HARLECH,

is stony and uninteresting; to the left an unbounded view of the wide

ocean, and in front, the steep mountains of North Wales rose in endless

perspective. About four miles from Barmouth, we passed the two lodges at

Tal-y-bont, leading to Cors-y-gedol, the seat of Sir Thomas Mostyn. It

is practicable to go by the sands, but we were given to understand, by

Mrs. Lewis, that the turnpike was, if any thing, shorter, the scenery

more pleasing, and the guides necessary for crossing those dangerous

sands, in general, most complete villains.

Harlech, though formed by Edward I. into a borough, can now be esteemed

little more than a dirty village: the present castle, one of the most

entire in Wales, is founded on a very high rock, projecting in the Irish

Sea, and defended by a deep foss on the east side; below it is a marsh of

considerable extent, occasionally overflowed by the sea; from the top of

the walls to this marsh the height is very considerable, and from thence

the Bay of Cardigan is seen to great advantage; in addition to this, the

shagged summits of Cader Buchan and Snowdon, in Caernarvonshire, being

enveloped in clouds, appear scarcely visible.

At the public-house, we accidentally met with a well-informed man, who

minutely delineated every part of the castle; beginning with the founder,

in the true characteristic style of a Welchman, run through his pedigree

several generations: this, however, did not interest us, cursory

pedestrians; and with little persuasion we soon induced him to write

down, in as concise a manner as possible, any information he was

acquainted with respecting the castle: “The founder of Harlech Castle,

A.D. 552, was Maclegwynn; Gwynead made Caer Dugoll (Shrewsbury;) Caer

Gyffin (Aber Conway;) Caer Gollwyn (Harleck) supposed to be buried in

Cirester, and reigned thirty-four years.” Whether this information is

correct, I will not take upon me to assert; but meeting with a Welchman,

in this part of the country, capable of writing, rather surprised us, and

induced me to transcribe this short paragraph.

The double gate-way, with four strong towers, is still very perfect; and

the whole in sufficient repair, to form a conjecture of its ancient

extent and grandeur. It was originally supposed to have been a Roman

town, a conjecture founded on the great number of coins, and other pieces

of antiquity, which have been found here, and in the neighbourhood.

In 1408 it was taken by the Earl of Pembroke; and afforded likewise

shelter to Margaret of Anjour, after the battle of Northampton, 1460, and

was the last in North-Wales, which held out for the King, being

surrendered to General Mytton, 1647.

In a garden near this castle was dug up, in the year 1692, an ancient

golden torques, of a round form, an inch in circumference, and weighing

eight ounces. This curious relick of British antiquity, exhibited in a

drawing by Mr. Pennant, still continues in the possession of the Mostyn

family. As we had not an opportunity of examining the original, this

account can only be gathered from the information of former authors, who

represent it, as “a wreathed bar, or rather three or four rods twisted

together, about four feet long, flexible, but bending naturally only one

way, in form of a hat-band: it originally had holes at each end, not

twitted or sharp, but plain, and cut even.”

In 1694, the prodigious phenomenon of fire, or kindled exhalation, which

disturbed the inhabitants of this neighbourhood, is both singular and

extraordinary; sixteen ricks of hay, and two barns, were burnt by a

kindled exhalation, or blue weak flame, proceeding from the sea: this

lasted about a fortnight or three weeks, poisoning the grass, and firing

it for the space of a mile. It is extraordinary, that it had no effect

on the men, who interposed their endeavours to save the ricks from

destruction, even by running into it. For a more accurate account of

this singular phenomenon, I refer my readers to the _Philosophical

Transactions_, No. 208, and likewise to the Addenda, in Cambden: suffice

it to say, that the air and grass was so infected, that it occasioned a

great mortality of cattle, horses, sheep, and goats. The various

conjectures that have been formed, to account for this kindled

exhalation, seem to be very unsatisfactory; something similar to this,

both in the appearance and in the effect, happened in France in the year

1734.

As, from the unfavourableness of the weather, we had not contemplated the

rich scenery between Barmouth and Dolgelly, with that nice investigation

which it deserved, we determined, by again returning to our obliging

landlady at the Cors-y-gedol Arms, to seize the opportunity of again

admiring its beauties; and, by taking a more circuitous route to the Vale

of Festiniog, pay that attention to the Falls of Doll-y-mullin, Moddach,

and Caen, which they so deservedly require.

This second saunter we found by no means tedious: the scene seemed

perpetually changing at every unexpected curvature of the road; and the

rude features of the mountains appeared to assume new forms, as the

winding presented them to the eye in different attitudes, whilst the

shifting vapours, which partially concealed their minuter grandeur,

assisted the illusions of the sight. Amidst new woods, rising in the

majesty of foliage, the scattered cottage, with its bluish smoke curling

high in the air, was frequently rendered interesting by its neat

simplicity: and served to constitute the romantic beauties of this

picturesque saunter.

This pleasing scenery varied little till we arrived within two miles of

Dolgelly, when several gentlemens’ seats burst upon our sight; and

leaving that enchanting spot to the left, at the Laneltyd turnpike, a

different object presented itself to our view. For four miles we walked

by the side of a hill, the most translucent stream attending us the whole

way; for though the road was situated so much above it, yet the sandy

bottom, with the finny tribe, in considerable numbers, sporting in this

transparent element, were easily descried. On each side, the mountains

rose to a considerable height, with the craggy summit of Cader Idris

claiming the pre-eminence. We soon arrived at the small ale-house

(Traveller’s Rest) where we met the labourer of Mr. Madox, whom we were

recommended to enquire for, as a proper ciceroni to the water-falls in

his vicinity. Having finished our scanty but wholesome repast, we

repaired with an old woman, the labourer being confined to the house by

indisposition, to the fall of Doll-y-mullin. There appeared to be

something singular in the appearance of this “mountain elf;” destitute of

shoes and stockings, in the true Cambrian stile, she trip’d it,

occasionally singing, and sometimes discontented with the world, herself,

and every thing, uttering a most dismal groan. This excited our

curiosity; but to learn much of her situation we soon found

impracticable; her knowledge of the English language was very trivial;

and as she seemed not much inclined to give us any information respecting

the adjacent country, we found it useless to make enquiries concerning

her condition in life.

Our surly conductress first led us through Mr. Madox’s grounds; to the

left of the Tan-y-bwlch road, by a most delightful walk cut through the

wood, we now soon reached the falls of Doll-y-mullin, the roaring of

which had a long time announced its vicinity. This cataract, though

considered only as a prelude to the grand falls of the Cayne and Moddach,

is still worthy the attention of the passing traveller; for though the

river precipitates itself not more than fifty feet, yet the projection

and situation of the rocks, and the thick oak, carelessly throwing its

broad brown arms across the troubled waters, is singularly pleasing. We

had hitherto only contemplated this scene from the foot of the fall; but

how noble the effect, when we began to wind up the steep ascent, and

paused at every bason, which the water had formed in the excavated rock.

By a retrograde saunter we soon gained the Tan-y-bwlch road, and passing

over the romantic bridge of Pont ar Garfa, beautifully entwined with the

rich drapery of ivy, we ascended a steep path over the slaty mountain of

Tylyn Gwladys, two miles in extent.—Sublimity, indeed, gave place to

elegance; behind us, the huge steeps of Cader Idris, lifting high above

the rolling clouds its shaggy head, of which at intervals, we caught a

glance through the thick mist which enveloped it; in front Snowdon,

conscious of pre-eminence, rose in the distant perspective; these were

the boundaries of our view. On the opposite side a barren mountain,

dignified by the name of Prince of Wales, appeared scarcely accessible,

but to the steps of the enthusiast; this formerly afforded a vast

quantity of ore, but it has lately so much failed, as not to produce even

a sufficiency to remunerate the miners. While traversing these barren

mountains, it is not less singular than interesting, occasionally to meet

the most delicious vallies, watered by some foaming river; these

literally surcharged

“With weighted rains, and melted Alpine snows.”

Such is the true characteristic of the Welch scenery: the finest verdure,

and the most enchanting vallies are discovered in the bosom of sterility,

where natural cascades, precipitating themselves from their rude

pinnacles, alone disturb the silence which reigns in that asylum, only to

render it more enchanting to the inquisitive pedestrians, for these

landscapes are only accessible to their steps: the distant swell of the

cataract had now long proclaimed our proximity to the object in pursuit.

The falls of the Cayne and the Moddach are at no great distance from one

another, being only separated by a thick wood. Crossing a small bridge,

above fifty feet from the water, formed only by the trunk of an oak,

which has accidentally fallen across the rapid torrent; our conductress

very judiciously selected the latter as the first object for our

admiration. The computed measurement of this fall is estimated between

seventy and eighty feet, dividing itself into three distinct parts, each

finely broken by the projected rocks: the quantity of water is very

inconsiderable; but the whole is admirably presented to the eye in one

view. The first fall, about twenty feet, precipitates itself into a deep

pool, thirty feet diameter; from thence over a second ledge, thirty feet

high; and, lastly, it discharges itself into a pool of considerable

dimensions. The declivities of the rocks are luxuriantly clothed with

wood; the oak more particularly spreading its gigantic arms across the

foaming torrent: a variety of trees, indeed, profusely embellish the

whole of this glen, which are finely contrasted with the dark brown

rocks; constituting so finished a picture, and representing such a

variety of colours, that their beauties the imagination can better

conceive, than the pen describe.

We now returned to the fall of the Cayne, infinitely superior to any in

Wales, being two hundred feet perpendicular, uninterrupted by rocks, and

not intercepted by the thick wood which encircles it. For a considerable

time we both of us gazed with that wrapt admiration, which loathes to be

disturbed by the mutual exchange of our ideas; and stunned with the

continual uproar, and never-ceasing tumultuous motion of the sparkling

foam, we silently admired the grandeur of the landscape. On each side

the horrific crags seemed to bid defiance to the goat’s activity. The

Cayne, after this stunning cataract, throws its troubled waters over a

rocky bed, till it unites itself with the Moddach below.

With reluctance we left this romantic situation; and, according to the

directions of our conductress, soon found ourselves in the turnpike road

to Tan-y-bwlch, understanding that Mr. Warner’s route to Pen-street

afforded indifferent walking. Stupendous mountains attended us some way;

and, to borrow a description from a celebrated author, they “looked like

the rude materials of creation, forming the barrier of unwrought space.”

The sun was now making a “golden set;” the mountains were thrown together

in noble masses, appearing to scale the heavens, to intercept its rays,

and emulous to receive the parting tinge of lingering day. We were

watching with admiration the mild splendour of its light, fading from the

distant landscape, when we perceived the rich vale of Festiniog suddenly

open itself to our view: we observed the busy group of haymakers, who had

completed their day’s labour, returning to their homes:

“While heard from dale to dale,

Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice

Of happy labour, love and social glee.”

Pleased with this rustic scene, we caught the cheerful song, which was

wafted on the gentle breeze. With pleasure we anticipated a saunter

through this vale, early the ensuing morning; for one tint of sober gray

had now covered its various coloured features, and the sun had now

gleamed its last light upon the rivulet which winds through the bottom.