Harlech—The Inn—The Castle—Anecdote of Dafydd ap Ivan ap Einion—Road to
Maentwrog—View—A persevering Cobbler—The Oakley Arms—Pleasures of Fly
fishing—New Companions—Angling Stations—An Adventure—Road to Tremadoc—Tan
y Bwlch—Port Madoc Breakwater and Mountain Scenery described—Tremadoc—Tan
yr Allt—Pont Aber Glas Llyn—Lines written at the Bridge—Beddgelert—The
Inn—Story of a Pointer.
“Rise from thy haunt, dread genius of the clime,
Rise, magic spirit of forgotten time!
’Tis thine to burst the mantling clouds of age,
And fling new radiance on Tradition’s page:
See at thy call from Fable’s varied store,
In shadowy train the mingled visions pour;
Here the wild Briton ’mid his wilder reign,
Spurns the proud yoke and scorns the oppressor’s chain,
Here wizard Merlin, where the mighty fell,
Waves the dark wand and chaunts the thrilling spell.”
_Prize Poem_, T. S. S.
HARLECH.
THE Blue Lion Inn, built by Sir R. W. Vaughan, for the accommodation of
travellers and tourists, is most delightfully situated. A carriage road
from the north leads round to the front, which faces the sea; and forming
a semicircle, permits the vehicles to drive, through a gate on the south
end of the house, again into the high road. Great taste is displayed in
the erection of this pleasant building; the parapet wall, with its
circular turrets, in which seats are placed for the accommodation of
visitors, and the terrace with its neat shrubberies. I must also
acknowledge, that the kind attention of the landlord and his servants,
deserves the highest commendation.
The view from the terrace is indescribably beautiful. The sea lies
stretched beneath; the majestic ruins of Harlech Castle stand upon a
rocky base, frowning in solitary grandeur upon the right; and beyond, the
long line of Carnaervonshire hills projects, like Cambria’s lance,
forbidding the waves to make further inroads upon her territories.
Pwlhelli and Port Maddock are distinctly visible from this spot; and the
lovers of fine prospects may remain at the Blue lion for a week, without
wishing to stray further than the terrace in search of the sublime and
beautiful. The continual variety of light and shadow, with which the
mountains are alternately robed, the freshness of the air, and the solemn
majesty of the ruined fortress, form altogether a volume for the mind to
peruse with intense and unwearied interest.
HARLECH CASTLE.
The present castle was built by Edward I. in 1283, upon the ruins of one
erected by _Maelgwn Gwynedd_, Prince of North Wales, in 530. It was
seized by the Welsh hero, Owen Glyndwr, during his struggle for freedom
against Henry IV, and was retaken about four years afterwards, by an army
sent by that monarch into Wales. After the defeat of Henry VI. at
Northampton, this castle afforded a retreat for his queen, but being
hotly pursued by the Lord Stanley, she was compelled to fly from hence
with great precipitation, leaving her jewels and other valuables behind
her.
[Picture: Harlech Castle]
In 1468, this place was in possession of Dafydd-ap-Ivan-ap-Einion, a man
of singular strength and beauty, and of unconquerable bravery. Being a
firm friend to the Lancastrian line, the Earl William of Pembroke was
despatched to reduce the fortress; and, after encountering incredible
difficulties, marching through the very heart of the British Alps, he at
length invested the castle, and committed the management of the siege to
his brother Sir Richard Herbert, a man equal in size and prowess to the
British commandant. The reply of the Welshman, when called upon to
surrender, deserves to be handed down as a specimen of bravery and
loyalty. He had never acknowledged the sovereignty of Edward; and for
nine years, had defied his threats. His answer was in keeping with the
line of conduct he had adopted: “Tell your leader,” said he to the
messenger, “that some years ago I held a castle in France against its
besiegers so long, that all the old women in Wales talked of me: tell
your commander, that I intend to defend this Welsh castle now, until all
the old women in France shall hear of it.”
Famine, however, at last subdued him; but he yielded only upon honourable
terms, Sir Richard pledging himself for his safety. The king at first
refused to subscribe to the conditions; but Sir Richard, with a spirit
that cannot be sufficiently applauded, instantly informed his majesty
that he must take his own life first; for if he lived he would certainly
replace the Welsh chieftain in his strong hold again. The king was too
well acquainted with the value of Sir Richard’s services and scrupulous
honour, to persist in his unjust intentions. He therefore, ratified the
conditions, and pardoned the chief. But the brave Englishman was soon
after recalled from his military command.
In the civil wars of Charles I. Harlech Castle was the last that held out
for the king, under the command of William Owain, who surrendered on the
ninth of March, 1647.
Upon the side which faces the sea, the castle must have been impregnable;
the walls are scarcely distinguishable from the rocky base, the whole
being a continued surface of dark grey masonry; and the north and south
sides appear nearly as inaccessible. The gateway upon the eastward side
is situated between two immense rounders, resembling those of Conway and
Carnaervon. The form of the castle is a square, each side measuring
seventy yards, and at each corner is a round tower; but the turrets that
were once attached to them the unsparing hand of Time has destroyed.
Before the entrance is a deep fosse, cut in the solid rock; across which
a drawbridge was constructed for security and convenience.
The principal apartments are on the eastward, or entrance, side of the
inner court. The banqueting hall is opposite; the windows of which look
out upon the green surface of the sea; and, on the right of the court,
there formerly stood a small chapel; the ruins of which are still
visible, the pointed window remaining entire. It is impossible to
conceive a finer view than is obtained from the towers of Harlech Castle.
With a clear atmosphere, the monarch of the Welsh mountains may be
distinctly seen, towering above his subject hills. The promontories of
Lleyn and Cricaeth Castle, are likewise objects of considerable interest;
the latter forming a head to a long neck of land that juts into the sea
from the Carnaervonshire coast, backed by a chain of noble mountains.
This castle likewise owes its foundation to Edward I.
Harlech is one of those places the traveller leaves with regret, and a
feeling that he can never see any so beautiful again; and from this place
to the village of Maentwrog, the road increases in beauty every mile.
The Bay of Cardigan, expanding to the ocean, lies beneath, on the left;
upon the right, wild rocks and woody hills alternately diversify the
prospect, and, approaching the northern extremity of the bay, the Traith
Mawr and Traith Bach, two arms of the sea (the former running up to Port
Madoc, and the latter into the vale of Maentwrog), are noble objects.
The Traith Bach, bounded by mountains upon either side, prepares the
tourist for the heavenly quietude which reigns eternally in the bosom of
this earthly paradise; and, about two miles from the village, near a farm
house called Cemlyn, one of the most beautiful views of the valley lies
stretched before him. A woody dingle opens on the right, down which the
Velin Rhyd rushes impetuously, mingling its bright waters with the
smoothly meandering Dwyryd, which commingling, flow gracefully into
Cardigan Bay.
In front, and upon the right of the vale, lies the little picturesque
village of Maentwrog, reposing at the foot of a lofty mountain. Fine
green meadow lands enrich the centre of the valley, through which the
river, like a silver serpent, “drags its slow length along.” Upon the
opposite side is seen the mansion of Tan y Bwlch, backed by a mountain
forest, and ornamented by a noble terrace in front, with pleasure grounds
and walks, which the eye loves to rest upon.
[Picture: The Vale of Maentwrog]
The road to Festiniog, at the extreme point of the landscape, winds up
the enclosing hills that fill up the back ground. To be appreciated, the
view must be seen: the most glowing description would fall incalculably
short of the reality.
At this spot I was accosted by a very inquisitive personage.
“Fine evening, sir.”
“Yes.”
“Walking far to-day, sir?”
“Yes.”
“A great many gentlemen come from London to see this valley, sir.”
“I suppose so,” (trying to shake him off, but it would not do).
“You come from London, I think, sir?”
“Why do you think so?”
“Only because a great many London people come this way, sir.”
“But do not many other travellers come this road, who are not Londoners?”
“Oh yes, sir, but I took you for a Londoner by the cut of your coat.
You’ve come a long way to-day, sir?”
“I have, but how should you know that?”
“By the condition of your boots, sir.”
This was a hit I did not anticipate; for, truth to say I was nearly
bootless, at least the _soles_ had nearly left their _bodies_, upper
leathers I mean, and stood mortally in need of regeneration; and, as I
had not provided myself with a second pair, thinking they would prove
cumbersome in my knapsack, his remark was felt from toe to heel.
“You’ll want these repaired, I dare say, sir, while you remain at the
Oakley Arms—comfortable inn—capital beds, sir.”
“Why I think I shall, my friend; perhaps you can recommend me to a
cobbler, in the village yonder,” (pointing to Maen Twrog).
“I am a boot maker, sir, in the village, and have cobbled, as you are
pleased to call it, the soles of all strangers in need, for the last
twenty years. My father performed that office before me; and I may say,
my all (awl) of life depends upon the gentlemen who visit our beautiful
valley.”
“You are not employed then by the inhabitants of your native village?”
“I _was_, sir; but a new comer, who wrote over his door ‘leather cutter,’
cut me out; for I never found business enough to set up a shop, and so,
sir, I am obliged to watch for customers, to keep up my trade. Those
boots of yours, sir, will give me dinners for half the week, if you will
only let me give them welts, soles, and heel-taps. You’ve got a fine
foot, sir.”
This piece of gross flattery did not prevent my telling him to follow me
to the inn, and receive the reward of his perseverance and industry.
THE OAKLEY ARMS.
TAN Y BWLCH.
I was tired, and gladly resigned my dilapidated boots to the care of my
_soles’_ physician; who, with a most respectful bow, promised to let me
have them by eight o’clock on the following morning.
Having partaken of a most excellent dish of fish, a small portion of
roasted mutton, strawberry tartlet, cheese, celery, &c., I thought I
should like to try my fortune in the lovely stream of Dwyryd. I
therefore requested the waiter to procure me the loan of a pair of shoes
or boots, suitable for the purpose, proposing to pay for the
accommodation. I was soon supplied, and, anticipating a delightful
evening’s sport, sallied forth with complete apparatus.
How deceitful are the views of man! I cast my line—it was a fatal cast—I
struck at an imaginary or real rise, and in an instant all my hopes were
crushed; for my rod broke off at the second joint, and sailing down the
stream, was suddenly brought up by one of the flies hooking a fragment of
rock. With much trouble I recovered the shattered top pieces, but in
endeavouring to extricate my fly, my foot slipped, and I found myself up
to my waist in water, and my foot jammed between two pieces of rock at
the bottom, from whence I was glad to extricate it by leaving my shoe
behind. It was very unfortunate. I cursed my ill-luck, sat down upon
the bank, put up my flies, put my broken rod in its case, and prepared to
return to my inn. But—I had only one shoe! I endeavoured to recover the
lost one, but in vain. Doubtless it was buffetting its way amongst
rushing waters and fragments of rock, full half a mile off by this time.
How I should get to the Oakley Arms, through all the uneven stony ways, I
knew not. I could not hop all the way, it was very evident; and to
attempt to walk with but one shoe, would deprive me of the sole of my
foot. At this moment, taking out my silk handkerchief to wipe my
brows—ah!—the thing was settled. I bound it as many times doubled as I
could round my foot, tying it about with a part of my fishing line, and
in this lamentable state, I reached the house.
No routed warrior from the field of battle ever looked more chop-fallen
than I, in re-entering my late happy dining-room. It was not an hour—no,
not an hour ago—when, all elate and joyous, I walked forth, pregnant with
hope and jollity. Look at me now—’twas lamentable! I rang the bell; the
waiter came in, and no sooner cast his eyes on me, than he broke into an
uncontrollable laugh. I confess I expected a very different reception,
and my first impulse was to kick him out of the room; but casting my eyes
upon my handkerchief-bound foot, turned the whole current of my feelings,
and I could not forbear joining in the laugh, for the soul of me.
The waiter’s view of the case was undoubtedly the correct one. I felt
it, and it was actually with difficulty I accounted to him for my present
appearance, my ideas had undergone so complete a revolution from tragic
to comic!
“Well—’tis a funny world,” said I; “bring me a pair of slippers, water to
wash, a bottle of port, and a cigar.”
I was just in the marrow of my cigar, when two young gentlemen, who had
pedestrianized from Llanrwst since the morning, entered the room. They
were fair-haired Saxons, and particularly unacquainted with all they had
seen in their route. I requested them to join me, and they were pleased
to honour me with their company. But their stock of information being
remarkably small, I resolved within myself to avoid the route they
intended to pursue on the following morning, and understanding they meant
to visit Harlech Castle, I informed them I should pursue my way to
Tremadoc. As I could not extract any information from these tourists, I
called for pen, ink and paper, and amused myself with putting down the
events of the day, while one of the young men flung his legs upon the
sofa, and the other placed his feet on the fender. Deep sonorous notes
soon succeeded this arrangement, and I pursued my task without any other
interruption, until my attention was drawn to the heavy pattering of rain
against the window, and the whistling of a keen wind through the passage.
I felt chilly, and drew nearer the fire. The task I imposed upon myself
being finished, and the servant having brought me my bed candlestick, I
retired to rest, leaving my agreeable companions in the midst of a nasal
duet.
Oh, the comforts of a clean room, clean sheets, and a good bed! These I
experienced at the Oakley Arms; and I arose refreshed, and eager to
commence my walk; but I was doomed to disappointment, for on drawing up
the blind of my window, a dark and dismal morning presented itself, the
rain falling in torrents, and the lovely valley transformed into a gloomy
gorge of rolling clouds. What’s to be done? thought I; jump into bed
again, answered my careful spirit. I obeyed the suggestion, and slept
another hour, when I again awoke, and on inspection found the day still
melancholy and tearful.
I descended to the breakfast room, and there I found my quondam
companions in precisely the same attitudes I had left them on the
preceding night;—as motionless and silent, but their musical instruments
were out of order, I suppose, as they no longer sent forth their former
deep tones, and their eyes indeed were differently directed; the
gentleman on the sofa inspecting the ceiling; the other profoundly
scrutinizing a Dutch figure on the chimney-piece, with a foaming pot of
porter in one hand, and a short pipe in the other. It was neither Souter
Johnny, nor Toby Philpot; but I involuntarily roared out “dear Tom, this
brown jug,” &c. It was like an electric shock to the tourists. One
leaped from the sofa, and the other withdrew his feet from the fender
with precipitation; first stared at each other, and then both at me, in
mute astonishment. I cheerfully bade them good-morrow, and we sat down
to breakfast.
Never did I pray more heartily for a shelter from the storm, than I did
now for a gleam of sunshine to cheer me in this horrid calm. These rival
Incubuses fretted me.—Ha! who’s that curtseying to me as she passes?—Oh
she opens her basket, intimating she has something to sell; they are
hose, I perceive. The rain increases rather than abates its violence.
“Come hither, my girl,” said I, as I beckoned her to come in. “She will
assist in beguiling the tedious morning,
“That like a foul and ugly witch
Does limp so tediously away.”
And, having nothing better to do, I put the events of our interview into
rhyme.
TRAVELLER.
“Where art thou going, pretty lass?
The rain falls thick and fast;
Come in, and dry thy mantle, maid,
And shun the bleak cold blast.”
GIRL.
“I heed not, sir, the mountain gale,
Nor thickly falling rain;
For my poor mother lies at home
In sickness and in pain;
And I must haste to sell my work,
And much I have to spare,
That I may purchase winter store
To free her mind from care.
For she is old, and quite infirm,
And child hath none but me,
And oh her heart is yearning now
My face again to see.”
TRAVELLER.
“Cold is the heart that would not beat
To see that face of thine,
Where sweet simplicity hath traced
Her lineaments divine.”
She turned away her head to hide
A tear upon her cheek;
While piety beamed in her eye,
And resignation meek.
GIRL.
“Oh do not, do not stay me, sir,
For I must to the fair,
To sell my hose, and purchase food,
And things for winter wear.”
TRAVELLER.
“I’ll buy thy hose; thou shalt not walk
Beneath the drenching rain,
But tarry here until the sun
Shines brightly forth again.”
Her hose were bought, she sought her home
With smiles upon her face;
Her heart was light, her eyes were bright
Her every motion, grace.
And happy was the traveller’s heart
When bidding her farewell;
Her glance of gratitude, said all,
And more, than tongue could tell.
By the time I had committed this little effusion to paper, the sun shone
out gloriously; and it had the astonishing effect of giving a sort of
animation to the mute gentlemen, who absolutely rose from their drowsy
postures and walked to the window. Thank heaven! I mentally exclaimed; I
have a chance now of getting rid of my “musty superfluity;” but I was
mistaken.
“You will now be able to start for Harlech,” said I.
“Why a—” drawled one, “I am afraid it’s too late, as we wish to get to
bed early to-night. What do you say, Tom?”
“Why I think so too, Dick; and so we’ll be happy to join you, sir, in
your walk, as I think you said you intended proceeding to Tremadoc.”
I said I should be happy, with a smile, that extracted from one of them
the question, “Ain’t you well, sir?”
Without replying, I proceeded to put up my little all in the knapsack;
having first desired the waiter to bring my bill.
“You’d better put it all together, and we can divide it,” said they.
I agreed, and it being discharged, after paying for the shoes which I
borrowed for my evening’s sport, and for the repairing, which was
excellently performed by my loquacious cobbler, I started with my two
hopeful friends for Tremadoc. We however, first went to view the grounds
of Tan-y-bwlch, the seat of W. G. Oakley Esq. The name signifies “below
the pass:” it is situated on the side of a hill which overlooks the vale.
From the terrace of this mansion you command one of the most romantic
views in Wales. Harlech Castle is visible upon the right; the
Merionethshire mountains tower in the distance, and the entire valley,
from Festiniog to Traeth Bychen, watered by the river Dwyryd, is
interesting beyond description. Lord Lyttleton tells us, in his
observations upon this valley, that an honest Welsh farmer, who died
there at 105 years of age, had by his first wife thirty children, ten by
his second, and four by his third. His eldest son was eighty-one years
older than his youngest, and 800 persons, descended from his body,
attended his funeral.
I should be doing injustice to the worthy landlord of the Maentwrog Inn,
whose house I used upon my second visit to this delightful valley, did I
not speak in praise of his attention to the comforts of all travellers.
Good beds, civil waiters, excellent fare, and cheap charges, render this
one of the very best inns in Wales. And hear, ye lingering tourists! you
may have bed and board for the inconsiderable sum of one guinea per week;
which I think a very considerable temptation to remain at it a month, for
there is sufficient in the neighbourhood to interest the most phlegmatic
of Adam’s progeny. From hence may be visited the following interesting
places. The village of Festiniog, three miles, where there are two good
inns, the Pengwern Arms, and the Newborough Arms, where post horses and
cars are always in readiness; there is also a good boarding-house kept by
Miss Owen. The falls of Cynfael, two and a half; the slate quarries,
five and a half; the cataracts of the Rhaiadr Du and Ravenfall, two
miles; Llyn Llyanyrch, three and a half, where the trout are excellent;
Cwmorddin Pool, lies to the northward, about four and a half miles, to
which the tourist may be conducted by the railroad. There is a house at
each end of the lake where the angler will find accommodation from the
hospitable owners for a trifling remuneration. Lynn Mannot contains very
large trout, and is six miles from Maentwrog, and Llyn Morwynion is about
the same distance.
[Picture: The Raven Fall, near Maentwrog]
We proceeded along the lower road by the north side of the salts, as the
inhabitants of the valley call the arm of the sea, which here has the
appearance of a lake begirt with mountains, craggy cliffs, and shadowing
woods. Here we bade adieu to the delightful valley of Festiniog, and,
after walking about four miles along a pleasant road, a noble sheet of
water met our eyes, which appeared to be hemmed in by inaccessible
mountains, differing in form from those we had left behind, being more
conical, and some shooting upwards like pyramids into the clouds.
As we proceeded, we discovered it to be the Traeth Mawr, which as the sea
is hidden from us by a breakwater, has the appearance of a broad lake.
Upon this breakwater, which extends across the bay, is a railroad which
conveys slates from the quarries at Festiniog to Port Madoc, where it is
calculated ten thousand tons are shipped annually. Port Madoc receives
its name from the late William Alexander Maddoc Esq., of Tan-y-allt, as
does the town of Tremadoc.
The extraordinary efforts of this enterprising man caused him to be
looked up to as the Prince of the soil. He redeemed, by constructing an
embankment of nearly one mile in length from north to south, across the
Traeth Mawr, at the eastern extremity of Cardigan Bay, a tract of more
than 2,700 acres of land. This enterprise was completed in 1811, and
cost upwards of £100,000; so that, with the lands previously recovered,
no less than 7000 acres have been regained, 6000 of which are cultivated.
The view from the breakwater is perhaps the finest in North Wales for
distant mountain scenery. When the tourist has reached the centre of it,
let him turn his back upon the sea, and upon his right he will perceive a
hill, called Plas Newedd, from which a range of Alpine scenery stretches
up to the monarch of Snowdonia, who towers pre-eminent in the distance.
Upon his left another range, commencing with a hill called Moel Ghaist,
leads up to the same grand object, and the extraordinary variety
displayed in the formation of these wonderful masses with varying lights
and shadows that adorn them with sunny crowns or misty mantles, produce a
sublimity of effect I never before experienced. A bridge joins the
breakwater to the quay at Port Madoc, under which the tide rushes with
great impetuosity, covering a vast extent of ground at the flood, which
is left nearly dry at the ebb. About half a mile from Port Madoc, upon a
rising ground, stands a handsome house, once the property, though not the
principal residence, of the great speculator, which is now inhabited by
Mr. Williams, a solicitor, and agent to the creditors of the deceased.
Proceeding along the road, in a short time the tourist obtains a peep at
the little town of Tremadoc; but before reaching it he perceives the
church, an elegant building, with a tower and lofty spire, which forms a
principal object in the landscape. The archway, under which the church
is approached, is a beautiful specimen of workmanship, and does equal
credit to the taste of the founder and execution of the builder. Divine
service is read here in the English language every Sunday, which is a
great accommodation to the English families residing in the
neighbourhood, as there is no other church within twenty miles where it
is so performed.
TREMADOC
or the town of Madoc, is built quadrangularly, and in the centre of the
square is a column with a pedestal, round which are twelve steps. On the
eastern side is a commodious market house, above which are the assembly
rooms. A market is held here on Fridays, and the Barmouth and Carnaervon
coach passes through three times a-week.
Having refreshed ourselves with a luncheon of salad and cold meat, we
three trudged off together, in spite of wind and weather, which
threatened a speedy commencement of hostilities. Large masses of vapoury
clouds were driven above our heads; the swallows skimmed the surface of
the river, and brushed the standing corn with their swift wings, as they
flew along in the pursuit of their prey; and the wind blew loud and
shrilly, as in the month of November. At a short distance from the town,
upon the Beddgelert road, is a lofty hill, the base of which is planted
with fir trees; through which a path winds up to the mansion of
Tan-yr-allt, the late beautiful residence of Mr. Madocks. We had not
proceeded far, when we were compelled to seek shelter in a hollow, of
which there are many at the feet of the enormous precipices which
overhang the road.
The transient storm having passed away, and sunshine once more lighting
up the valley, we again pushed forward. The Merionethshire mountains
upon the right, decked in their countless hues of rock and heather, over
which the departing storm swept with its rolling clouds, in dark
magnificence, formed a noble subject for the artist’s pencil. The road
is elevated above the meadows which enrich the centre of the vale; and
the river, which flows through them, having risen above its banks and
spread itself over a considerable tract of country, resembled an
extensive lake.
About half way between Tremadoc and Beddgelert, is a small dingle upon
the left of the road, with a neat lodge at the entrance, and a path
leading up to the shrubbery, beneath which a mountain stream flows
rapidly, and empties itself into the Rhine. The path leads up to the
residence of Capt. Parry. As we proceeded, numerous falls dashed down
the mountains and plunging into hollows underneath the road, emerged
again upon the other side. We were several times forced to take shelter
from the heavy showers under fallen blocks of rock; and once as the storm
abated, and we looked anxiously out to see if it was clear enough to
pursue our journey, a glorious rainbow, stretching across the valley, its
points resting upon the mountains on either side, struck even my
snow-models of men with something like sensibility; for as they crept out
of their sheltering rock, they observed with infantine simplicity, “Well,
really that’s very pretty.” We now proceeded at a rapid pace, and the
river became more deep and narrow, and the circling eddies, as they
floated down the stream, announced to us that we were approaching the
fall of a great body of water, when suddenly—whizz, whirr, clash, splash,
dash, astounding and astonishing—
ABER GLAS LLYNN,
[Picture: Pont Aber Glaslyn]
with all its world of horrors, burst at once upon our view. I felt a
tremulous sensation within me; a contraction of the muscles of my throat;
an hysterical sob, and a desire to weep. I stood stone still; while my
edifying companions pursued their way without making a single
observation. I halted upon the centre of the bridge, and gave vent to my
feelings in pencilling down the following
LINES
WRITTEN ON THE BRIDGE AT ABER GLAS LLYNN.
Thou of the stormy soul, who left behind
The love of sunny skies and smiling vales,
With thy fresh boyhood; thou upon whose brow
Stern care hath written gloom, and worldly wrongs
Made darksome; hither bend thy leaden steps,
And find a home here in this wild abyss!—
Abode congenial to thy lightless mind.
Ye black huge rocks, drear, mountainous, and stern,
First-born of chaos, everlasting piles
And monuments of the creation—hail!
Around your heads the thunder rolls in vain,
And the fierce lightnings from your summits bare
Turn harmless. Frown, frown on, ye giants stern,
Majestic emblems of eternity!
The torrents are your tongues, and with their roar
Talk of your dignity for ever. Hail!
White foaming, thundering, falls the boiling flood;
Rocks clash, and echo mocks the horrid din,
While man appalled, stands breathless, in amaze,
And, filled with awe, exalts his thoughts to Him,
Who was, who is, and aye must be supreme!
Just above the bridge is a semicircular rock, which forms a salmon-leap,
over which the salmon, at spawning time, first lodge themselves at the
height of five or six yards. Proceeding through the pass, at every step
new wonders met the eye. The late heavy rains had swollen the mountain
waterfalls, and caused a terrific torrent to roar and struggle through a
narrow channel; for the mountains, forming this southern end of the vale,
approach so near to each other, that they only afford a contracted flow
for the river, and a narrow road, while their rocky sides rise so
perpendicularly, that their summits are scarcely farther distant from
each other than their foundations. The rushing river was a pure sheet of
white; furious, uncontrollable; nothing but the immense blocks riven from
the mountain’s craggy sides could withstand its dreadful impetuosity. A
few stunted fir and larch trees at the commencement of the pass were seen
starting from the dark clefts upon either side, which threw a deeper
shade upon this awful valley.
Cradock calls this pass “the noblest specimen of the _finely horrid_ the
eye can possibly behold. The poet,” he continues, “has not described,
nor the painter pictured so gloomy a retreat. ’Tis the last approach to
the mansion of Pluto, through the regions of Despair.” I could have
stopped for hours to admire this splendid example of the sublimity of
Nature, but time pressed, so I pushed on to Beddgelert which is not more
than a mile and a half from the bridge. A solitary mountain ash which
grows about half way up the pass, is the sole bright thing in this abode
of terror, and looks like Beauty in desolation. Emerging from the pass
there is a stone which is called the chair of Rhys Gôch o’r’ Ryri; a
famous mountain bard who lived in the time of Owen Glyndwr. He resided
at the entrance into the Traeth Mawr Sands, from whence he used to walk,
and sitting upon this stone compose his poems. He died in 1420, at the
advanced age of 120 years; he was a gentleman of property, and was buried
in the ancient priory at
BEDDGELERT.
Some are of opinion that this word should be written Celert or Cilert,
Bedd-Cilert, or Cilert’s grave; supposing that a monk or saint of that
name was buried here. Another celebrated bard was entombed at this
place, named Daffydd Nanmor, who died about the year 1460.
The Goat is an excellent inn, and every attention the traveller can
desire is paid with the greatest celerity. Twenty post horses are kept
at this inn for travellers, and eight or ten ponys for the accommodation
of those visitors who wish to ascend Snowdon with ease and safety. {240}
At nine o’clock, I strolled from the inn to the bridge, where I was
joined by a peasant, who, by his appearance, promised to be
communicative. It was a lovely evening; there was no moon, but the clear
sky displayed its burning host, in beautiful array. No breath of air
disturbed the silent slumbers of the peaceful woods. The lull of
rippling waters alone struck upon the ear, yielding a solemn tone like
the deep swell of the organ, breaking upon the deepest solitude.
In such a situation how indescribable is the feeling which takes
possession of us! What language can express, what tongue can utter it?
My very breathing seemed to disturb the excessive sweetness of nature’s
melody.
“This is a very pretty place, sir,” said the peasant, interrupting my
reverie.
“It is indeed,” I replied.
“I suppose, sir, you’ve been to visit the grave of Gelert, Llewellyn’s
hound?”
“I have. Do you believe the legend?”
“Indeed, sir, I do,” said he with a sigh; “but I never thought a man
could feel so much for the death of a brute, until last year—_hai how_!”
This observation made me inquisitive to know what had so suddenly changed
his opinions. “What has caused you, my friend, to believe in a legend so
suddenly, which you never gave any credence to before?”
“Why sir, I’ll tell you; you must know that I had a favourite pointer
bitch, _Truan Bac_. Oh, she was the beautifullest creature you ever saw.
She was the pride of the country; and gentlemen would come to me and say,
‘William, will you lend me your little bitch to go a shooting on the
mountains—_only for a day_? Because you see, sir, there was not her
equal in all Wales, for a single dog; ay, and she’d back as staunch as
any on ’em, and a better retriever never went into a field. Such a nose!
ah! poor wench; I never knew thy equal! You must think, sir, I was very
loath to let her go without me, for I bred her, and broke her in—though
very little breaking she wanted;—and you know, sir, a good dog is soon
spoilt by a bad sportsman, and the creatures be as fond of a good shot,
as he be fond of shooting to a good dog. No day was too long for her
when the scent lay. The motion of your hand was enough for her; to the
right, or left, or take the fences. She’d never baulk her game, or make
a false point; if the birds had just gone off, you might know she was
doubtful by a _leetle_ motion in her tail. But, if she stood stiff and
staunch, you might bet a guinea to a mushroom that there was game before
her, and you’d nothing to do but to go up and take your shot. Down she
was to charge, and, if you bade her, she would bring your bird without
ruffling a feather. Well, sir, the beginning of last August
unfortunately she had a litter of pups. ’Twas a cross breed,
_ysywaith_!—and I got the butcher’s boy to destroy them, which he did,
and buried them in the muck heap, at the back of the stable. From that
time, she would never stir from her bed, that was under the manger. My
dame took her her food as usual, and placed it just inside the stable
door. My little boy, Billy, went next day, with a mess of potatoes and
barley meal, but told his mother that Rose had’nt eat up her yesterday’s
mess. Ah! she cried, she’ll eat it when she’s hungry, I warrant her.
Billy went next evening, but her victuals were untouched, and, when he
went to coax her, she growled at him, and showed her teeth—a thing she
never in her life had done before to any living being; so he was
frightened, and told me of it next morning, and I went to the stable to
see her. Her meat was all dried up in the tub, and, when I went to her,
she seemed nothing but skin and bones. I called her Rose! poor Rose! she
slowly raised up her head, opened her bloodshot eyes, and moaned so
piteously! I thought she was dying. I held her a little milk; she just
moistened her tongue, and gave one wag of her tail, as much as to say,
thank you, master; and her head dropt again, and her eyes closed. I knew
’twas four days since she had eaten any thing. I put some food by her,
and went to my work. When I returned at night, the first thing I did was
to go into the stable, where I found the food untouched and my poor
little bitch dead, cold and stiff. I shall never forget it—_wela_!
_wela_!—I drew her from under the manger, and what do you think, sir?
I’ll be shot, if there warn’t her five little pups that the butcher’s boy
had kill’d!—she had dug them out of the dung-hill one by one, and laid
them in her kennel, and, fearing they would be taken from her again she
concealed them with her body, and died through starvation, rather than
give ’em up! Wasn’t that nature, sir? I’m almost ashamed to say it; but
indeed, sir, I wiped away tears from my cheeks, when I saw that sight. I
took her up in my arms, and buried her and her young litter in the same
grave; and since that time I never refuse my belief to the stories I hear
of surprising instances of devoted affection, gratitude, and instinct, in
any of her race. _Wela_! _wela_!
“But sir, if you should come this way on your return, and should want a
day or two’s good sport on the mountains, I’ve got a dog that’s second to
none in the country, and I shall be proud to serve you.”
I promised, if I should find it convenient to return by the first of
September, to engage his dog, if not previously hired; and bidding him
follow me to the Goat, I ordered for him a tumbler of whiskey-punch,
which spirit is as much esteemed in Snowdonia as in the mountains of
Wicklow.