Valle Crucis—The Abbey—Lines written in the ruins—A loquacious
porteress—A view of the Abbey—The pillar of Eliseg—A parting—Road to
Corwen—Vale of the Dee—The musical pedestrian—War song—Over the hills and
far away—An adventure—Corwen—The Church—College—Cross and Circle—Air
Llwyn-own—Route to Landrillo—An old soldier and his son—Village of
Landrillo—A fair—Vale of Edeyrnion—Arrival at Bala.
“Fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
Nor let the tuneful lips be dry
That warble Owen’s praise;
Whose walls with warlike spoils are hung,
And open wide his gates are flung,
In Cambria’s peaceful days.
“This hour bright is meant for joy,
Then fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
That shineth like the sea,
Whose azure handles, tipt with gold,
Invite the grasp of Britons bold,
The sons of Liberty!”
_From the Welsh of Prince Owen Cyveilog_, by R. W.
ON the following morning, we bade adieu to Llangollen, and proceeded
first to Valle Crucis.
[Picture: Valle Crucis Abbey]
Like most abbeys, it is beautifully situated. The monks of old well
appreciated the value of rich lands and clear streams. An old woman
received us at the gate, and instantly began to retail her information.
“Gryffyd ap Madoc, Lord of Bromfield and Yale, founded this abbey in the
year 1200.” There are parts of both church and abbey still remaining;
the former was cruciform, and exhibits several styles of architecture.
The eastern end is the most ancient; it is adorned by three lancet slips,
forming one grand window. The entrance was in the west, under a broad
and beautiful window, above which is a smaller one, of a marigold form,
decorated with tracery and fret-work, and beneath it may be deciphered
the following inscription:
A.D.A.M.D.N.S fecit hoc opus, pace beatâ quiescat Amen.
The cloisters are turned into a farmhouse and offices.
This noble edifice was dismantled by Henry VIII. My companion, feeling
desirous to bathe in the clear waters, left me to my contemplations,
encompassed by the ruined walls of the abbey, and tall ash trees, which
shaded the area of the church. I wandered from thence to the fish pond,
which is near to the abbey, and, while my companion was enjoying his
ablutions, my muse jogged my arm, and reminded me that some tribute was
due from me to this lovely spot. Taking out my pocket book and pencil, I
produced the following
LINES WRITTEN AT VALLE CRUCIS.
Monastic Valle Crucis! while I linger in thy shade,
The spirits of the olden time seem moving in the glade;
Rebuilt appear thy ruined walls, and thou art strong again,
As when the organ through those aisles poured forth its solemn
strain.
Here reigneth peace and solitude, as if some holy spell
Still charmed the blessed region where religion loved to dwell;
No music, save the streamlet’s voice, disturbs the deep serene,
And breezy sounds sweet murmuring throughout the woodlands green.
Oh fallen Valle Crucis! full six hundred years are gone
Since the warlike lord of Dinas Bean laid thy foundation stone;
And mighty didst thou flourish, till that fell destroyer came,
Than mouldering time more ruthless, and of sacrilegious name.
Then, holy Valle Crucis! was thy sacred roof thrown down,
Thy peaceful inmates scattered, rent the sacerdotal gown;
The mournful ivy clustered o’er thy grey and ruined walls,
And ash trees sprang, where torches blazed, within thy sainted halls.
Hushed are the lips of all who dwelt within that cloistered fane;
And holy feet will never press the polished floors again,
At morning prayer and vesper hymn, which thrilled thy very stones—
Forgotten now those pious ones, and whitened are their bones!
Yet ivy’d Valle Crucis! thou art fairer in decay
Than all the splendid structures which adorn our modern day;
In every mouldering fragment of thy consecrated pile
There’s a charm to all who view thy walls, or tread thy broken aisle.
Peace dwell around thee ever! may no heedless hand molest
The solemn bird which builds in thee its ivy-mantled nest,
Whose breathings seem the deep-drawn sighs of bosoms fraught with
pain,
Lamenting the departed, who will ne’er return again.
The porteress of this ancient building is Ann Dale, who has lived in this
solitary but delightful spot for two years; and, although a Shropshire
woman, has made herself, during that period, sufficiently acquainted with
the Welsh language to discourse fluently with the country people, in
their native tongue; and has moreover committed to memory everything
interesting, relative to the spot where she resides. It is evidently her
delight to point out to strangers the objects most worthy their
attention; and her love of the venerable pile has induced her to take
spade in hand, and clear away the rubbish that perhaps had for centuries
been accumulating round the columns, leaving them clear to their
foundations. Time has been over busy with her features; but her limbs
are as active as those of a girl of sixteen, and her spirits are as light
as her heels.
“Ah, sir!” said she, after enumerating the good offices she had received
from the neighbouring gentry, and the friendly feelings of the more
humble classes, “I’ve always made it a rule, throughout my life, to be
civil to every body. Civility costs nothing, you know, and I’m always
surprised to hear people, when they are asked a simple question, if they
chance to have a better coat on their backs than the person who addresses
them, give an answer as if they were speaking to cattle, or worse brutes,
when you know, sir, (approaching the cottage at the head of the pond) we
are all the same flesh and blood, (pausing on the second step.) I don’t
say but there ought to be distinctions, for we can’t be all gentlefolks,
(entering.) But then, where’s the difference, when we are as them that
lie in the abbey there? or like these poor bones that I have in a box
here, (opening it and displaying some human relics.) They all comed out
of the abbey ground, Sir. Why these might be a bishop’s, or a great
warrior’s, for aught we know to the contrary. Well, sir, after all,
there’s nothing like good common sense. Solomon prayed for good sense,
and he had it; and, thank God, I have it, too. Now, sir, come this way
(leading back to the margin of the monks’ pond) and I’ll show you
something that shows what a thing Providence is. You see that stone jar
there, sir—just there in the water; well, sir, you know there are no
flies in the winter; so the poor fish would be sorely put about for food,
but for Providence. Well, upon that jar I’ve seen thousands and
thousands of things like shells and patches of grey moss; and I’ve seen
the trout cluster about it, and feed upon ’em often. And, whenever I
thinks of that, sir, it brings to my mind the 104th Psalm.”
“What is the name of that mountain, my good lady, to S.E. of the abbey?”
I inquired.
“Why that, sir, is called Fron Fawr. It is 1328 feet above the level of
the sea, sir.”
I thanked her for her information; and, prompted by an incontrollable
appetite, ventured to ask if she could supply us with anything eatable.
“Why, I’m afraid,” said she “that I have nothing that you’ll like, sir;
for I’m a poor lone woman, and what suits me, wouldn’t perhaps sit upon
your honour’s stomach. But there _were_ a party here this morning, and
they left behind ’em a pork-pie, because the dish got broke, and a piece
of apple tart; and I have gotten a piece of oatcake, and a piece of
cheese; if you could manage to put up with that, sir, you’re quite
welcome.”
Talk of Christmas times, of roast beef and plum pudding! Give me June,
with cold pork-pie, apple tart, and cheese, in a summer-house overlooking
a monk’s pond, and surrounded by waving woods and lofty trees, in view of
the ruined abbey,
“Where monks of old
As I’ve been told
Quaffed the merry, merry nut brown ale.”
By the time my travelling friend had returned from his bath, the table
was furnished with fare calculated to satisfy his appetite, at the
expense of pork-pie, tart, etc. Mixing the contents of our united flasks
with the pure cool waters of the refreshing spring, inhaling the perfume
of Havannah, and making a sofa out of two wooden chairs, we amused
ourselves with a retrospective view of the scenes we had passed through
since we met. It was now twelve o’clock, and, as it was my intention to
reach Bala by nightfall, we rose to depart; and with many thanks and kind
wishes from the old porteress of Valle Crucis, quitted that interesting
ruin, and proceeded to
THE PILLAR OF ELISEG.
It stands in a meadow, a short distance from the abbey, and was a
memorial of the dead; an improvement on the rude columns of Druidical
times, sculptured into form, and surrounded with inscriptions. It is
among the first lettered stones that succeed the Meini-Hirion, Meini-Gwyr
and Llechan, and stood on a great tumulus, perhaps always environed with
wood, according to the custom of the most ancient times, when standing
pillars were placed under every green tree.
[Picture: Pillar of Eliseg]
This pillar was erected above a thousand years ago, to the memory of
Eliseg, the father of a Prince of Powis, called Rochwel Yscythrog, who
met his death at the battle of Chester, in 607. During the civil wars,
this pillar was thrown down, and broken, and the shaft which was
originally above twelve feet in length, is now only eight. At the
suggestion of the Rev. John Price, Bodleian librarian, and great
antiquary, Mr. Lloyd, of Trevor Hall, had it placed in its present
position.
At this spot, my companion and I were to separate. I felt the
approaching loss severely; for where could I expect to find another so
amusing and so kind?
“You’ll come and see me at Rhuthyn?” said he. “I have a snug cottage, a
good housekeeper, a bed, and as good a glass of port as you will find in
the neighbourhood;—promise to visit me at your return.”
I promised not to forget his hospitable invitation, and, with a feeling
of regret I never before experienced at quitting a new acquaintance of so
short standing, I squeezed his hand—and we parted.
From Valle Crucis Abbey, I proceeded to the banks of the Dee, and
crossing the rude bridge over the river struck into the high road to
Corwen, and proceeded at a brisk pace. The country became highly
interesting. The mountains are lofty; and beneath, upon the right,
Glyndwrdwy, _the valley of the Dee_, discloses its picturesque beauty.
This was the property of the celebrated Owen Glyndwr.
The vale is so serpentine that it presents a succession of most exquisite
views, and after a walk of three miles, on looking back, Castle Dinas
Bran seems placed upon a lower eminence. The valley of Llangollen may be
seen likewise from hence for many miles, terminated by the distant
mountains.
After passing the fourth mile stone, the road takes a straight direction;
and at this spot I came up with a person who, seated upon the road, was
extracting some very tolerable music from one end of his walking cane.
He was a tall thin man, with sharp features and large blue eyes. He had
on a broad brimmed glazed hat, a blue frock coat, with nankeen
pantaloons, short gaiters, and shoes. The rest of his wardrobe was
wrapped in a pocket handkerchief; and his name, as I afterwards learnt,
was Whiffler.
Upon my approaching him, he withdrew his musical cane from his mouth, and
observed that it seemed likely to rain; and, by the misty appearance of
the atmosphere before us, I concluded he was right in his observations;
for in that direction the country was nearly obscured, while behind us,
the sun sent forth his brightest beams upon mountain and stream; though
the valleys partly slept in shadow, as he slowly journeyed to his western
couch.
“Travelling far, sir?” inquired my new companion.
“At my leisure,” I replied.
“Fine road, this, sir.”
“Capital.”
“Are you fond of music?”
“Passionately.”
This was sufficient encouragement to make my new acquaintance turn his
staff once more into an instrument of sound, and he played a wild kind of
march, which he assured me was called “The War Tramp of Owen Glyndwr,”
the Welsh chieftain, who was so formidable an enemy to Henry IV.—Taking
up the idea, I endeavoured to compose some appropriate lines for the air.
(See music plate.) {130}
“Have the kindness, sir,” said my companion, “to step out with your left
foot at the beginning of the bar, and you will find it excellent marching
time.”
I complied with the whimsical request, and he seemed much pleased at my
readiness to oblige his humour; for he blew away unceasingly, and I dare
say would never have thought of stopping, had I not pointed out a
handsome house to him, upon the opposite hill, and requested him to tell
me the name of its proprietor.
“Do you mean that semibreve, in the middle of that forest of
demi-semi-quavers?”
I laughed at his conceit, and replied in the affirmative.
“Oh! that belongs to Mr. Jones, and is called Llandysilio Hall—a very
worthy man. This glen, sir, has been the scene of many sanguinary
conflicts.”
Here he struck up “The Battle of Prague,” and we marched on for about a
mile further, when he suddenly stopped short before a small public house,
upon the road side.
“I have an idea,” said he, “that a small drop of brandy, mixed with a
little mulled ale, sugar and nutmeg, would make us get over the next four
miles—prestissimo—eh? Con spirito, um?”
I agreed to the con spirito, but assured him a moderato movement would
suit my inclination better for the remainder of the walk to Corwen. He
then led the way into the house; and certainly, of all the comforts a
tourist can experience, that of seeing a neatly sanded room, with shining
oaken seats and tables, walls white as snow, pans and pots glittering in
well ordered arrangement against them, a fine polished kitchen range
enclosing a good fire, and a smiling, civil, hospitable hostess anxious
to attend your commands, however trifling they may be, is the most
desirable. I never saw any country where so much attention is paid to
the cleanliness of the interior of their cottages, if I except Holland,
and in this respect the peasantry resemble each other.
Having despatched this agreeable beverage, we resumed our walk, and in
about ten minutes, the rain, which had long been threatening us, fell in
torrents, and we resembled a couple of half drowned rats as we faced the
storm.
My companion, with a half-comic and half melancholy cast of countenance,
observed, “I declare, I can hardly make my instrument speak, although I
have got a natural shake in my voice, as you may hear. Very cold, sir;
isn’t it? Look yonder,” continued he, pointing to a clump of fir trees.
“There, sir, once stood the celebrated wooden house, attached to the
mansion of that mighty warrior and magician who could
“Call spirits from the vasty deep—”
for the purpose of lodging the guests. The mansion stood upon our left,
and was formerly of grand dimensions, they say; though now alas! not a
vestige of it remains. The site of the visitor’s lodging rooms commands
a fine prospect of the valley. Perhaps you would like to walk up to it?”
“Certainly;” and, accordingly, we jumped over a stile and climbed to the
summit of the mound, from which a glorious view of the valley was
obtained. Upon reaching the top, the traveller is surprised to find,
that what he looked upon as a mere mound, when viewed from the road,
assumes the form of a tremendous precipice as he looks down upon the dark
waters of the Dee, (which wind around its base), and glances over the
fertile valley stretched far beneath, where Glyndwr vanquished the
oppressor Grey. I had fallen into a reverie, from which I was awakened
by the shrill sounds of the musician’s fife stick, which startled me with
its discordant notes, and brought me back from the fourteenth century to
the nineteenth, with a celerity far from pleasing.
As we resumed our walk, we heard the rumbling of wheels, and the tramp of
horses behind us, and pausing to see what vehicle was approaching, we
beheld a kind of van, drawn by two enormous animals, as large as any of
the breed employed in some of the London breweries. They were driven by
a young man, of about nineteen years of age.
“Will you ride as far as Corwen?” said he, at the same time pulling up
his horses.
As the rain was falling fast, and this conveyance promised to carry us to
the town in half the time it would take us to walk thither, we gladly
accepted the offer. I mounted by the side of the driver, having always a
predilection for that seat; while my more prudent musical acquaintance
jumped into the body of the cart, and was presently lost sight of beneath
a dozen coal sacks, that covered several ale casks.
I soon found that my situation was far from being enviable. In the first
place, there was no foot board, and I kept slipping forward, every now
and then, at the hazard of falling upon the horses’ heels. The air
became more keen, the rain rattled upon my visage with greater violence
than ever, and silently I confessed—forgive me ye gnomes and demons of
the storm!—that notwithstanding the grandeur of the mountain-torrent, I
should at that time have given a preference to a little of the “mountain
dew.”
Presently, I heard the shrill sound of the fife issuing from underneath
the sacks, to the tune of “Over the hills and far away,” and was about
requesting the driver to stop, until I joined my companion in his lair,
when a smart lash upon the flank of the near horse made him dart off at a
pace which defied all the efforts of the Welsh boor to check. With his
right arm holding fast by the front rail of the caravan, he with his left
pulled with all his strength to keep the horses in the road, and we
dashed along, first upon one side, and then upon the other, for the
middle was never kept, until I began to look out for the most comfortable
landing place. I then caught hold of the near horse’s rein, while he
tugged away at the other. The seat was slippery, and the reins were wet,
and our united efforts would have failed in checking their speed; but
espying a hill about half a mile a-head of us,
“Now then, keep ’em together,” said I, “and let them have their race out,
for they must stop at yonder hill.”
All this time the fife was whistling like mad, “Go to the devil and shake
yourselves;” and Mr. Whiffler was luxuriating in blessed ignorance of our
danger.
Having made up my mind to the worst, but hoping for the best, I regaled
myself with a sup of brandy from the pistol at my side, and then handed
it to the driver, who drank—as if he liked it. We by this time reached
the foot of the hill, at the same slashing pace, and began the ascent in
a first rate style; but, when we had got about half way up, we were
startled by a loud cry behind us, and, upon turning my head, I saw poor
Mr. Whiffler seated in the middle of the road, flourishing his musical
cane, and shouting most vociferously for us to stop. It seemed that he
was amusing himself with his favourite airs, and never felt the gradual
retiring motion of the sacks as we ascended the hill, until he was fairly
shot out at the tail of the van, where he lay sprawling; but, thanks to
the friendly sacks, unhurt.
Our frisky Flander’s steeds, coming to the push at the steep rising
ground, relaxed in their rapid course, became quiet as lambs, and at the
summit of the bill were very glad to come to a dead halt to recover their
breath; giving my musical friend ample time to come up with us, which he
had no sooner done, than, as if nothing had occurred worth mentioning, he
resumed his situation in the van, and struck up “Drops of brandy.” I
took the hint, and presented him with my reserve, which he emptied with
much apparent satisfaction, and returned the flask with thankfulness.
Then resuming his unwearying amusement, he never ceased until we reached
the inn at Corwen; not the principal one, but a small house on the right
of the street opposite to the Owen Glyndwr; which latter has a gigantic
head over the door, much resembling the Saracen’s of Snow Hill notoriety.
I discovered the landlord of “The Welsh Harp” to be the proprietor of the
van, and that the driver was his son. He also followed the occupation of
watch and fishing tackle maker, and I willingly, therefore, took up my
quarters with this specimen of Welsh rusticity, when invited, in
preference to quartering at the great inn with the great head, as also
did Mr. Whiffler.
The first question put to the jolly landlord, was, “What can you give us
to eat?” It was about three o’clock in the day.
“Why, sir, I have a nice roast duck and some peas, which were intended
for John’s,” meaning our van-driver, “dinner; but I shall be able to find
something else for him.”
“And how long, pray, will it be before it is ready?”
“A quarter of an hour.”
“Very well, that will do; and, in the interim, I’ll borrow one of your
coats, and we will visit the church, if there is anything in it worth
looking at.”
No sooner said than done; and a large blue coat, with two heavy capes,
and brass buttons of the size of crown pieces, was immediately brought
forth, which I slipped into, it fitting me—like a sack! No matter—my own
was thoroughly drenched, and was hanging before a blazing fire in the
kitchen, reeking like a leg of mutton, hot from the boiler.
“Would you like to slip into a pair of my leather breeches?” inquired my
hospitable host.
This I thankfully declined, upon looking at the difference of our
dimensions. My piping friend was comfortably seated in the chimney
corner, and observing “that he had never frequented church since he was
married, having received at that time a shock he could never recover,” he
commenced playing the beautiful air of “My ain fireside,” whilst I,
turning most heroically to the right about, again braved the “pelting of
the pitiless storm,” accompanied by John, our driver, who, in a few
minutes, conducted me to the ancient edifice.
On one side of the altar is the lid of a coffin, which has the following
inscription:
“Hic jacet Jorweth Sulien, vicarius de Corvaen ora pro eo.”
In the church wall is shewn the private doorway through which Owen
Glyndwr entered the building whenever he attended divine worship, and in
the rock, which overhangs the churchyard, there is a recess, which bears
the name of Glyndwr’s chair; and the stone which now forms the lintel of
the doorway leading to his pew, is said to retain the mark of his dagger,
half an inch in depth, which he threw from the said chair; but upon what
occasion it is not stated.
In the churchyard is a range of building called Corwen College, having
over the archway the following inscription:
Corwen College,
For six widows of the Clergymen
Of the church of England,
Who died possessed of cures of souls,
In the county of Merionethshire.
Built and endowed
A.D MDCCL by the legacy of
William Egton Esq.
Of Plas-warren.
In the cemetery there is a cross, fixed in a circular stone, westward of
the steeple; and it is supposed that the name of Corwen is a corruption
of Corvaen, and derived from the cross. Cor signifies a circle, and maen
(which is likewise considered to have been changed into vaen) if joined
to cor, means a cross in the circle.
Having satisfied my curiosity here, I returned to the public house, and
the first object which met my delighted eyes was the promised duck,
accompanied by a dish of most elegant trout; a dainty for which I had
been longing ever since I entered this territory of rocks and torrents.
My friend was already placed at the table, and he clapped his hands, and
rubbed them with evident delight and satisfaction at seeing me arrive so
opportunely. The fish despatched, duck and green peas in close column
brought up the rear. But I and my gallant comrade—a better trencherman
ne’er poised a fork—attacked in line, cut up the one, and routed the
other, with the most determined bravery. The right and left wings were
attacked and cut off from the main body, which with all its material we
dispersed in the glorious conflict, remaining masters of the field.
Although I thus warmly express my satisfaction at partaking of this not
easily-to-be-forgotten luxury, let me not be mistaken for a gourmand; but
a wet and tired traveller, however much his mind may be enchanted by the
scenery through which he passes, never beholds a more delightful prospect
than a comfortable meal at his journey’s end. It so happened, however,
that this was not to be my journey’s end, for a blaze of light darted
into the room at the moment John had carried off the spoils from our
field of battle, and the glorious orb of day shone forth in cloudless
majesty.
Wine in such a house, being out of the question, we ordered a jug of warm
punch, and having drank success to my musical friend in a brimming
goblet, I began to think, as my time was limited, and his path lay
towards Cerrig-y-Drudion, and mine towards Bala, I had better reach that
place before dark. My companion having divested himself of his shoes and
stockings, and adopted those of the landlord, and feeling himself
comfortable before the fire, resolved upon remaining where he was until
bedtime. Wishing him, therefore, a pleasant evening, and a good night’s
repose, I once more took the road for another walk of ten miles; while I
heard the shrill sounds of his fife stick playing the Welsh air of
“Farewell Glanddyn.”
At the end of the village, I was attracted by the eyes of the prettiest
little Welsh lass that I remember having seen in the country. Health
bloomed in her cheek, and animation darted from her sloe-black eyes. She
was talking to a village lad, who appeared to be much abashed by some
reproof she had given him; and presently, with a significant nod of the
head and an admonitory glance of the eye, she turned briskly from him,
and frisked by me, humming a Welsh air—the first that I had heard since I
entered the principality—while the youth, with a smile and a sigh, turned
in a contrary direction, exclaiming, “Ah, Jenny, if you refuse so many,
you may happen to pray for one yet.”
I afterwards discovered that the Welsh air was called after the mansion
of Mr. Edward Jones, the compiler of that most interesting book of
Cambrian lore, the Bardic Museum. I instantly determined to put the idea
I had formed in my mind of the Welsh lass into verse, and to adapt the
lines to the music. (See plate.) {143}
Every thing looked cheerful; the birds carroled joyously from the trees
and bushes; and I joined in the chorus. A robin appeared to be much
taken with my vocal powers, and for a good while kept me company,
alighting constantly some ten or twelve yards before me, and listening
attentively until I had passed as far; then, passing me again in his
flight, he took up his station as before. “Poor bird!” thought I, “I
remember in my boyhood I have followed some of your race as eagerly as
you now follow me; and my ears drank in their notes, intoxicating my
senses with delight. I shall never forget the old mulberry tree that
grew in our play grounds, shadowing a pretty little hermitage in which I
used to sit apart from my schoolfellows and listen to the notes of that
delightful warbler, with whom I grew familiar, and fed every evening with
crumbs of bread, saved from my dinner.”
How extraordinary it appears that the past should always seem more
delightful than the present! I am convinced, that I was more miserable
during my school-boy days than I have been since, and yet my mind returns
to the brighter portions of the picture only. The April beams that dried
up the tears of my youth live in the memory, while the clouds and showers
are buried in oblivion. Youth, youth!—why should we ever grow old? why
are we not as fresh and green at sixty as we are at twenty?—why may we
not enjoy the blessings of vigour, the elastic bound, the rosy tint, the
boundless flow of spirits, the freshness of imagination, until the moment
when we drop into the grave?—But sentimentalism is a bad subject for
sale, and therefore I have no business to introduce any chapters of such
a nature in this little work.
At a short distance from Corwen, a road branches off to the left, along
which the traveller should trudge to the village of Llandrillo, and he
will be repaid by the sight of one of the most fertile valleys in Wales.
It is a mile farther to Bala by this route, but the superior beauty of
the scenery will amply recompense him for the extra distance; for, with
the exception of a view of Bala lake, obtained from an eminence on the
road, which runs along the opposite side of the valley, it is dull and
uninviting. But, on the contrary, by the Llandrillo route, the eye is
delighted with a succession of scenes, varied and interesting in the
extreme. Huge masses of rock hang over the road, upon the left, in
threatening grandeur, while waving woods, and falling streams, give
endless variety to the picture.
After proceeding four miles, I crossed a bridge over a fine trout stream,
the banks of which are shaded with trees; and, turning into an avenue
upon the right, seated myself by the margin of the brook, secured from
the hot rays of the mid-day sun, and fancied myself the melancholy
Jacques. There only wanted a wounded stag, to make the illusion perfect.
Here I was shortly after joined by an old man and his son, who, after
some hours’ fishing, had contrived to fill a moderately sized basket with
very fine trout. The father was tall and thin, with prominent features,
sharp grey eyes, and grey locks; his port was erect, “stiff as a ramrod,”
and if he had been unfortunate enough to have had a lame leg, he would
have made an excellent representation of Corporal Foss. The son, a youth
of about nineteen, was clad in a suite of clothes so tattered, that my
curiosity was excited to learn at which rent he got into them. His
fishing basket was slung at his back, and his rod was composed of odds
and ends; his hat, from long exposure to the weather, had lost its crown,
while the rim was torn into ribands. If ever the god of love assumed the
disguise of ragged poverty, he could not have chosen a better model, both
in person and attire. His height was about five feet, nine inches; his
face a perfect oval; his hair, which stole in clustering curls from
beneath its wretched covering, was of the brightest auburn; his forehead
was broad and high; his eyebrows finely arched, and his dark blue eyes
were lighted up with the fire of animation; his nose, teeth, and chin
were perfectly beautiful; his neck and shoulders would be invaluable to a
sculptor; and his whole graceful frame seemed formed for strength and
activity. His demeanour was respectful and modest, and the contrast
between the noble creature and his sorry garb was painfully striking.
There was, however, a look of independence and a freedom in his gait,
which suited well with the surrounding scene.
The old man seated himself near me, and lamented that he could not obtain
any fire to light his pipe. This element I quickly supplied him with,
and, lighting a cigar for myself, we resembled a knot of Indian warriors
smoking “the calumet of peace.” I entered into conversation, offering my
flask, by way of making a favourable impression. They thankfully availed
themselves of my offer, and my expectations were not disappointed. The
old man told me that he had been a soldier in his youth, and fought in
many battles, both in Egypt and Spain, and was now in the receipt of a
pension from government, for honourable wounds, which at various times he
had received in the service of his country.
While his father whiffed his tobacco, the youth angled down the stream,
but soon returned and, respectfully and gracefully declining my
invitation to renew his draught, he stood looking down upon us, his arms
folded across his chest, embracing his rod, and listening modestly to the
old man’s narration. I sat an hour with these two beings, and, having
purchased a casting line and some flies from the elder fisherman, he put
two extra ones into my hands, saying: “There, sir, are two flies, with
which I killed some fine trout, yesterday. I’ll make you a present of
them; and, when you are killing your fish, perhaps you’ll think of the
old soldier.” So, with mutual thanks, we parted.
As I entered the village of Llandrillo, I was much delighted with the
lively scene. The long street was crowded with peasantry, in their
holiday clothes. On each side were stalls, formed of tubs turned upside
down, and boards placed upon them, to support their merchandise; square
patches strewed with straw and covered with crockery and glass; tables
well stored with woollen hose and mittens; and stands of gingerbread and
ginger-pop were liberally stationed in different quarters, to gratify and
refresh the happy throng. At times, a sudden opening in the crowd took
place, the whole mass of people jamming each other upon either side of
the street, to make way for a trotting pony, or an ambling nag, to curvet
and prance down the middle and up again, to show his paces. At the upper
end of the fair, a hardware man harangued a crowd of people from his
travelling warehouse (a covered cart,) endeavouring to persuade them that
he came to Llandrillo solely for their benefit, and for no selfish motive
upon earth, and labouring to convince them, in brazier-like eloquence,
that the articles he offered to their notice were considerably under
prime cost, and could not be purchased elsewhere for treble the
money;—but, though he sold at a great sacrifice to himself, he begged
them not to consider his loss, but their own gain; such an opportunity
would never again present itself, therefore now was their only time to
buy cheap!
A party of Welsh girls attracted my attention, gathered together in front
of a wall, upon which a line of men’s hats were ranged, of various
qualities and prices; and great glee and laughter were elicited, as each
fitted the new beaver upon her head, it being considered the ne plus
ultra of taste, and a powerful auxiliary to the coquetry of a Welsh girl.
Leaving Llandrillo, and proceeding towards Bala, the traveller enters the
VALE OF EDEYRNION.
The mountains here, upon either side, are covered with plantations, and
the beautiful Dee winds gracefully in the centre of the valley, through
delightful meadows, while corn fields wave upon the sloping banks, and
everything presents to the eye the appearance of freshness and fertility,
cheerfulness and content. At the bridge near Llandderfel, a small
village, which is first observed upon the opposite bank of the Dee, a
splendid view presents itself. The river here is broad, shallow, and
deep, by turns, and looking up or down the vale, its meandering
sportiveness charms the eye. At the extremity of the valley is a lofty
mountain, planted to the summit, which seems so closely to envelop it, as
to prevent all egress. To stand upon this bridge at sunset, and listen
to the whistle of the sheep boy as he trudges merrily along the road, the
song of the husbandman, or the joyous laugh of the milkmaids—sounds that
float upon the silent air for miles, at such an hour,—the twittering of
the birds, before they hide their heads beneath their wings to seek
repose—the low craik of the rail, amidst the corn—and sweeter than all,
the music of the river, discharging liquid sounds from its transparent
bosom,—creates a sensation which we are at a loss how to express. Excess
of pleasure becomes painful; and, overpowered with delight, nature
asserts her influence, and we experience the luxury of tears!—at least, I
did, and I pity from my soul the man who is unfortunately incapable of a
similar feeling.
Passing through the little village of Llanver, and crossing a stream over
the bridge close by the lodge of Mr. Price of Rhewlas, I at length
arrived at the Bull’s Head in the town, to which house I had been
recommended by a passing traveller; and, tired with my day’s exertions,
called for a tea-dinner and slippers.
BALA.
Both these luxuries were furnished me by the fair hands of Martha Jones,
the landlady’s unmarried sister, a lively, black-eyed, pretty lass, who,
in being a spinster, proves that the Bala lads are greatly deficient in
taste, or that Martha has set her cap at something better than is to be
found in Bala.
Two gentlemen were seated in the room when I entered, each of whom were
discussing the merits of a glass of brandy and water. One of them (a
young man who I afterwards discovered was a captain’s clerk in the East
India service, upon leave,) was making himself particularly entertaining
to his companion, by relating a number of anecdotes about a relative, a
clergyman, whose residence is somewhere in the neighbourhood.
“Ha! ha! ha! you remember the time when the dinner was given at —; well,
the old boy as usual, had got too much grog aboard, and without a rudder,
began to crowd sail for the stable—my eyes! how he did traverse! but at
last, a gale took his topsail right aback, and capsising him into the
kennel, he began to roar out for help. ‘What’s the matter?’ cried twenty
voices at a time. ‘Oh help! help me up,’ cried the old boy, ‘for I’m the
Lord’s servant!’ ‘Ay, ay,’ cried one, ‘and you’re like all the rest of
’em, want a good deal of looking after.’ Ha, ha, ha!”
This anecdote, required another glass of brandy and water to wash it
down; which being brought, this irreverend humorist rehearsed a number of
other circumstances concerning his eccentric relative, amongst which was
a story of his ascending the pulpit, to preach a sermon, “and kneeling
down,” said he, “he placed his hand upon the cushion, in the attitude of
prayer, closed his port holes, and fell into a—sound sleep! The
congregation waited—and waited—until their patience was quite exhausted,
and one after another began to heave anchor. The clerk, at last,
ventured to awaken his pastor just in time for him to see the last of his
parishioners leaving the church.”
I was truly sorry to find, upon inquiry, that this was but too true a
tale of the old man, whose years are many, and who must be well aware,
that a very short time can elapse, before he will become a tenant of the
grave.
Wearied with the conversation, I rang for my bed candle, and retired to
rest.