the celebrated Seat of Mr. Johnes. The former, part of the road is
barren and uninteresting: but on our first entrance into the grounds, all
our past complaints were lost in expressions of admiration. The mansion
is a very elegant piece of architecture built of Portland stone, and the
plan entirely novel, being a mixture of the Moorish and Gothic, with
turrets and painted windows. The whole of it indeed does great credit to
the architect, Mr. Baldwyn of Bath. It is situated near the banks of the
river Ystwith, and beautifully environed by lofty hills, clothed with
oak. The interior of the house corresponds in elegance with the
exterior. From the hall we were conducted through a suite of elegant
apartments, very judiciously fitted up with paintings, statues, and
antiques; but the Library more particularly engaged our notice,
containing a choice and valuable collection of books: this octagonal room
is built in the form of a dome, with a gallery round it, supported by a
colonade of variegated marble pillars, of the ancient Doric order, with a
circular window at top, for the admission of light. We entered through a
handsome door, inlaid with a large reflecting mirror; immediately
opposite is another door, of transparent plate-glass, leading to the
Conservatory, three hundred feet in length, and containing a number of
curious, and rare exotics, with a walk down the centre of the building.
In fine, the effect of the _tout ensemble_ can better be imagined than
described. Amongst the other things worthy of admiration, a handsome
statue, in the Library, of Thetis dipping Anchises in the river Styx more
particularly detains attention. We next passed through the
Billiard-room, and were conducted to the top of the stair-case, to admire
two elegant paintings, the subjects taken from Capt. Cook’s Voyages: the
painter is unknown. Many of the rooms are beautifully furnished with
rich Gobelin tapestry.
To give my readers a just conception of the beauties of Havod, I shall
beg leave to borrow the elegant description of it, drawn by the masterly
pen of Mr. Cumberland.
“Havod,” says Mr. Cumberland, “is a place in itself so pre-eminently
beautiful, that it highly merits a particular description. It stands
surrounded with so many noble scenes, diversified with elegance, as
well as with grandeur; the country on the approach to it is so very
wild and uncommon, and the place itself is now so embellished by art,
that it will be difficult, I believe, to point out a spot that can be
put in competition with it, considered either as the object of the
Painter’s eye, the Poet’s mind, or as a desirable residence for those
who, admirers of the beautiful wildness of nature, love also to
inhale the pure air of aspiring mountains, and enjoy that _santo
pacê_ (as the Italians expressively term it,) which arises from
solitudes made social by a family circle.
“From the portico, it commands a woody, narrow, winding vale; the
undulating forms of whose ascending, shaggy sides, are richly clothed
with various foliage, broken with silver water-falls, and crowned
with climbing sheep-walks, reaching to the clouds.
“Neither are the luxuries of life absent; for, on the margin of the
Ystwith, where it flows broadest through this delicious vale, we see
hot-houses, and a conservatory; beneath the rocks, a bath; amid the
recesses of the woods, a flower-garden; and within the building,
whose decorations, though rich, are pure and simple, we find a mass
of rare and valuable literature, whose pages here seem doubly
precious, where meditation finds scope to range unmolested.
“In a word, so many are the delights afforded by the scenery of this
place, and its vicinity, to a mind imbued with any taste, that the
impression on mine was increased, after an interval of ten years from
the first visit, employed chiefly in travelling among the Alps, the
Appenines, the Sabine Hills, and the Tyrollese; along the shores of
the Adriatic, over the Glaciers of Switzerland, and up the Rhine;
where, though in search of beauty, I never, I feel, saw any thing so
fine—never so many pictures concentred in one spot; so that, warned
by the renewal of my acquaintance with them, I am irresistibly urged
to attempt a description of the hitherto almost virgin-haunts of
these obscure mountains.
“Wales, and its borders, both North and South, abound, at intervals,
with fine things: Piercefield has grounds of great magnificence, and
wonderfully picturesque beauty. Downton Castle has a delicious woody
vale, most tastefully managed; Llangollen is brilliant; the banks of
the Conway savagely grand; Barmouth romantically rural; the great
Pistill Rhayader is horribly wild; Rhayader Wennol, gay, and
gloriously irregular—each of which merits a studied description.
“But, at Havod, and its neighbourhood, I find the effects of all in
one circle; united with this peculiarity, that the deep dingles, and
mighty woody slopes, which from a different source, conduct the
Rhyddol’s never-failing waters from Plynlimmon, and the Fynach, are
of an unique character, as mountainous forests, accompanying gigantic
size with graceful forms; and, taken altogether, I see the ‘sweetest
interchange of hill and valley, rivers, woods, and plains, and falls,
with forests crowned, rocks, dens, and caves;’ insomuch, that it
requires little enthusiasm there to feel forcibly with Milton, with
“All things that be, send up from earth’s great altar
Silent praise!”
“There are four fine walks from the house, chiefly through ways
artificially made by the proprietor; all dry, kept clean, and
composed of materials found on the spot; which is chiefly a course
stone, of a greyish cast, friable in many places, and like slate, but
oftener consisting of immense masses, that cost the miner, in making
some part of these walks, excessive labour; for there are places,
where it was necessary to perforate the rock many yards, in order to
pass a promontory, that, jutting across the way, denied further
access; and to go round which, you must have taken a great tour, and
made a fatiguing descent. As it is, the walks are so conducted, that
few are steep; the transitions easy, the returns commodious, and the
branches distinct. Neither are they too many, for much is left for
future projectors; and if a man be stout enough to range the
underwoods, and fastidious enough to reject all trodden paths, he
may, almost every where, stroll from the studied line, till he be
glad to regain the friendly conduct of the well-known way.
“Yet one must be nice, not to be content at first to visit the best
points of view by the general routine; for all that is here done, has
been to remove obstructions, reduce the materials, and conceal the
art; and we are no where presented with attempts to force these
untamed streams, or indeed to invent any thing, where nature, the
great mistress, has left all art behind.”
We now for many miles passed a barren, dreary country, completely
encircled with hills, and we only climbed one, to observe still others
rising in the distant perspective: not even a house or tree appeared to
interrupt the awfulness of the mountains, which after the copious fall of
rain in the night, teemed with innumerable cataracts. According to our
directions, we enquired at the foot of Plinlimmon for Rhees Morgan, as a
proper man to be our conductor over the heights of the “fruitful father
of rivers.” This man being absent, the whole family appeared
thunderstruck at our appearance, and run with all haste imaginable into
their miserable cot, or which might rather be dignified with the
appellation of a pig-stye; as that _filthy animal_ seemed to claim, with
the wretched family, an equal right to a share of the hovel. One
apartment served for the inhabitants of every description, with only one
small hole to admit the light; the entrance unprotected by a door, but
with a blanket as a substitute, was exposed to the pitiless blast of the
winter’s storm. Reviewing this despicable hovel, I recalled to my mind a
very just observation of Goldsmith’s, “That one half of the world are
ignorant how the other half lives.”
“Ah! little think the gay licentious proud
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
. . . . . .
. . . how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery. Sore pierc’d by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty.”—THOMPSON.
With some difficulty we prevailed on the female part of the family to
give us proper directions to the source of the meandering Wye, {79} and
rapid Severn. The latter they only understood by the name of _Halfren_,
its original British name; it is likewise called in Latin _Sabrina_.
From the top of Plinlimmon we, for the first time, discovered the shaggy
summit of Cader Idris, and the spiral head of Snowdon. There is nothing
particularly engaging in the character of this mountain, except to its
giving rise to no less than six or eight rivers, and on this account has
frequently been celebrated by the Poet. Though its summit commands a
circle of many miles diameter, yet the prospect by no means answered our
expectations. We descended into a swampy bottom, which afforded us
unpleasant walking for two or three miles, when a most delightful and
well-cultivated valley unexpectedly enlivened our spirits. The sun was
making
—“a golden set,
And by the bright track of his fiery car
Gave signal of a goodly day to-morrow,”
just as we entered this interesting vale: the hay-makers, in the coolness
of the evening, were returning to their homes,
“Each by the lass he loved.”
In short, the whole valley breathed delicious fragrance: add to this,
innumerable cataracts rushed from the mountain’s summits, occasioned by
the late copious rains.