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 past the two lodges at

Tal-y-bont, leading to Corsy-Gedol, the seat of Sir Thomas Mostyn. It is

practicable to go by the sands; but we were given to understand that the

turnpike was, if anything, shorter, the scenery more pleasing, and the

guides necessary for crossing those dangerous sands, in general, most

complete villains.

Harlech, anciently called Twr-Bronwen, though formed by King 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. It consists of a square

building, each side measuring about seventy yards, having at every corner

a round tower. From each of these issued formerly a round turret, all

now destroyed, except one or two. These fortifications, fosses, and

situation on the verge of a perpendicular rock, rendered it almost

invulnerable.

This castle is one of the strongest and handsomest in Wales. It is in

the possession of the Crown, and in time of war has a small garrison for

the defence of the coast. From the top of the walls to the 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; and, beginning with the

founder, in the true characteristic style of a Welshman, ran 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 Maelgwyn; Gwynedd; made Caer Dugoll (Shrewsbury); Caer

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

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

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

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

induced me to transcribe this short paragraph.

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

likewise shelter to Margaret of Anjou, after the battle of Northampton in

1460; and was the last in North Wales which held out for the King, being

surrendered to General Mytton in 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 relic 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

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

In the year 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

Camden: suffice it to say, that the air and grass were 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 returning to our obliging landlady

at the Corsy-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

Cayne, 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 ramble.

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 inquire for, as a proper cicerone 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 style, she tripped 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 inquiries

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 soon reached the Fall 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 basin, 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 steep 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 valleys, watered by some foaming river; these are

often literally surcharged

“With weighted rains, and melted Alpine snows.”

Such is the true characteristic of the Welsh scenery: the finest verdure

and the most enchanting valleys 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. These

render it more enchanting to the inquisitive pedestrians, for these

landscapes are only accessible to their steps: and 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 of

our admiration. The computed measurement of this fall is estimated at

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 can be better conceived

than described.

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 rapt admiration, which loathes to be

disturbed by the mutual exchange of 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 stunned cataract, throws its troubled waters over a

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

“The feelings, with which we view objects of the above description,” says

the author of the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature, “oppose

the theory of Mr. Burke, who confines sublimity to objects of terror,

those of Lord Kaimes, and Dr. Gerard, who make it to consist in

magnitude, and Dr. Blair, who places it in ‘force,’ are equally

erroneous. The idea of Longinus, were we to associate sublimity in

poetry with that of the material world, (which we are, however, not

authorized to do,) is far from being correct. He defines it ‘a proud

elevation of mind.’ When applied to material objects, this is neither

cause nor consequence; for the experience of every man, from the proudest

of princes to the humblest of peasants, proclaims, that the effect of all

sublimity is astonishment, blended with awe: and when, at one moment, did

pride and awe unite in the same bosom? The difference between sublimity

of writing, and sublimity in objects, has not been sufficiently

distinguished by the several writers on the subject of taste. No objects

are beautiful or sublime, but by virtue of association. If they were,

the Vale of Aylesbury would be beautiful to him, who had long resided in

the Vale of Clwyd: and the Cliffs of Dover and the Peaks of Scotland

would be equally sublime to the native of Crim Tartary and the peasant of

the Tyrol. The opinions of many philosophers, in respect to the pleasure

we derive from objects, which excite our pity, are equally false. The

Abbé du Bos, Fontenelle, Hume, Akenside, and Burke, are all in error. We

must refer to principles; and the principle in this argument resolves

itself into the conclusion, that misfortune elicits sympathy, after the

same manner that magnets affine, and planets gravitate. But actual final

causes we have no power to define; though we frequently presume to do so.

Man, indeed, has the faculty of judging, limitedly, of effects; but vain,

proud, and arrogant as he is, he can only reason hypothetically, when he

would treat of final causes and of final consequences.”

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 grey

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

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