered Snowdon.
How often has the idea of this stupendous mountain filled my heart with
enthusiastic rapture! Every time I cast my eyes on that solemn, that
majestic vision, it is not without the most powerful emotion; it excites
that tender melancholy, which exalts rather than depresses the mind! How
delightful to bid adieu to all the cares and occupations of the world,
for the reflection of those scenes of sublimity and grandeur, which form
such a contrast to the transientness of sublunary greatness! With what
anxiety have we watched the setting sun, loitering just below the
horizon, and illuminating the highest summit of Snowdon with a golden
tinge; and we still watch the passing clouds of night, fearing lest the
morning should prove unfavourable for our Alpine excursion!
SNOWDON.
We engaged the miner {170} as our conductor over the mountain, who
entertained us much with displaying, in strong colours, the tricks and
impositions of his brother guides. {171}
At half-past twelve we started from our inn, determined to see the sun
rise from its highest summit. The night was now very dark, and we could
just discover that the top of Snowdon was entirely enveloped in a thick
impenetrable mist: this unpropitious omen staggered our resolutions; and
we for some time hesitated respecting our farther progress; but our guide
assuring us that his comfortable cottage was not far distant, we again
plucked up resolution; and, quitting the high way about two miles on the
Caernarvon road, we turned to the right, through a boggy, unpleasant
land, and in danger of losing our shoes every step we took. This soon
brought us to the comfortable cot, the filth and dirtiness of which can
better be imagined than described; a worm-eaten bed, two small stools,
and table fixed to the wall, composed the whole of his furniture; two
fighting-cocks were perched on a beam, which Thomas seemed to pride
himself in the possession of: the smoke of the fire ascended through a
small hole in the roof of this comfortable mansion, the door of which did
not appear proof against the “churlish chiding of the winter blast.”
Such, indeed, was the situation of this Cambrian mountaineer: and,
though, in our own opinion, misery, poverty, and dirt personified, seemed
to be the real inhabitants of this cottage, yet there was something
prepossessing in his character; for, frequently, with the greatest
vehemence imaginable, and in the true style of an anchorite, he declared,
that, “though he boasted not riches, yet he boasted of independence; and
though he possessed not wealth, yet he possessed the home of happiness,
an honest breast.”